A Slot For Your Soul

Thanksgiving was not about turkey, taking naps, or touchdowns on the tube for me this year, wonderful though all of those things were. Rather, my driveway was full and so was my heart, and for that I gave thanks.

The gravel entrance to our home has a large extension on the side, a turn-around area so that cars parked in the garage can be backed out and pointed towards the road before heading that way. As each of our sons started driving and eventually acquired a car of his own, the space was widened so that their three vehicles could fit at the end of it side by side.

The driveway thus became a barometer of how things stood in the house whenever I came home from wherever I’d been. One glance to the left as I pulled into the garage gave me a good idea of who I might find lounging on the couch inside or foraging in the fridge for food. I especially loved the sense of satisfaction that came over me when I arrived home from a late shift at work and watched my headlights bounce off of three shiny bumpers in turn, indicating that my boys were all safely home. But soon their bedtimes outdistanced mine, and I came to realize that cars in the drive merely meant they hadn’t left yet for the night’s activities. Instead of counting heads in beds in the mornings I’d just peek out the window and count cars in parking spots to reassure myself that all was still well in my world.

So it was difficult for me when the silver Civic and the black truck took off this fall, bearing portions of my heart to distant states for months at a time. The remaining Accord looked a little lost and lonely in that vast expanse of gravel, but the empty spots inside and out of the house were indeed occasionally filled with the noise and laughter of visiting friends who rejoiced that at long last they didn’t have to park on the grass! Still, the change made us look to a Thanksgiving reunion with special anticipation. While the many holiday photos posted online pictured feasts on tables, friends in the kitchen and at least a few family members snoring away on living room couches, so my simple snapshot of three cars in the driveway spoke of a grateful heart filled to overflowing once more.

Early on in the holiday planning it had seemed impractical for my youngest son who now lives in Florida to drive such a long way for just a short holiday, and so he planned to stay and celebrate with family friends in the area. But his brother couldn’t bear the thought of his not being home and offered to buy him an airline ticket himself, despite his own limited resources. In the end his father paid the price to bring his son home.

Surely we shouldn’t let Thanksgiving go by without remembering that our spiritual Brother and Father have done the same. So desperately did Jesus desire that we all gather at the table for the future Feast that He willingly gave all He had to make a way for us to get there. In the end God Himself paid our travel expenses with the life of his Son. And now He wants you to know that there’s a parking spot in Heaven with your name on it, a place reserved just for you…a slot for your soul. And more anxiously than any earthly parent waits for their child to arrive is your heavenly Father looking and longing for you to fill it.

Make it safely Home.

“…I go to prepare a place for you…so that where I am, you may be also.”

(John 14:2-3 MKJV)

See You in September

My heart is tender these days; I can cry at the drop of a hat. Questioning the cause, I consider the onslaught of menopausal hormones… a spiritual awakening that’s happening at church… or maybe just a mother’s natural sorrow at the thought of her children leaving home.

The truth is that my sons are starting to scatter. The middle one will be the first to be dropped off at his college destination, and my youngest son and I are on tap to help him deposit his belongings in his new home. Imagining our parting, I recently pictured it happening something like this: I smile brightly, hug him tightly, and then hurry to the car to begin the long trip back home without him. I wonder at what mile marker the boys will forego all warnings about texting while driving and have the following non-verbal communication with each other:

> How’s Mom?
> Not sure; she can’t talk. Sobbing uncontrollably.
> What should I do?
> Abort life plan completely. Return to Ohio as soon as possible. Live out your life in the basement bedroom of your childhood home.

Ridiculous, of course. God has good plans for my sons, and the last thing I want is to hinder those plans in any way by my reluctance to let go of the hands I’ve held on to so tightly for so long. For years I’ve asked God to bless my boys abundantly, expand their boundaries and enlarge their territories, as in the prayer of Jabez (1 Chronicles 4:10). And surely I can’t expect God to answer that prayer without them outgrowing their current surroundings. To stay is to stagnate; to go is to grow.

And yet I reject the concept of the empty nest, as if it had never been blessed with the joy and the mess of masses of boys about the place. No, their exuberance and laughter is woven into the fabric of our family, ever to remain. They are simply a part of who we are. I prefer to think of mine as an overflowing nest, one which can no longer contain the life and love inside it but simply has to spill the overflow into other cities, other states, or (gulp!) other countries, without diminishing the quality of the original quantity in the least.

My mind understands this theory, it’s my heart that gets in the way of its implementation. And so I’ve devised a game plan to keep me from becoming the woebegone woman described above. I’ve worked diligently at keeping a positive mental attitude as I face the upcoming event. My emails to my sister have become daily pep talks to myself about entering my sons’ excitement as they head off on their own. I’ve tried to fully participate in the process of finding apartments and household furnishings, bedding and necessities. I’ve concentrated on enjoying every moment of our family outings this summer, culminating in a week-long celebration /family reunion in a glorious rented home on the Oregon coast.

For the most part the plan has worked well and I’ve kept my emotions at bay. But recently I’ve started to wonder if suppressing all sadness is really the best idea…if it might not lead to greater issues and problems on down the line Perhaps it would be better to face down this giant in the time and place of my choosing, a little at a time, so I’m not overwhelmed by an onslaught of grief at some later date when I’m least prepared to deal with it.

And so now by day I busy myself with sending security deposits to hold apartments, establishing bank accounts, and preparing vehicles for long drives to distant climes. But on the late night drives home from my second-shift job I let myself think about just how much I’ll miss the tousled heads sticking out from swaths of blankets on the living room couches, tripping over shoes left abandoned in hallways, and the pounding of feet down basement stairs in the early-morning hours that lets me know the last of my night-owl sons has returned safely home once more. In the silent darkness of those moments I let my heart run unhindered. If my nest is truly overflowing, it’s to be expected that my eyes will occasionally, as well, and I let the tears go as freely as I desire to do my sons, trusting that God puts the world on hold for a few minutes while He sits with me and lovingly counts and collects each one (Psalm 56:8 CEV).

I studied this morning how Jesus prepared His disciples for His upcoming departure. In John 16 we read that He reminded them of His love for them, explained that his going was for their ultimate good, and promised that they’d be together again one day. Although we all long ago made our eternal futures secure, I’m glad that my earthly goodbyes to my boys are just temporary in nature. A family friend’s wedding in early fall will bring us all together once more. Frankly, wild horses couldn’t keep me from attending that event. And it’s likewise the upcoming wedding of another Bridgegroom to His Bride that will call us all from our earthly occupations to our eternal destination. May we be just as desperate to hasten that day.

I posted the engagement picture of the prospective bride and groom on my fridge to help me get through the difficult days of this August, a reminder of a happy reunion soon to come. God knew we would need a spiritual version of the same to get us through all of the trials and tribulations we face in this world, so he penned it in the pages of the Bible. Because Jesus did so first with His, I can truly smile brightly as I hug my boys tightly…the whispered “See you in September!” in their ears a reminder to us all that sooner than we can imagine we will be in a place where the sight of His face will erase every thought of our tears.

“And ye now therefore have sorrow: but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.”
(John 16:22 KJV)

Photo courtesy of Elizabeth Hudek

Growing Old, Gaining Gold

I was sitting in a bathroom stall at a funeral home when it happened. With nothing better to do I happened to look down at my feet...and gasped in horror at what I saw! One foot sported a navy blue shoe, while the other was clearly wearing black,! And as if it wasn't bad enough that the colors didn't match, worse yet was the fact that one shoe was square-toed while the other was pointed! Perhaps the color mis-match could be blamed on aging eyesight and a dimly lit closet, but surely I should still be able to see well enough to discern shapes! Embarrassed beyond belief, I seriously considered abandoning my shoes altogether and returning to face the public in just my pantyhosed toes. With a birthday coming the next week I laughed at the thought that at least the digits in my age would match, even if the shoes on my feet did not.

I squirmed uneasily at the thought of other signs of advancing age. I recently acquired a magnifying mirror, as I thought it was important to at least be able to see my face before applying makeup to it. The idea was prompted by the sight of an elderly lady who came through my line in the grocery store, dressed to the hilt but with her lipstick everywhere on her face but on her mouth. Then my hairdresser told me about a client who came into her shop with a whisker on her chin seemingly inches long that everybody in the world could see but her. That day I decided to get the mirror...before my beautician has to ask if I want a haircut or a shave!

"Old" seems to have become an adjective to be avoided at all costs. I wonder if we're born with that idea or if it's programmed into our psyches by the beauty that's splashed on television screens, magazine covers and advertisements of all shapes and sizes. Youthful good looks, health and vitality reign supreme in our minds and hearts and we dread the onset of wrinkles, infirmity, loneliness and poverty that we so often associate with a person's latter years. We note that old is rightfully found in the word mold - a fuzzy green substance that grows on food that's been left too long in the fridge. To the young it describes a person who's been left too long on the planet. It's simply become a word we associate with something that needs to be thrown away.

And so, like the rest of the world, I do my best to keep up at least an appearance of youth, but there are days when there's no hiding the signs of advancing age. I'm reminded of it each time I mount the stairs leading up to the break room at work. Creaky knees and arthritic joints make this a much slower process than in days gone by. Sounding much like an old plow horse, I lift a leg and drop it to the step, lift the other and do the same, lift and drop, lift and drop, plop, plop, lift and drop...hauling myself up by the handrail as I go. Breathing heavily at the top I'm suddenly caught up in the whoosh of a teenager's flying ascent, and I sigh. My "old" is showing.

When family genetics made my hair go prematurely gray in my twenties, I was unprepared emotionally to be shoved to the back of the fridge, and so began a lifetime expenditure of time and money to keep my hair the color it was supposed to be. But sometimes on a blustery day the wind blows my carefully coiffed hair, lifting the curls to reveal a halo of white roots about my face. The look of surprise in the eyes of my companions brings another sigh. Again, my "old" is showing.

While technologically challenged in many respects, I pride myself on the fact that I do send text messages on my cell phone. Yet the teens in my life laugh at my lack of speed and the fact that I have to look at the keys as I push them (thankful that I can still see them), making it impossible for me to hide the forbidden activity from the prying eyes of teachers or work supervisors by texting on a phone that's hidden under a counter, behind a back, or in a pocket, as they do. Again, I sigh. My "old" is showing once more.

Somehow we miss the fact that old is also found in the word gold, a treasured substance, sought after for its great value and beauty. I'm reminded that longevity is likewise something we try to attain, as our endless diets, trips to the gym and visits to the doctors' offices attest. We all want to reach old age; we just don't want to look like we've arrived.

But I've noticed lately that my husband and I now answer each other's questions before they're even fully formed, and that a simple look between us communicates as much as a lengthy spoken conversation used to. Thirty years after our wedding my jewelry may look a little worn, but my marriage shines as brightly as my ring did the day it was first placed on my finger. I smile at the thought. My "gold" is showing.

Now that my children are all legal adults I marvel at how they've morphed from chubby toddlers making messes about the place into responsible young men about to make a mark on their world. As I watch their lives develop and listen to them make their plans I can't help but smile to myself. Again, my "gold" is showing.

Perhaps nothing in my life shows its age more than my Bible. I don't have to look at it too closely to realize anew that it's in pretty bad shape. The binding is torn and flaps loose, while the brown color of the cover is worn off in the spots where my fingers have gripped it tightly for so long. And yet as the physical appearance of the book has deteriorated, the spiritual life inside of me that it has nourished has flourished When I look at the joy in my heart and rejoice at my peace of mind, I smile. My "gold" is showing once more.

Perhaps the reason the proverbial pot of gold lies at the end of the rainbow is to remind us that there's treasure to be found at the downside of a lengthy but well-lived life. As we look at the steps we're taking today may we remember that form and speed are not nearly as important as that our feet walk a path that will lead us to the streets of gold that line our heavenly Home.

"But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Matthew 6:20-21 NIV)