A Different Kind of Romance

  

Romance.  Ah, yes.  Don’t we love the sound and the meaning of that word!  Flowers and being loved.  Feeling important and invigorated.  Experiencing exhilaration and ecstasy.  I relish it all.

We celebrated our 29^th last weekend (December 8) and, as Dave told Sarah Beth on Saturday, “There’s not going to be a whole lot of fireworks around this place this weekend!”

But I experienced romance, and it’s spelled differently than r-o-m-a-n-c-e.  This different-kind-of-romance one is spelled: commitment.

Dave came in from work at three o’clock on Friday.  I was happy to see him show up that early because he was babysitting that evening while I went to a Christmas dinner.  I’d been busy all day, and our little foster kids were constantly underfoot.  I was glad for the chance of a reprieve and thought I’d have more time to get some things done --until, that is, I learned he’d come in because he wasn't feeling well.  He spent the extra time in the recliner, and I provided Motrin  and water since there was no iced tea in the house (Woe is me!)  He can sleep through anything, so I sent the munchkins into the living room where his sleeping presence made them feel safe enough to be in a different room than mine.  I even got the kitchen floor mopped before I headed to the shower.

I worried about him a little because his chest was hurting as well as his head, but my troops in other cities were on standby to call and check on their father and I knew they’d let me know if there was cause for concern.  So I went and had a great evening of good food and festivities.  Three hours later, they were standing at the door waiting for me when I got home: the two munchkins and their padre.  He had fed and bathed them and tidied the kitchen.  All that was left to do was to give bedtime medications and breathing treatments, and they were off to bed.  I tucked my babies and my man in and came back downstairs to finish some proofing for a family book.

When my eyes could no longer stay open, I headed upstairs for bed but ended up spending most of the night in the bathroom.  By morning, I knew the sewer system in the house was in fine working order since I’d been through more toilet paper than any person ought to go through in a week. I was keenly aware I’d never survive the day without help.  So when my man crawled out of bed, I am certain I asked him if, since he wasn't feeling well, he’d be hanging around the house for a while.  I am just as certain that he said he was.  So I went back to sleep, comforted that I wouldn't be on my own.

That is why I couldn't figure out why he wasn't getting Little Nugget when the toddler woke up at 7:30 AM.  Looking out the bedroom window, my cloudy brain finally realized that no truck in the driveway meant no man was in the house.

I moped my dehydrated body out of bed and managed to heave the 28-pound toddler out of his crib, change his diaper, and put clothes on him, all the while clutching my swollen abdomen.  Then I called Dave.

“I thought you said you were hanging out here this morning,” I complained.

“Nope, I’m at work.  I told you I was going to work.”  I didn't question the fact that he needed to be at work. He’d taken some time off in the past weeks and was playing catch-up.  We also had dinner plans that evening with two other couples and he’d be coming in early for that.  I just questioned how I could have misunderstood his reply.

“Well, I was sure you said you’d be here this morning.  I’m so sick and all we have is ginger ale.  You know how I hate ginger ale,” I whined. 

I’m really good at hinting at my needs, hoping he’ll catch on and supply them because he cares.  He’d as soon have me tell him what I want than to try to figure it out himself.  But this time he didn't have to figure it out.  He knew what to do.

“I’ll bring you some Sprite,” he assured me.

By the time Dave got home, I’d managed to give breathing treatments and antibiotics to both kids.  Plus, my foggy brain had remembered Miralax and probiotics for Little Miss and Zyrtec and probiotics for the little guy.   I was struggling on toward breakfast when Dave got there with two 2-liters of Sprite Zero.

When we are sick, Dave and I respond differently.  I want to be downstairs where I can hear the sounds of my family. He wants to crawl under the house and be left alone.  If he survives, he’ll come back.  If he doesn't, he will have gone to be with Jesus, which is where, some days, he’d like to be anyhow.  So for him, it’s a win-win situation.  Even though we both understand each other’s love language of “when I’m sick,” we tend to try to treat the other the way we each want to be treated.

Dave shooed me off as he scrambled eggs and fixed toast for the kids.  I made one more trip to the bathroom, fixed my Sprite/grape juice drink-on-ice with insulated cup/lid/straw, and headed to the love seat recliner in the living room.  I burrowed under a thick cover, shivered for a while until all parts and limbs and the chair were warm, and fell asleep.

Once Little Miss climbed up next to me on the recliner.  She was all set to cuddle up, but Dave sent her away.  I wanted to tell him it was okay - that I didn't mind.  But I knew she’d be better off without snuggling with my germs, and I was too tired to talk, so I just went back to sleep.

From time to time I woke up and heard the sounds of family:  children playing and laughing, Dave scolding, Little Nugget on the potty chair, applause from Dave for accomplishment, more laughter and some singing, and I’d fall back asleep.  

Once I woke up and smelled Mr. Clean.  I heard water being wrung from a rag and wondered what he was cleaning. Sometimes I can feel defensive if Dave cleans up in my department, as though I don’t do it well enough for him.  This time I was too sick to care, so I went back to sleep.  But then I’d wake up and smell that smell, and I’d wonder what he was doing.  It can’t be the ceiling fans, I thought.  We just did those two weeks ago.  It can’t be the kitchen floor.  I mopped it yesterday.   It didn't matter and even though I still wondered, I didn't have the energy to care, so I went back to sleep.

I woke up to Dave telling me he was taking the kids to town with him.  I offered to keep Little Miss but he said “no,” and headed out the door.  I was too tired to argue, and I went back to sleep.

My man came home from town with a dozen red roses and left them on the kitchen counter.  He bought the roses, not because I was sick, but because our anniversary was on the morrow and we don’t shop on Sunday.  I heard the kitchen drawer open and though I heard scissors, I didn't think about roses and how he always feeds them with the stuff the florist sends and uses a scissors to cut open the packet.  I heard more water running and being poured, and it never occurred to me that he might be watering roses he had bought for me.  I just went back to sleep.  

Then this man tucked Little Nugget into bed and left Little Miss in the room with me after telling her to take a nap.  He told me he was heading back to work, and I convinced Little Miss to get a pillow and blanket.  Soon she was asleep, so I went back to sleep.

We haven’t done a lot of hugging and kissing the past few days because we were busy – and tired – and sick.  We talked about our anniversary coming up and agreed we’d celebrate later because the weekend was already full.  As it turned out, I would not have been up to any celebration or romantic kissing.

Yet I did get hugged and kissed – in a different way.  Snuggling under the blanket and hearing the sounds of life and home and family in the background while I slept was one big, massive I-care-about-you hug.   Having not one, but two 2-liters of diet soda at my disposal was one big smooch of a kiss.  

I asked him later about the mop bucket and dirty rag in the bathroom.  He said he’d mopped the kitchen floor.  Yes, he knew I’d mopped it the day before.  Between his work shoes and my youngest (Butch’s) running shoes, it seems I am always sweeping and mopping.  But he’d seen the tracks and so he got down on his hands and knees and mopped the floor while I slept.   Yet when I asked him about it and expressed thanks, he acted like it really wasn't a big deal.   

Later that evening Dave headed up to bed. I was still asleep in the recliner and kept telling myself to get up and put sheets on our already-stripped bed.  I needn't have worried.  He got sheets out of the closet and made the bed.  When I finally woke up enough to head upstairs,  he was snuggled down in a freshly-made bed.  How nice it was to snuggle in next to him after being cared for all day long.

When it comes to romance, I really do like flowers – and going on a date with my man or spending the night away.  I enjoy spending time with him, entwining hands.  I cherish the playful tweaks he gives me when no one is watching, the way he can read my face and know how I’m feeling.  I like feeling special.  I like being cherished.  I really do like being loved.

When it comes to romance, I can hardly think of a way to feel more special, cherished and loved than to be sent to rest, sleeping all day because I’m sick - and to know he’s holding down the fort for me.   Being comfortable and cared for was what I was given because it was what I needed.  I didn't have to ask Dave to stay – when he got home and saw how sick I was, he changed his plans (and his checkbook balance) to take care of our little ones, which was also taking care of me.

He didn't have to say he loved me or that I was special and important.   He told me all that and more when he said, “You go get some rest.  I’ll take care of the kids.”

Flowers and dinner out wouldn't mean a thing to me if I was left to fend for little ones by myself when I’m sick.  There are many ways to celebrate commitment.  We don’t often think of mopping floors as a celebration of commitment.  But at our house this past Saturday, that’s just what happened in my kitchen while I slept.

Sometimes I forget to remember that the little things he does are really big because they show his commitment to me and to us.  I rather just expect him to change the light bulbs and fix broken things and figure out why something’s not working. 

I forget to remember that the ordinary days of commitment are what make celebrations worthy in the first place.  I rather like this different (and wonderful) kind of romance.

Happy 29th to the man who not only says he loves me, but who lives it (almost!) every day.

Think Pink

        Sunlight arrived first, followed by Moonbeam.  Both summer babies, they were born a little over two years apart.    I envisioned for them days of laughter and nights of sharing secrets, and (someday) grownup girls who were friends.  

                                          How was I to know then that my

                                    vision was just a dream?                       

Sunlight

Moonbeam

         As a child, I had five sisters with whom to play, and I  imagined my girls would have as much fun playing together as we did.  People who knew us and watched us grow up said they had never seen a   group of sisters who were so alike and yet so different.  Our mother didn't try to make us become more alike; she allowed us to be different and enjoyed the kaleidoscope of our personalities.  So naturally I assumed that if I ever had girls, they'd be like us:  varying shades of pink.

snips-and-snails

          When Dave and I started our family, I figured our offspring would have

a childhood like mine: days filled with the rich texture of creative playing and blending of varied hues.   I didn't mind having three boys in a row.  I grew accustomed to days filled with rambunctious noises and snips-and-snails-and-puppy-dog-tails, awash in a spectrum of blue.

          With each pregnancy, it didn't matter to me what sex our baby would be.

I just wished for healthy children who would grow up to love Jesus and have fun together as they swirled rainbow after rainbow of fun.

          Then when Sunlight, our fourth child and first daughter joined our family, I was tickled pink.  Maybe, just maybe she would one day have a sister. My sisters and I fought our way through childhood days but also made wonderful memories playing together.  I wanted our little princess to have as much fun as we did growing up together.  Two years later when another baby was on the way, I thought perhaps my dream would come true.  After all, how could I raise my little girl without a sister?  I wasn't sure I’d know how to do that.  And I wished, just this once, for another tint of pink to add to our palette.

           So the day my doctor did an ultrasound to make sure it was safe for me to travel and  asked me if I wanted to know what sex this child was, I said yes.  Never mind that Dave and I had always chosen not to know ahead of time because we wanted to experience the surprise of finding blue or pink at the end the rainbow.  Never mind that all four children were in the exam room because we were heading to a friend’s pool after this visit.  Never mind they might pick up on the lingo and spill the paint.  For the first time in any pregnancy, I wanted to know.  Dr. Ward scanned my abdomen, looked at the monitor, and said quietly, “Think pink.”

           “Are you sure?!”  I asked, elated.  To answer, he pointed to the screen and named the female parts of this unborn child.   All afternoon, I hugged the sugar-n-spice secret to myself. This was before the days of cell phones and texting, so I didn't have a chance to talk to Dave until he came home for supper amid the clamor of kids.  Around the supper table that evening, I told Dave about the ultrasound.

          “I know the secret, and I’ll tell you if you want to know.  But I promise not to say another word if you don’t want to know.”

          “Sure,” he said, eyeing the children as we passed food around the table, “but not now!”

          I couldn't wait.  “Think pink,” I said, grinning.

        Dave wasn't convinced.  We knew too many people who had painted a nursery pink only to come home with a little-boy-blue.  Still, I was convinced, because I had seen that ultrasound.  We didn't tell anybody that we knew and carried visions of everything-nice in our hearts while we waited.  The boys were oblivious as I laundered pink dresses and stock-piled little girl onesies.  Less than a month later, little Moonbeam appeared.  Petite and tiny, she was as dark as her sister was fair.

 I should have known then that these little maidens might  not be as alike as I had dreamed.  They weren't.                                                                                                                                                                        

     Oh sure, they liked to play with dolls and have pretend school, or play church.  They liked to color, have their hair combed in different styles, and wear new clothes.

look-alikes on the outside

       Oh yes, they spent many hours of fun playing together and imitating others.  Yet even then, each girl’s swatch held its own distinct colors.                                                              

       The older they became, the more visible were their differences. Yes, they both carried the X chromosome.   But that is pretty much where the similarities stopped.  We talked about it a few months ago, sitting in a restaurant out of town.

         “You can count on one hand the ways we are alike,” said Sunlight, daring us to prove her wrong.  Miss Moonbeam grinned across the table, first at her, then at us.  I hadn't pondered that thought much because I knew it wouldn't change the way they were designed.  But when I had to answer the question, I realized how much they were both right.  For once, they agreed!

three blue-eyed cherubs

     We found a few ways:  they have the same parents and the same brothers.  Both carry the recessive blue-eye gene (but then, so does one of their brothers).  

 Of our half-dozen, they are the only ones who wear glasses. I admit that it was hard coming up with other similarities. 

     “You both like to read,” I said, knowing exactly what was coming next.   Sure.  Sunlight enjoys mystery, novels, and fiction.  Moonbeam likes history, animal stories, and love stories.   They enjoy videos.  Sunlight likes detective, suspense, and comedy episodes.  Moonbeam watches historical features, love stories, and family shows. 

proud Papa and his daughters

     As a child, Sunlight’s countenance disappeared behind clouds with a mere look from her father, and obedience was usually instant.  Moonbeam defied in word and in deed, often stomping her foot and spouting words to emphasize her refusal to obey – thus spending hours in time out.

          Both enjoy music.  As children, Sunlight played flute, and Moonbeam played clarinet.  Their taste of music is varied although there are genres about which they now agree.

          While Sunlight is able to mend if necessary, Moonbeam designed and made her own quilt when she was nine.   It’s true that she had some help from an aunt, and the quilt was hand-quilted by cousins and bound by another senior friend.  But the design and piecing of the quilt was done by Moonbeam herself.

          Sunlight likes to cook but hates to hang out laundry.  Moonbeam likes to clean and do laundry but does not like to cook.  Sunlight likes babies and small children; Moonbeam relates well with young cousins and older kids.

          Sunlight is disciplined and can get up early in the morning even if she’s been up late.  Sunlight likes to watch movies as she falls asleep.  Moonbeam needs a lot of sleep and stays up until all hours of the night, falling asleep with several open books on her bed, and then wants to sleep in come morning.

          They both like to shop but would never wear each other’s clothes because their tastes are so different (unless we’re talking Virginia Tech clothing). Even if they shared the same tastes, difference in size prohibits sharing of clothing. 

          Moonbeam never wears shoes unless she has to and walked barefoot at her high school graduation. Sunlight was appalled at her sister’s bare feet on the platform as she gave her graduation speech;  she likes to wear heels and be proper even though she enjoys sporting sandals and flip flops.

      Moonbeam hates to be cold; Sunlight is usually hot and sleeps with the AC on high or a fan blowing in her 

face.  

   Sunlight is daring. Skydiving, snowboarding and donating blood regularly are accomplished feats.  Moonbeam is cautious.  Moonbeam wouldn't think of spending her money on skydiving and admits a sense of relief that she does not weigh enough to donate blood.

          Sunlight thinks the speed limit is posted for the lowest speed one should go.  In the first week after Moonbeam received her driving permit, she had to pull over to allow cars to pass her because she barely kept the speedometer at speed limit. In the past year, however, Moonbeam has navigated her way across hundreds of miles in Virginia without any trouble at all. When the three of us travel anywhere, Sunlight takes the wheel.  When it’s just Moonbeam and me, I’m the driver.   Sunlight is my navigator, introducing me to new shops and new flavors.  Moonbeam keeps me tuned to new people and ideas through new authors, books, and web sites.

          Sunlight beams gently, providing warmth and compassion to those who are lonely.  Moonbeam is fiercely loyal once she knows someone well but tends to hide her compassion behind clouds.

          Both of them are hoarders, but when it is time to dispose of items, they differ.  Sunlight keeps cards, tags, and receipts from trips and events with friends.  She willingly disposes of toys and teddies once special to her. Moonbeam  keeps cards, pictures, notes, awards, and memorabilia from travels and special occasions.  Moonbeam refuses to allow her childhood Tigger to be gifted or sold.

       Sunlight is bored with genealogy and who is related to whom.  Moonbeam will read family history books in order to learn more about the families from which she hails. She visits readily with older people who can answer questions about her genealogy.

          Career pursuits are at opposite ends of the spectrum:  physical therapy vs. agriculture sciences and a minor in history.  Neither has an understanding of the interest of the other in career choice; yet in this case, Sunlight is following her mother’s side of the family and Moonbeam follows her father’s.

          In relating as a family, Moonbeam favors her mother’s side of the family; and Sunlight favors her father’s.   Moonbeam thinks like her mother and has difficulty seeing humor in family jokes that she does not consider funny. She is nostalgic and hates to leave friends behind when she moves on to new avenues.  

     Sunlight has always held her own with her brothers and cracks jokes with the best of them, and unless it’s in your genes, you just don’t get it.  Their humor is one of a kind.

       When both of them are home,  I enjoy their blending of hues, making quite a team. My laundry and cleaning is done without complaint by Moonbeam.  The kitchen, complete with meal preparation, is kept stocked and cleaned by Sunlight.  When I need computer or internet assistance, I ask Sunlight.  When I’m looking for something I've misplaced, Moonbeam will know exactly where it is.  While I have always practiced having these gals do things in which they don’t excel or don’t like to do, I also know who is quicker to respond to which need – and I utilize that as well.

          We've spent time talking about the mosaic of their personalities.  We've made conscious decisions to enable those personalities to blend into the tapestry of our family.  A year ago we did a long-distance Bible study for three months.  From a dorm, an apartment, and home, we met via Skype on a bi-weekly basis.  For once, they agreed on a topic, and we connected long distance.  For once, discussions didn't take us down random roads, leaving one frustrated with the other.  After all these years, it finally happened.

    It’s been quite a twenty-year ride, being their mom. Our girls were right.  They are more different than they are alike. 

     When the obstetrician said, “Think pink,” that’s about as close as it got. I’m grateful that there are many shades of pink, for otherwise, I would surely be bored.  Some shades are vivid, vibrant, and intense.

     Others are delicate, serene, and tender.  I’m okay with that because I know the One who designed the entire spectrum of pink.  I also know that He makes no mistakes.  In His massive canvas of life, He never has to correct mistakes or begin over.
      Each color, each shade, and each hue adds a different flavor to our family and our world.  They will always be sisters.  One day, I believe, they will become best of friends. When I think of being a mom to girls, I no longer just think pink.  I envision cherry blossom, fuchsia, raspberry, magenta, cerise, flamingo, ruby, strawberry, and rose.  I think of contrasts:  light and dark, rich and pastel.  And I am grateful that, in our family, we have been able to experience and enjoy the varied contrast of textures.  We've also been touched by the unique and diverse shades of pink. 

4 boys + 2 girls = 6
Jason, Sarah Beth, Rebekah, Tim, Ben with Butch (Aaron)
Circa 1997.

Celebrating the Mothers in my Life

     It’s Mother’s day, and I am looking outward instead of inward. Rather than looking at what I don’t have, I choose to claim the blessings that are mine.  I realize there are women who feel pain over being single or childless, especially on Mother’s Day.  There are other women out there who have prodigal offspring and wonder if they are ever coming home. Other moms have buried offspring.  I recognize that pain.  I know it is real and realize (not to be cliché,) that only God can heal.  I have learned that healing can be expedited  if I look outward instead of spending too much time looking in.

      I was one month shy of thirty when I got married and a little over thirty-one when I had my first child.  Ten years later I had my sixth.
     I can’t identify with women who have had miscarriages, suffered with infertility, or buried a newborn.  God has not taken me through those valleys although I could write a book about valleys of my own.  I cannot empathize with women who wanted to adopt but couldn't, or with single moms who gave away their newborn for adoption and don’t know now whether or not they should consider themselves a mother. I've never had an abortion either, so I can’t relate to women who crave to hold the baby they chose to abort. I have never buried a child. Walking with friends who have experience that grief has made me more certain it is something I hope I never experience, even though I well know it could happen to me. Nor have I felt the rejection of a mother who didn't want me, or wondered if she wished I had never been born. Sure, there were days I didn't think there was a lot of love to go around, but when the sticks were down, I knew where I belonged. Don’t think for a minute I think I have achieved, or that I have it all together, or that life is perfect for me. It just isn't so. Yet because of others who have experienced heartache and grief, this year I choose to look outward instead of in.   

     I remember Sunday mornings when my church celebrated mothers – those days when I wasn't a mother and had not yet found my Prince Charming. I wondered if I would ever be a mother, yet I was glad to honor the mothers in my church who did all the things that mothers do. Some of those moms were pretty awesome, and some would probably have benefited from some parenting classes.  Some of those moms were the best Sunday school teachers I had, possibly because they had children of their own. I had other teachers who never mothered their own but became that image to their students and gave a security that some of them had never felt at home. I had a teacher who, on a whim, invited her entire Sunday school class of girls home for Sunday lunch. She had forgotten that it was Children’s Day, and she wanted to do something special for us. I can’t tell you a thing that was on the menu that day, but some forty-five years later I still remember the warmth and love I felt as well as the fun we had at her house that afternoon. She didn’t have to teach about hospitality; she modeled it. Because of women like Mary Anna Yoder, I choose to look outward instead of in.  
     I had aunts – sixteen of them - who were so busy raising their own children and (by the time I came along) being a grandmother that they didn't have much time to be an auntie to me.  We didn't do sleepovers and those things one would think aunties should do.  We were expected to finish the food on our plates and help with dishes when we visited for Sunday lunch.  They critiqued what I wore or didn't wear and things I wrote and how I combed my hair and the friends I called mine.  They modeled courage and hard work and following God’s Word instead of the world.  They never funded a vacation for me or gave money toward my college education, but I knew then that, if I ever needed a place, I would be welcomed and loved by any one of them.  Sure, some seemed more generous and loving than others and I definitely had my favorites, but I knew I belonged.  Each one of them claimed me as their niece.  Each of them is now gone, and I wish sometimes, like Emily in Our Town, that I could have just one day to visit with them. Because of my aunts, I have chosen to look outward instead of in.

     One of those aunts was single and, although she never bore any children, she was Aunt Kate to children and adults alike in her community in Appalachia Maryland.  She was Tante Kate to children in Luxembourg and Germany where she worked for several years as a missionary.  I never considered Aunt Kate less of a woman because she didn't have children or wasn't married.   She did some fairly prolific things in her life. Her sisters, all of whom mothered five to ten children of their own, admired her for the woman she was.  Aunt Kate chose to look outward instead of in. 

Aunt Kate with great niece and nephews from Nebraska

She gave her heart to children and to adults and I considered her a woman of wealth because of who she was.  If Aunt Kate had spent her life bemoaning her fate of singleness and childlessness, she would never have become a favorite of all of us.

Aunt Kate (79 years older than her great-nephew, Benji) with the Bible she inscribed for him.

In Aunt Kate’s later years, she had plenty of nieces (many of them nurses) who gave back to her because of all she had invested in them.   Because of Aunt Kate, I have chosen to look outward instead of in.

     I worked with a nurse on midnight shift at WVU Medical Center in Morgantown, West Virginia in the late 1970s.  I was a new graduate and she was a pro.  She was sweet, short and Chinese and I was not so sweet, not so short, and Caucasian.  She taught me about connecting with irritated families and frustrated doctors, and how to irrigate catheters and check equipment and how not to let my patients see that I was nauseated.  Those nine months we worked the graveyard shift together, she modeled caring for the whole person.  Her patience was insurmountable as she birthed me into becoming a better nurse than I was when I arrived on her unit.  Because of mom-mentors like Lian Lee, I choose to look outward instead of in.

     I have sisters – five of them - who are single and have never birthed or raised a child.  But they've been there for their nieces and nephews (as well as our foster kids), and taught them to tie shoes, to read, to play fairly, and to enjoy nature.  They've fixed zippers and played ball, patched up dolls and made or mended blankets.  They've traveled to attend piano recitals and graduations and weddings and baby showers and livestock shows and cheered from a distance when they couldn't be there in person.  The aunties have had sleepovers and paid  nieces and nephews to go to different homes to  sing for older folks when the temperature was in the single digits. 

Aunt Rachel helping get lambs ready for the livestock show.

They've allowed little ones to help bake cookies and driven to Tastee-Freez just to buy ice cream cones for good behavior.  Their nieces and nephews are mostly grown, so they’re working on the next generation now.   They've babysat and changed diapers and picked blackberries and taken photos and read stories and had tea parties and colored Easter eggs and hidden Easter baskets. So on Mother’s Day, I choose to look outward instead of in and applaud my sisters who have helped mother our broods in ways we never could.

Dyeing Easter Eggs

Easter Egg Hunt

     I had a mother-in-law who was the best a girl could have.  She claimed me and cared about me. She showered love on me and she scolded me. She mothered me and she mentored me.  She laughed a lot, prayed a lot, and loved a lot.  She wasn't perfect, either, but she was forgiven.  Her time on earth was much too short; but because of this woman who loved red, I choose to look outward instead of in.

     Yes, I have chosen, this year, instead of looking in, to look outward.  I  had a mother.  Imperfect - that she was.  Old fashioned, I thought at times.  Set in her ways, for sure.  Mama didn’t like to have the furniture re-arranged.  For goodness sake (words she never would have used), why not leave it just the way it is.?!  If it wasn't broken, she saw no need to try to fix it.  The music we enjoyed was not always what she thought was best.  Some of the places we went, she never would have gone.  Some of the things her grandchildren were allowed to do, she never would have done.  She was a single mom for fifteen years and she was sometimes so busy making a living that she didn't have much time to enjoy life. We didn't have much when it came to counting material things, but we had security.  We were family and we belonged.  Mama didn't complain about needing to raise her girls alone.  She just did it.  She chose to work instead of sitting at home receiving government assistance.  She might not have talked much about her feelings and we seldom saw her cry.  But we belonged  because we were family.   Somehow, after a long summer’s day when our mother finally came home from her bread route, everything was okay, because our mama was home. She was a woman of integrity and there was no shame in telling folks we belonged to her.  She prayed – for her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  She spent time reading her Bible and, when she could no longer read it herself, she wanted us to read it to her.  Looking back, I realize there are so many things she taught by her life – things I didn't see at the time.  Those things are part of me today, and I am the woman I am because of her.

     This year, I don’t have my mother but I am choosing to look outward instead of in.  I had her for fifty-five years, and I am grateful.  When I knew I would soon be saying good-bye, I couldn’t imagine walking through that valley or finding a way to say good-bye.  But a friend helped me be realistic.  “It won’t be good-bye.  It will just be goodnight,” she said.   “You will see her in the morning.” 

     I miss my mama. There are days I wish for one more conversation, for the opportunity to pick up the phone and call home.  I’d like to hear my mama’s voice one more time.   There have been days when just hearing her voice would have made me feel like everything was going to be okay.  I’ve imagined what it would be like to pick up the phone and call her.  I can almost hear her voice.  And then I cry, because imagining and remembering is as far as it can go right now, even though I believe she is in that cloud of witnesses cheering me on  (Hebrews 12:1).  So I can look inward this year and bemoan that my mother is no longer here and that my kids don’t have a grandmother.  Or I can choose to look outward and recognize the good things in my life because I had my mother and so many other women who have blessed me all those years. 

     I can covet accolades from my own brood or I can reach out to others who feel empty.  I am a woman, and I choose to embrace life, here and now.   That’s why I’m looking outward instead of in.

           

Drop a Pebble in the Water

If you have read the previous post, 

you will understand how this poem speaks to me.

Drop a pebble in the water:

Just a splash, and it is gone; 

But there's half-a-hundred ripples

Circling on and on and on, 

Spreading, spreading from the center,

Flowing on out to the sea. 

And there is no way of telling 

Where the end is going to be.

Drop a pebble in the water:

In a minute you forget, 

But there's little waves a-flowing,

And there's ripples circling yet, 

And those little waves a-flowing 

To a great big wave have grown; 

You've disturbed a mighty river

Just by dropping in a stone.

Drop an unkind word, or careless:

In a minute it is gone;  

But there's half-a-hundred ripples  

Circling on and on and on.      

They keep spreading, spreading, spreading

From the center as they  go,          

And there is no way to stop them,   

Once you've started them to flow.  

            

Drop an unkind word, or careless:

In a minute you forget; 

But there's little waves a-flowing, 

And there's ripples circling yet, 

And perhaps in some sad heart

A mighty wave of tears you've stirred, 

And disturbed a life was happy 

Ere you dropped that unkind word.

Drop a word of cheer and kindness: 

Just a flash and it is gone; 

But there's half-a-hundred ripples

Circling on and on and on, 

Bearing hope and joy and comfort

On each splashing, dashing wave 

Till you wouldn't believe the volume 

Of the one kind word you gave.

Drop a word of cheer and kindness: 

In a minute you forget;  

But there's gladness still a-swelling, 

And there's joy a-circling yet,      

And you've rolled a wave of comfort 

Whose sweet music can be heard          

Over miles and miles of water 

Just by dropping one kind word.  

-James W. Foley

A May Day Tribute

A May Day Tribute

Credit: the poem "Drop a Pebble in the Water" is written by James. W. Foley

Drop a pebble in the water . . .

It is spring, and the month of May is awaiting its curtain call.  In Appalachia, sisters are walking home from school, carrying their books.  It is 1968, after all, and backpacks have not yet arrived on the school scene. 

The sixth and seventh grade siblings are talking about their day at school when the younger of the two shifts her books in her arms and exclaims, “Guess what Miss Schrock told us about in school today!”

Within a few minutes, she has shared the May Day tradition in European countries where children gather wild flowers, put them in baskets, and slip the baskets onto the door knobs of neighbors.  They ring the doorbell, then run and hide.  Miss Schrock’s rendition of this tradition leaves such an impact that her enthusiasm becomes contagious in the younger sister as she relays the story.  

“We could do that!” the older sister responds.

Just one splash, and it is gone . . .

Before they have completed their half-mile walk home down the dirt lane from the bus stop, they have formed a plan.  That evening, they convince oldest sister (who has a driver’s license) to take them to the woods along the Casselman River.  There, in the woods and by the swamp along the banks of the river, they gather wild geraniums, dog tooth violets, wild phlox, toothwort, ginseng, marsh marigolds, blue bells, jacks-in-the-pulpit, purple and white trilliums,

and other flowers.  Before long, the flowers have been placed into paper cups and nourished with sugar water.  After the sun has set, oldest sister drives them to their four-room school, where they ponder where to place their baskets.  There is no handle on the doors where one can place the handles on their cups.  So they put four baskets inside the door-well of the basement entrance.  

On the way home that evening, the girls are making plans for next year – and the next – and the next.  They have uncles, aunts, and elderly folks in the community who enjoy the beauty of nature but are no longer able to go to the woods.  “We will bring the woods to them,” they say.

The excitement of the teachers upon finding the baskets when they arrive at school the next day as well as their attempt to find the culprits of this good deed validate the plan for future years.  There is much discussion among the teachers, and students are asked if they know who brought the May baskets.  The sisters don’t lie; they just shrug along with their classmates and don’t tell everything they know.

(About Yoder School)

Yoder School and its teachers are unique.  A public school in Maryland’s most western county, the school has been funded to provide a place for Amish and Mennonite children to receive an education.  Built by parents from the ground up and funded by county money, the school is open to any student within the county.  With four classrooms of 25-30 students each, younger students learn as older grades recite and study out loud.  Older students who are caught up with school work get to help younger students practice and learn.

Grades one and two are taught by Alvina Livengood, who heads up the unofficial drama department and gives free piano during recess as well as before and after school.  Each spring, Alvina’s students receive credit for bringing wild flowers to school for identification.  Baby food jars covered with contact paper and labeled are lined on top of bookcases and students place their flowers in the correct jar. 

Third and fourth grades are taught by Ruth E. Yoder.  Her class treks to the woods each year to identify birds and listen to their different calls.  For many years, Ruth hikes with her students the one-half mile to her farm.  Her class watches as she and her husband decapitate and butcher a chicken.

Teaching fifth and sixth grade, Miss Ada Schrock excels in literature, writing, poetry and reading instruction.  Miss Schrock teaches the arts to the upper grades while Esther E. Yoder, principal and seventh to ninth grade teacher teaches science and math in grades four and up. 

Each student is known by name by all the teachers.  This is not just a school; it is a community.

When a jack-in-the-pulpit appears in the May baskets, it doesn’t take Alvina long to figure out who gets the credit.  Timothy Miller is the only child in her classroom who has brought a jack-in-the-pulpit to school.  Alvina  knows where this flower can be found, so she asks Timothy who was with him when he found his jack-in-the-pulpit. 

Timothy tells her that his Miller cousins took him with them to the woods the evening before.

Before the day is over, Avina waltzes into the upper grade classroom, stops at the desk of one of the Miller girls and whispers, “I know who brought the baskets.”  Then she turns and walks out of the room.  To the girls’ dismay, the secret is out; however, a tradition has been born.

But there's a thousand little ripples . . .

Who can guess how many years this tradition will continue?  The following year, May baskets are delivered to many folks over a 15-mile radius.  Initially, it is a family project. Year after year after year, their mama’s station wagon, used for delivering bread, is used on the evening of April 30 to gather wild flowers and then deliver some fifty-plus baskets to neighbors, relatives and acquaintances. It is the one night of the year when a midnight bedtime is permitted on a school night.  Left-over cookies at Christmas are kept frozen until they are needed to befriend farm dogs while delivering baskets down long, dark lanes.  Ideals magazines are scoured to find the best phrases and poetry for this occasion.  Folded 3 x 5 index cards with the words Happy May Day!  on the front hold a verse on the inside.  Verses are chosen carefully with each recipient in mind.  Initially handwritten, the verses are later typed on a Remington until computers make the task easier.  

Circling on and on and on . . .

It has been 45 years since the day those sisters walked home from school and decided to go to the woods and gather wild flowers for their teachers.  Over the years, the assistance of others has been enlisted.  Cousins, nieces, nephews, friends and youth groups have helped carry on the tradition. 

Spreading, spreading from the center . . . 

Like        a pebble skipped across the water, the ripples of tradition continue on and on across the years.

Flowing on out to the sea . . .

Well over 2500  women, children (or men) have opened a kitchen door on May Day morning to find woodland flowers and the promise of spring. 

                                                                        

And there's no way of telling where the end is going to be.

Former students or their children have delivered May Baskets to retired teachers who relocated to Indiana.  Nate Yoder (now a professor at EMU) shared visits with Ruth E. Yoder when he brought May baskets to her.  Elissa Reigsecker (daughter of Alice who lives in Indiana) still delivers baskets to former teacher/principal Esther E. Yoder.  Alvina Livengood and Ada Schrock, who live locally, received their 46^th basket this May Day morning.

The People Behind the Tradition

The simple telling of this European tradition was the catalyst behind the May baskets. Ada Schrock shared it with her students on April 30, 1968.  Miss Schrock’s enthusiasm was so infectious that Rachel Miller, the youngest of the Miller Six, shared the story with her sister Gertrude on another ordinary walk home from an ordinary day at school.  Ida Marie drove the station wagon and took them to the woods that evening.  The following year, all six of Fannie’s girls traipsed to the woods, bringing back buckets and tubs of wild flowers.

Traditionally, Ida Marie drove the station wagon while Loretta sat in the back, choosing each basket with the verse for the individual to whom it would be given.  Each basket was carefully given an extra dose of sugar water just before it was delivered.  Rhoda, Alice, Gertrude and Rachel became runners, usually going two at a time when there was a long lane with farm dogs who were fed stale Christmas cookies to be kept quiet. One girl delivered the basket while the other  stood away from the house, petting and feeding cookies to friendly guard dogs.  Sometimes two girls were dropped off at one farm lane while two others were driven farther down the road to the next farm.

Passing it On

This spring, when you wonder if the little things you do make a difference, remember this story.  If you know Ada Schrock, call her and thank her.  She can no longer see, but she can hear.  She will treasure your call. (The last four numbers of her phone are 2350.)

It is May, and we celebrate spring.  Rivers, creeks and brooks are filled from spring rains.  Go ahead.  Toss your pebble in the water and watch the ripples spread out to the edges of the banks.  You never know how far the ripples will go.   Go ahead and share a story or a tradition or a lesson learned.  Toss your pebble – make that splash.  The ripples will continue, long after you are gone.  Go ahead.  This spring, celebrate life and who you are. Begin a tradition; leave a legacy.  And oh yes, Happy May Day!


Note from the author:
Yoder School was in operation from 1891-1989.
Ruth E. Yoder passed away several years ago.