STORM WATCH

A recent cold rain reminded me of the one special Southern California storm I experienced in my childhood.  It was December, 1967.  Our family was still in that first, tiny trailer.  One morning, early for a school day, Mom woke me up, telling me to come look at something.  Once out in the living room with my little brother, I saw that she had roused my sisters, too.  We gathered at the large front window of the trailer.  

"Look," she told us, “It’s snowing."  

In the dim glow of a nearby street lamp, my wondering eyes saw puffy bits of white gently falling.  There was no wind.  The falling snow muffled the sounds of morning.  As it grew lighter, we saw that everything was covered in a blanket of white: streets, trailers, cars, trees.  For Mom, a native of the state of Wyoming, a little snow was no cause for concern, so we proceeded with the usual business of our morning.  We marveled at the whiteness as we piled into the car.  I don’t remember feeling unusually cold.  Children have a different thermostat than adults.

Mom dropped us off at Grandma Gene's house as she usually did on school days.  It turned out that Grandma Gene would have us all day, for school had been cancelled.  Mom found that amusing -- canceling school for a few inches of snow.  It wasn't long after she left for work that my two older sisters and I headed outside to explore.  My trusty PF Flyers were not snow-proof, but this was a chance in a lifetime.  We had wandered a few blocks from Grandma Gene's when something slammed painfully into my back, nearly knocking the wind out of me!  I had been struck by a well-aimed snowball.  This was no fluffy powder ball, but a hard-packed slush ball just short of being solid ice.  We saw a boy I didn’t recognize laughing as the three of us whirled around.  There was just one of him, and my sisters in those days were rather protective.  They gave him a stern warning and he skulked back to his house.  

The thrill of hiking in snow wore off quickly when my shoes started soaking through, so we headed back.  At Grandma Gene's house, there was a better surprise in store for us.  As we tromped in, she handed us cereal bowls and told us to go outside and collect clean snow.  Perplexed but obedient, we came back into the kitchen with our bowls mounded.  She then ladled a creamy, faintly yellow liquid over our snow and passed out spoons.  For the first time in my life, I was having ice cream made with snow!  Something commonplace for those in more frigid climates was entirely novel for me.  I will always remember how delicately sweet and smooth it was compared to store-bought ice cream.

In spite of the magical quality of that day, we were still in Southern California, short miles inland and a few hundred feet above the moderating influence of the Pacific.  Soon, the snow started melting.  School was back in session the next day.  I was left with the memory of two very different uses of snow: as a weapon or as an impromptu dessert.  With that memory came a simple lesson: Storms will come.  And when they do, I can harm others through mindless self-absorption, or I can seek grace to be a blessing to others.

The Wonder

This time of year is 'Heartbreak Hill' for homeschooling.  Yes, the academic year is a bit over half complete, but strewn along the marathon trail are the well-laid plans of late autumn, now forcibly adjusted to the imperfect mix of teaching and children and curriculum.  So, it was timely that at a recent gathering of our homeschool support group, the topic of discussion was 'encouragement to finish well'.  As the evening went on and different fathers and mothers shared, I had a sense that there was an elusive truth yet to be spoken, one that we needed to hear.

The glaring fact is that while the dads like myself do their best to support the often invisible, overwhelming task, it is the moms who carry the load day in and day out.  More than anything, weariness is the badge of honor which these mothers attempt to conceal.  And so it was fitting that a mother, just as we were about to wrap up the evening, shared these thoughts, as best as I can remember:

I never want to lose the wonder. 

I never want to lose the wonder, the realization of the awesome gift I have been given in my children and the chance to teach them at home.

I get to be the person who listens to my child when they read for first time, to be there for so many first things.

There are mornings I wake up so tired my eyes feel like they have sand in them.

After over 20 years of doing this, you would think I, we -- I could never do this without my husband -- would have it figured out, but I have never felt more slammed than in the past few months.

Some years I don't know if we have gotten a lot of homeschooling accomplished, but we have done a lot of living.

But we serve a good God and He gives us grace.

I have a 4 year old who is discovering so many things for the first time, and a 26-year-old who wants to know how to train their own 2-year-old.  And all the others in between.  The demands of parenting only get more complicated as your children grow.  But we serve a good God.

From eternity, our God chose our children and your children and said "I want this one to be with you, and this one to be with you, and so on."  Because He knew just which family our children needed.

This is my prayer, that I never lose the wonder of the awesome gift God has given me in my children and the privilege of teaching them to know Him.

And that was the truth, the benediction, the Good Word we needed to hear that night.

Is This All There Is?

As usual, I was the last one in the door of the train.  I made my way around two bicyclists who boarded just ahead of me to an open seat at the other end of the car.  While they situated their bikes, I heard one of the cyclists talking loudly and assumed it was the usual effort to determine who was getting off first so they could decide which bike to park closest to the aisle.  

They sat down near me; a man and woman who appeared to be in their late 20's.  His uncombed long hair and several day beard fit with a wrinkled plaid shirt, shorts, black socks and sneakers.  She was in business casual denim pants with a light-colored blouse and white sweater.

They were arguing about being nearly late for the train.  How much, he wanted to know, did she think they could get done between the time he got up and when the train left? She just wanted to get the car seat out at her mom's house, implying a child is an off-stage player in this drama.  Making no effort to lower his derogatory tone, he declared, "I never said I would do that.  How much time do you think there is between 7:30 and 7:52?"  He accused her of lying about her intentions.  She replied to each volley in subdued tones, embarrassed by their public conflict.  Other than a furtive glance or two, surrounding passengers stayed intently focussed on their own business.  I pictured myself quietly saying, "Can't you treat each other just a little more nicely?"  Then remembered the statistics about domestic disputes and how unwelcome third parties are treated.

The couple made no eye contact with each other.  She finally put on her sunglasses and gazed at the opposite side of the car in silence.  He continued to mutter as the train rumbled to my stop.  Without saying goodbye, he fetched his bike and got off behind me, while she remained on board.

I wondered what frayed emotions churned within as they made their way to separate destinations.  With what grim resolve did they determine not to think whether tomorrow would be any better? Then, I silently offered a prayer that the unhappy years that seemed to stretch in front of them would somehow be altered by the Providential grace that has blessed my life.

4 Books, 4 Fathers, 4 Daughters

In 2013, I have read four books which highlight the importance of fathers to daughters.  Of course, those are the kind of books I SHOULD be reading, given my parental status.  [While I am on the topic, the absolute BEST book dealing directly with the subject is 'Strong Fathers, Strong Daughters' by Meg Meeker, which distinctly influenced the title of this post.]

The books, in the order I read them, are:

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith

Moon Over Manifest - Clare Vanderpool

The Diary of A Young Girl - Anne Frank

The Hiding Place - Corrie Ten Boom

Two things stand out as I consider these books collectively. First, that daughters will love their fathers in spite of a father's flaws, many or few.  Even for a father who fails regularly, a daughter's love is remarkably resilient.  The other thing that struck me was the rarity of the father who is a source of strength to his daughter.  In 'A Tree Grows In Brooklyn' and 'Moon Over Manifest', the dads are well-meaning, but weak, controlled by bad habits, unable to be the foundation their daughter's should have.  Anne Frank sees her father as a distant, though well-meaning "old" person.  This must be tempered by her immaturity combined with their uniquely tragic circumstances that would put any relationship under duress.  Though experiencing much the same hardship as Anne Frank, (they were only 10 miles apart during the Nazi occupation of Holland in World War 2), it was only from Corrie Ten Boom that I read of a father and daughter knit together, a strength from a lifetime of living out a deeply abiding faith.  Corrie hearing of her father's death is one of the most touching moments in a deeply moving story.

Of course, such reading leads to reflection.  What kind of Dad am I?  So I am not a chronic drunk or rail-riding bum.  Perhaps I am like Anne Frank's father -- a thoughtful, reasonable man who provides for his family.  But that is not enough.  I want to be the spiritual bastion that Corrie's father was, so that when my daughters launch out into life, or life storms in on them, they will have a sure foundation, a heritage of faith to carry them through.

Words of Wisdom from Corrie Ten Boom's Father:

After Corrie as a small girl asked innocently about an adult topic, he asked Corrie to carry his heavy watch repair bag.  She tried to move it…

"It's too heavy," I said.

"Yes," he said. "And it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his daughter to carry such a load.  It's the same way, Corrie, with knowledge.  Some knowledge is too heavy for children.  When you are older and stronger you can bear it.  For now, you must trust me to carry it for you."

After Corrie experienced the dread of death when a neighbor's baby died.

"Corrie, when you and I go to Amsterdam--when do I give you your ticket?"

I sniffed a few times, considering this.

"Why, just before we get on the train."

"Exactly.  And our wise Father in heaven knows when we're going to need things, too.  Don't run out ahead of Him, Corrie.  When the time comes that some of us will have to die, you will look into your heart and find the strength you need--just in time."

After Corrie learned in her early 20's that the man she loved was engaged to be married to another woman.

"Corrie, do you know what hurts so very much?  It's love.  Love is the strongest force in the world, and when it is blocked, that means pain.

"There are two things we can do when this happens.  We can kill the love so that it stops hurting.  But then of course a part of us dies, too.  Or, Corrie, we can ask God to open up another route for that love to travel… Whenever we cannot love in the old, human way, Corrie, God can give us the perfect way."

Monster In The Closet

What my grandson sees in the coat closet...

It is there, hiding.  The monster.  In the hall closet at Gramma and Grampa's house.  Big and fast and growly and I know it wants to eat me.  One time it almost got me with its bright eyes shining and snarling so loud my ears hurt.  But I got away.  

Now, every time I go over to Gramma and Grampa's, the first thing I do is walk carefully down the hall.  Holding Grampa's hand, I point to the door of the coat closet.  To make sure the monster is locked up.  Because if the monster isn't in the closet, no place in the house is safe for me.  Grampa knows the monster is in there and slowly opens the door.  The monster is scared of Grampa, so it pretends to be asleep.  Grampa pulls on its tail and says "See, nothing to be afraid of."  But, I can't help it.  My tummy knots up, I start breathing faster, faster.  I can't stand it any longer.  Because I know what the monster thinks when its eyes are open: a little boy for supper.  I shiver and run.  Not fast.  My legs are short.  

Then, Grampa closes the door to the monster room and I go play.  For a little while I forget.  But I know the monster is in there.  Sometimes I can hear it breathing.  So, just to be sure, I have Grampa check one more time.  Whew.  The monster is still locked up.