Mrs. Eisenhower's Legacy

Dwight Eisenhower was the 34th President of our Country. He was an amazing leader. “Ike” as people generally referred to him was a war hero during the Second World War. He was a Republican but because of his straight forward and authentic approach to politics he earned the respect of a democratic congress for 3 terms and was able to be an effective presidents even with an opposing party in congress.

I read just a little bit about him in my devotions this morning. The writer of the book I was reading (To Own a Dragon, by Donald Miller) was amazed as he read about Ike’s life. You see Eisenhower grew up in a home with two functioning parents who made it their goal that their children would grow up knowing how important and necessary their role in the family was. Their thought that this would lead their children to realize the importance and necessity of their roles in their communities and for Dwight, even the world was proved true when he became president.

I started thinking about that as I finished my devotion time this morning. I started to wonder if I’ve raised my children with the sense that they are important to our family, to their community and to the world? If I asked them, would they, like young Dwight at age 9 or 10 already be confident enough to agree that they were not only important but essential to our family. That our family couldn’t be our family without them and that God has assigned to them an important task of leadership. Do my kids understand their importance?

Jesus did. In John 3 it says, “The Father loves the Son and has placed everything in His hands. Whoever believes the Son will have life but whoever rejects the Son will not see life, for God’s wrath remains on him.”

Why did God say that He placed everything in Jesus’ hands? Because through Jesus people would either come to know God the Father or not.

No, we haven’t been given the role of saving the world from sin. But that doesn’t mean that our role isn’t crucial. If we don’t offer what you have been given to offer the world… which is really just you being you… the world, your community and especially your family will miss out. We’ll miss out on understanding something of Jesus, God the Father and the Holy Spirit.

As a mother is there anything more precious I could lavish on my children than this beautiful truth? That they are relevent?Eisenhower’s mother puts me to shame in so many ways. For one thing, this woman memorized the entire New Testament. What a beautiful gift she gave to her children in that kind of example but also in being able to call on that kind of understanding when she needed to deal with them in their lives. Also though, Mrs. Eisenhower was fond of this belief; she believed that all the world’s problems could be solved if every child understood his necessity and importance in the world.

I think we shy away from these thoughts because we worry that we’re placing too much importance on ourselves as individuals rather than realizing the supreme capabilities of a sovereign God who doesn’t NEED us to reveal his love or will to the world. Of course this is true. He’s God and He can certainly handle these kind of intricate revelations on his own. But He CHOOSES to use us to do that. When we fail to realize that ourselves or to teach it to our kids we miss out. We miss out and so does our community. We miss out not on being needed by God but by being WANTED by Him. He wants to use our lives to bear witness to who He is. Each of us has a unique and beautiful aspect or characteristic of His to mirror in a unique and beautiful way. If we understood that better. If our children understood that better is it true that the world would be transformed?

I’m challenging myself today to be more effective in instilling that possibility in my kids. I’m challenging myself to believe it myself and be purposeful then in the offering of it to my community.

*** Please no criticisms on the book or author references. I understand your concerns. I’m reading critically. You can trust me.

The Art of Legacy

There was a time in my life when I didn’t value the generations that came before me. In fact I suppose that was true of most of my life. Until recently. My thirties have brought with them an awareness of my own life lessons and I suppose a respect for what other’s have learned as well. More and more lately I find myself wanting to soak up another woman’s life stories.

I go to work and listen to my friends there, friends my mother’s age tell me stories of sorority life on university campus in the 60s. Another woman recalls a near death experience as a child. There is a woman just shy of a decade older than me who, 10 years ago I may have written off as too unhip to be worthy of my ear and now I find her stories alive with color and interest.

One of my favorite things about being the oldest of an oldest and marrying an oldest of an oldest is that when we gather at extended family dinners I am privy to the most beautiful collection of women in our aunts. As we sit around the remains of dinner served, forking away at a chocolate cake that sits at the center of the table, we commune. We laugh and we listen and sometimes we cry. I find myself unusually quiet in these moments. Is it because there is something almost holy about them, these amazing women who’ve graced the span of my life? I suppose that is part of it. But I also find myself humbled by the richness of their lives. It is a richness that is built year upon year, not unlike the sumptuous layer upon layer of cake we devour together as we chat.

I love to sit at my grandmother’s side as she tells stories of marrying my grandfather at seventeen because she and he were employed by the same farmer. My maternal grandpa has been in Glory for 26 years now. Grams has been remarried for 8 of those years. There’s a lot of story in that.

My dad’s dad has stories of an entirely different nature. He recalls his time as a POW guard in Italy at the end of World War II. The sounds of captured German soldiers singing “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” still ring in his ears. He is not a man given to much grace, but somehow he found it for those incarcerated men of war. He understood what they could not because he realized they had been given little choice.

Looking back on my own, in comparison, short years on the planet, I realize how many mistakes I’ve made. Most often I’ve learned more from the bad than the good, if I’m being honest. And I suppose that’s okay. Perhaps one day my nieces will share the remains of a chocolate cake at my table and suddenly realize how important my stories are. Maybe not. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned so far into my thirties, it’s this; Much has been lived and much learned in the hearing of another person’s story. And the choice is up to me. I can listen. Or I can simply walk away. But to choose the latter is to neglect one of life’s greatest gifts; the richness of life not only lived, but shared. Shared across the span of generations. This is the art of legacy.

Back to School shopping...

What mom hasn’t been there? What self respecting thirty something woman of the era hasn’t found herself on her knees in the back to school aisle pleading… “just tell me this darling… have you found a scissors that suits you?”
Before today, I thought I was alone in my back to school agony, but as the dental assistant (my trip to the dentist by the way, ended up being the HIGHlight of my day) asked about my plans for the rest of the day she assured me, laughing as she suctioned, that I in fact am in good company in my back to school angst. She began to unravel a few memories for me of one of her young children whining over the lack of glossy pink folders which would certainly have secured her place with the “in” group, while her son, completely bored with the task of choosing rulers and erasers began tossing a football into a perfect pyramid of elmers edible glue. But our laughter had subsided by the time I climbed into my SUV and made my way sorrowfully to the bank, wondering woefully if I would be required to take out a loan by the time I’d descended the mountain of back packs and made my way through the river of scientific calculators. I withdrew the amount I was hoping would cover the damages and walked sheepishly away from the teller with my tail between my legs. As I opened the door to depart I heard her stifle a laugh as she whispered to the woman next to her “Back to school shopping… poor sucker!” How did she know? I wondered as I gave myself a second look in the rearview mirror, did the terror show?”
I decided to approach my enemy slowly. But I’m afraid the sound may have tipped my foe off. Wouldn’t you know I got the squeaky cart? The bane of mothers of school aged children everywhere. You know the cart. It’s the one that mocks you slowly… at first you barely notice it’s there, but later, when you’ve offered up the last of your patience to the back to school gods it makes that one last annoying squeak and starts to bounce around as you hustle, almost free toward the checkout line and poufff… you finally lose all resolve and become a whimpering mass of whom you once were. I would not succumb to this fate today though. Not me. I am an experienced mother. I have been to this battlefield before. I know all the tricks. I simply lifted the offending side of the cart with my left hand and strode on. Yes, my arm began to cramp almost immediately but I would not be deterred. We stalked by the aisle slowly. My youngest son (the rookie) asked in confusion “Mom, aren’t we going to go down that aisle? That’s where all the back to school stuff is!” My daughters gasp could be heard from the farthest corners of the store. “What?” he asked with fear in his eyes. “What’d I say?”
“She’s just checking things out. SHE’S NOT READY!” One of the girls whispered loudly in his ear.
“No,” I said, eyebrow cocked in steel willed determination. “ He’s right. It’s time. Let’s go in”.
Flanked by my offspring I dove in, hand first for the dreaded list. It emerged from my purse like a beam of light. You could almost hear the foreboding music in the back ground, challenging me… mocking me. My children shielded their eyes but I would not be so easily intimidated. I armed myself quickly with my pen, double clicking for effect, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed the rookie making a movement toward a stack of pencil boxes. “If you value that arm partner,” I ordered with all the authority I could muster.” You will put that hand back in your pocket and leave it there until further notice.”
I think he was beginning to get the point.
Felicity, I beckoned to me, “You understand how important it is that each item goes into the cart in it’s proper order correct. Because if things go in out of order we won’t be able to double check that we’ve crossed off everything on the list. And you know the cardinal sin of back to school shopping do you not?”
“Yes mom,” She answered, fear swimming in her eyes “Under no circumstances should you ever have to return to the back to school aisle once you have left the back to school aisle.”
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until she finished. I exhaled with proud satisfaction. Oh she was going to make a great little back to school mother one day.
I had given Kama free reign over her list. After all, the girl is sixteen, it was time to let her spread her wings. But what I had to do to keep her from her mistakes I’m not proud of. She came around the corner at what seemed to be warp speed this beautiful albeit not very price conscious daughter of mine. I barely had time to intercept the 5 subject notebook as she tossed it haphazardly into the cart. I leapt with catlike reflexes across the classic, washable marker stand and deftly caught the offending pad up in my grasp. “Kama,” I queried in a rather high pitched voice “ Did you check the price on this notebook?” I could tell by the funky and colorful cover that this notebook would be found to be almost twice, if not three times as much as the cardboard, plain colored type. “You have no idea how lucky you are that I was able to catch this back to school blunder.” I anchored my hand on her shoulder as I searched her eyes for some sign of recognition.
“Whatever.” she uttered as she took the book from my hand and sluffed slowly back to the notebooks.”
I turned and saw Felicity shaking her head in understanding.
“We’re not going to win them all.” I worked to reassure her. “What matters is that we protect the contents of this cart.” Her eyes flashed with understanding. It felt good to have a partner in this war.
I’m not going to say that the rest of our time midst the crayons and protractors was without incident. We nearly came to blows over the assignment pads at one point and there was a small incident involving loose leaf paper but I don’t feel that it’s bragging to tell you that by the time I reached the checkout line I’m pretty sure my blood pressure had already returned to normal.
I don’t feel I’m ready to talk about the breakdown I had at the cash register just yet. Perhaps with time.
And therapy.
But alas, we have returned home. The back to school items are piled neatly on the living room floor awaiting their appointment with a intial wielding sharpy, and I have uncorked my favorite bottle of wine.
There is a rumor floating around that a green folder has gone missing. But I know my children are just toying with me.
Aren’t they?

Community, Compassion and the Intent to Understand

I arrived at home last night after spending the evening with two sister friends deep in thought. I thought over the evening. I thought about the topics of conversation, how we weaved our way through deep concerns and important viewpoints to practical tips and advice all the way through to favorite celebrities and weird dreams. We shared moments of rallying support as well as raucous laughter. There were as many moments spent in the deep end of the conversational pool as there were floating around in the shallows. For me the evening defined the importance of community and the blessing of friendship. While I needed to hear and be heard I also needed the relief that comes with a bit of silliness. I needed to understand as much as I desired to be understood. It was reciprocal and in that it was as basely beautiful as it gets.

Steve knows someone who though seemingly deeply woven into the thread of community, despaired enough of his own life last week to end it with the shattering finality of suicide. I was left wondering, how did the the community not see, not pick up on the cues? That thought has been haunting me ever since. Steve had supper with this person the night he passed away and has gone over and over that time again if he missed something, some small sign that would have told him to reach out. Of course that is not a burden that can be placed on Steve or any other person's doorstep. Of course had any of his community known they would have taken measures to stop him. But then the question becomes, how would we know?

As we sat around the table last night, my "girlies" and me I wondered almost aloud, "Would I know if you were desperate tonight? I am your community. I am in the tightest of rings inside your community. Short of being your family I'm the friend who knows and loves you best. Yet I find myself unsure... wondering if I would know." I wonder because I realize how good I am at putting on the act, at wearing the mask. At pretending life is great when it's not. I've never despaired of my own life. I don't struggle with the ache of depression. Yet I know how easy it is to pretend for the masses; how important it can feel to present an "all is well" exterior. I would like to think my friends and family (my community) and I would never pretend for eachtoher but then I realize that there are times I pretend just for myself. Sometimes I think we pretend as a means of convincing ourselves.

In the end I know that we cannot blame community for the kind of instability and desperation that leads one to the point of taking his own life. But I am still left wondering, do we really take the time to know eachother well enough to feel what lies beneath the verbage of conversation? Do we listen with a desire to understand? I'm afraid too often I am guilty of hearing the words without listening to their meaning. And do I speak with transparency? Do I allow community into my suffering and recieve the balm of their compassion as they offer it? After all isn't all of this what it means to be the hands and feet of Christ?

Last night I didn't need to pretend. Last night, as most nights I felt happy and life was lighthearted. And,last night I listened with intent. I'd like to think that Steve's friend's death will remind me always to listen with an ear for understanding and speak with lips of compassion. I'd like to think it will keep me honest about how things are going in my life. I don't know what was going on for TK in his life. And now his community will never have the chance to know.

As far as it depends on me, I don't want to miss any more chances.

Breaking the surface

Dalton and I watched a good movie last night. We watched "A Perfect Storm" together. * For anyone who hasn't seen it and wants to WARNING ** this is a spoiler - stop reading now.
It's the true story about a crew of sword fisherman from Maine who've had a run of bad luck on the sea. They set out for their last trip of the season and it's make it or break it time. For some of them not hitting the fish will mean loss of mortgage or visitation with their children. These are hard working guys who have been at it for a very long time for very little pay. They kiss their women and children and head out to the water floating away on promises of better times ahead. Finally after pulling up empty hooks and staring at freezers full of ice with no fish to chill they take a risk and head further out to sea. This turns out to be a lucrative choice. They hit fish and they hit fish big. With freezers full they steam back to shore anxious to "set the market" and greet their families with fistfuls of cash and hearts full of love. What they don't know is that 3 major weather systems have begun to collide right in the middle of their path home and it has all added up to "the Perfect Storm" the like of which hasn't been seen in 100 years. The story ends in tragedy. The movie theorizes that each man says his goodbyes while gasping the last pockets of air from the upturned hull of the ship. Two men, the lead roles of the story, are not so much trapped in the ship as they are assigned to their fate. The captain and his first mate of sorts decide to swim for the surface and ride the waves to their death, but at the last minute the captain decides to recede back into the dark confines of his cabin and go down with his ship.
At eleven years old this gave Dalton much to ponder as he lay in bed last night. He lazily tripped down the stairs this morning and took a seat on the last step. Rubbing his eyes he looked up at me and without so much as a "goodmorning, mom" and just muttered "I hate that 'Skipper' didn't even try to live."
I was struck by the fact that Dalton seemed to miss the obvious. These men were all going to die no matter what choices they made at this point and they knew it. It was clear to them that their location in the heart of a storm that had taken out 2 rescue helicopters and a navy ship in the middle of the ocean they would not be saved. Rogue waves that would dwarf the skyscrapers that dotted the shore line so many miles away had tossed their ship end over end and those who weren't trapped in the ship's watery grave would be drown by it's angy currents and destructive force were they to swim from the ship's confines.
"Dalton," I tried to explain. "He wasn't giving up he just knew that they were all going to die either way."
"Well," he answered simply. "I wish he would have tried."
I realized then that at eleven years old not only is everything and anything possible but almost everything is also worth trying. Life hasn't taught you to fear just yet. An eleven year old heart won't be assigned to a fate, it only sees possiblities.
How often do we as adults let what we believe has been our assigned fate keep us from trying? How often do we size up the situation and deem it hopeless instead of seeing the incredible possiblities? Like these men we've set out to do what we've been assigned to do and come back empty handed too many times. Even our victories are held in check as we anticipate the storm that most certainly waits to take it all away again.
The Glouster fisherman's story is one that ends tragically; and I'm certain that no amount of positive thinking would have saved these men, but that's not really the point for Dalton. The point is that the captain of the ship gave up. There's no redemption there. The best the movie version offers is that the memory of the men live on their loved ones. But we know something more. We have something greater.
I got to be reminded today that swimming for the surface isn't after all an effort in futility. In fact it's an action that says hope is alive. I don't expect to be saved from the storm but I'm not ruling it out either. I don't know what God has planned once I break the surface but I know I want to be here to find out. For Bobby, the moment he sees his surroundings he knows he's still not going to make it but you get the sense that at least he's thankful that he's not trapped anymore.
We all have storms in our lives. And sometimes it seems we're destined to go down with the ship but I think it's important to remember that something waits on the surface of the water. And I don't want to miss that moment when I break through. I don't know what God has planned for the moment after my lungs fill with air but I do know that I don't want to be trapped by my own perception of my fate. I'm bobbing along on the surface of hope ready to face whatever comes next. Rescue or no rescue I want my own childlike heart to be found on the surface... not in the depths.

Thanks Tierney for the encouragement. It felt good to write again:)

Kids and Crumbs

I live with a bunch of selfish, self serving, self focused people. I'm talking about the little things. The things that threaten to send me into a rage on the right day at the right time of the month. I'm sure I've explained the whole "Shake your placemat off in the garbage and then bring it to the laundry room" thing a hundred times to the people in my home. Yet, yesterday morning after everyone had gotten on their various busses I found myself picking up after all manner of stages of neglect. There were placemats still on the table filled with crumbs. I found more next to the garbage can. I picked up bits of muffin from the carpet from those who actually made it to the laundry room but hadn't been shaken into the garbage. And then finally when I got to the "towels" laundry basket with those that had been forgotten by their users I found still more, balled up and filled with crumbs. Grrrrrrgh!!! I was miffed. I was more than miffed. I could really quickly launch now into the annoyance of finding size 15 dirty, stinky, smelling golf socks laying next to the computer, or 2 week old popcorn and cans of half drunk decaying pepsi under a bed, or even debate why it is that the men of my home can't respect the women who live here enough to just put the seat down already...but I won't. Because that might bore you and, well, I suppose it really wouldn't do much good for me either.
The thing is this; I realized this morning as I picked up after the instances of placemat disobedience that I can be just like that in my own life. Let me explain. I lined my kids up after school and I asked them to claim their placemat. Those who had gotten their placemats to the laundry room quickly pointed out that "at least WE got ours to the right spot and didn't leave them on the table." And the kid who left it next to the garbage responded "Well I meant to, but I forgot when I put my plate in the dishwasher." (A transparent scheme to get me to notice his obedience in the case of his plate, cup and utensils). I do that too. I compare my sin with others. I don't mind confessing, but I always want God to see that it wasn't intentional and I want Him to notice all the positive things I've done. In the end, it's the kid who's placemat was left on the table full of food who has no excuse. Taylor could think of nothing and so he just had to look at me and say, " Yep. Sorry about that." Somehow then, it's him I'm least angry with.
Kama's catechism lesson last week was about how even our best works can't earn us favor with God, but they are a necessary part of the life of the believer. I tried my best to explain to her what the difference between thankful living and earned salvation is. But I think Taylor is the one who taught me the lesson. I'm going to screw up in this life. And I'm going to do it alot. I'm going to keep on making the same mistakes over and over no matter how hard I want to do the right thing. But when I've realized that I've let God down again I want to be the one who just says, "Sorry about that Lord. I'm gonna try harder to remember tommorow."
I don't know that my kids get how difficult it makes the mornings when I have to be at work. I don't have time for racing through the placemat trail. After all, I've gone through alot for them already by just making them a hot breakfast. Why can't they respect that and be thankful? But do I consider? Do I really consider how it must grieve my God when the stages of neglect in my life leave Him picking up the pieces... after all He's gone through on my behalf.
Thanks for teaching me lessons Lord through the crumbs and the kids in my life. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a selfish, self serving, self focused person. I have nothing to offer in my defense.
Except Christ. And I'm so thankful God, that He is enough!

When Regret Isn't an Option

Last night I helped Felicity paint her pinewood derby car. It was fun. We were laughing and the boys were mocking us and I was in that place where you're aware it's a memory that's being made. So I was trying to allow for the imprint of it to be made on my mind and heart. My girls were complimenting my detail work on the car and I said inadvertantly " Yeah, you know some day I'd love to take a painting class. I wonder if I would be any good at it?" Felicity was horrified. "Why do you say stuff like that? You're an adult. You can't become an artist now. You have kids." I was taken back but also reflective. In a sense Fliss was right. I don't have time now to find out if I'm a painter right now. And on the other hand, I don't look forward to my kids being gone. In fact I dread it. I love the running to games and events and concerts that are a huge part of our lives, but at the same time when they leave this home and cleave to their adult pursuits I don't want to be left a shallow shell of who I once was.
In contrast, I've been thinking alot about the past lately. I guess along with the joining of facebook and the finding of and being found by many an old highschool classmate has brought with it some baggage of sorts. You know what I mean. Who hasn't pondered times gone by and found themselves awestruck by the effects of time passage. Our personalities morph. Our values and principals evolve. Positions we once were passionate about relax, and others are fanned from a smolder to a white hot fire. At the same time other, newer perspetives either mute or enhance ideals we once held in high esteem. Everything changes. Everything.
As I look back on who I once was and compare and contrast her with who I am now I see that the path is strewn with choices. Some have been wonderful and others not so much. Even in some of the more distateful decsions though, there has, of course, been beauty. Something of the Grace we believe in shines through. But I wonder....
Knowing what I know about the things that have taken place in my life - that is to say, knowning how I've grown from and through those times; knowing the impact they had on friends or family members, the blessing that was recieved in some cases, or the benefit that was given someone else in others; even knowing that though no positive element (at least not one worthy of the pain invovled) came from some of those moments. I don't see them as regrets. I believe in a God who worked so mightily through all the good and all the bad that I can't classify those things as regrets. The belief in the sovereignty of God won't let me. I don't regret them. I don't wish they hadn't happened. And yet ... some of those memories still cause me to wish I'd done things differently.
My question is this; is there a place between regret and satsifaction when perusing one's own past? Can a person realize their mistakes and see what could have been different without being dissatisfied with how things turned out?
If such a place exists, then for me it looks like acceptance. I'm not talking about words you wish you could take back or actions you are embarressed of. Those are just issues with forgiveness. I know we all deal with that on some level. What I'm talking about is looking back and wishing you'd pursued a dream or gotten involved in a group or organization. I'm talking about the loss of relationships. The opportunities missed. The doors you closed in on yourself. The ones you left open that would have been better to slam shut. When I look back over my life, I don't have regrets, but I do sometimes struggle to accept the fact that I didn't always "take the road less traveled" so that it couldn't "have made all the difference".
The thing is though, we tend to see many windows of opportunity past the age of 25 as closed. We sometimes think our carefree choices are behind us. And sure, the choices carry with them a greater consequence when we're surrounded by marriage and children and jobs and responisibilites. But it would be a sad world to live in if being married with kids meant that all the opportunities in life were over.
Accepting past choices and their consequences has nothing to with embracing the possiblities of what lies ahead. It's good to look back and take stock of what has happened and what the impact has been. But it's just as important to look forward with an attitude toward opportunity. I don't know what doors God will open tommorow, but I do know that this time around I want to walk through as many of them as I can. I know regret, ultimately is a part of life, even when you don't label it regret. And I know when I'm 80 I'll look back on 33 and think "You crazy kid... what were you thinking." But I hope I'll also remember courageously running through doors of opportunity kids in tow, husband closeby! And I hope the acceptance isn't quite as difficult to find.