Yellow-Flowered Curtains

            I’m all for celebrations: weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, showers… any event that calls for cake. But nestled in between those red-letter days are the fragments of life that surprise you with a moment you never want to forget. Here’s one of mine:

Lauren, my middle child, has a wonderfully active and creative mind.  A dozen years ago, during the summer of her thirteenth year, she vigilantly fought mosquitoes and was responsible for protecting my family from the West Nile virus. She sprayed insect repellent on us and never went out after dark without wearing thick socks and pants.

            She turned every creative writing assignment, regardless of the topic given, into a story of romance, and decided to devote her time to writing a novel. At least it made her forget about the mosquitoes.

            Later that fall, she gave us daily reports of the D.C. sniper’s activities. We were all very thankful when the killers were caught, and Lauren’s thoughts turned closer to home.

She was concerned that her orthodontist would neglect to remove her braces after her teeth were straightened. Dr. Maldonado assured her that she would not be forgotten. Satisfied with his response, she used the ride home to address her next concern, eternity. 

“Isn’t it weird to think about eternity, Mom?  It’s so hard to imagine. What am I going to do with all of that time?” Unknowingly, she opened up the door to one of my favorite memories. As I continued the drive forward, my mind raced back to the first decade of my life.

Remember the first decade?  It’s the decade when birthdays seem as far apart as the east is from the west. The decade which transforms backyard ditches into moats, empty lots into Yankee Stadium, and trees into apartment complexes to house the neighborhood children. And it was during this first decade of my life that I made the lifelong connection between the yellow-flowered curtains covering my bedroom windows and eternity.

            My sister, Kay, and I were settled in our beds when we heard my Dad call out his ritualistic bedtime questions. “Did you brush your teeth?”  Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Did you say your prayers?”

            The second question directed my train of thought past the act of praying to my image of God. It continued on that track to thoughts of Heaven, and finally came to a stop as I pondered eternity. Even then, as a child, I knew eternity never stopped.  Without warning, I found myself trying to imagine the concept of forever, a time when there would be no time, an endless day with no night.

            These thoughts of Heaven and eternity continued to roll over and over in my young mind, each producing a new layer of fear, increased confusion, and an inability to grasp these eternal concepts.  I stared at my yellow-flowered curtains as I began to sink deeper and deeper into my thoughts.  When I could no longer bear their weight, I began to cry. My cries did not go unnoticed for soon my father was at my side questioning my tears.

            “I was thinking about Heaven,” I managed to say.

            “Why would that make you cry?” Daddy asked.

            My young mind faltered as I attempted to attach words to my insecurities. Unable to do so, I chose to convey my abstract ideas with the nearest concrete item. “It’s just that… well…” I stuttered, all the while staring at the curtains my mother had sewn especially for my room. “When I go to Heaven, I’m gonna miss these curtains.” Despite their inadequacy to reveal my true feelings, the words released my inner struggle. The battle to understand was no longer mine, but my father’s. Free of that burden, I collapsed into his arms.

            Try as I might, I cannot remember exactly what he said. However, I do remember the comfort that his words produced. As he spoke, fear loosened its grip on my mind and peace pushed out the confusion that had clouded my thoughts. I settled down in my bed, assured that my God had control over the things that were too lofty for me to understand.

            Many, many nights have passed since the yellow-flowered curtain incident.  But, occasionally, when I think of Heaven, I can see them in the corner of my mind. And as I look at them, I’m reminded of a young child’s questions of eternity and a loving father’s comfort.

            Now, when questions of my future flit around in my mind, it’s my Heavenly Father Who rushes to my side and settles my soul. I’m convinced that even my wild imagination (or Lauren’s) cannot stretch to include His plans for eternity. But I wouldn’t at all be surprised if somewhere in Heaven, there are yellow-flowered bedroom curtains.

            Oh, and Lauren, I agree with you. It would be nice if God puts your mansion inside of mine so that we can spend lots of time together.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com.

Beach Times

Right before sunset. It’s the favorite part of my beach day. Sunbathers, motionless during the heat of the day, have disappeared in search of nourishment, aloe lotion, or both. Children who tirelessly played in the waves have deserted the beach, likely gearing up with flashlights and buckets before returning to look for sand crabs. And then there’s our family.

            Through the years this has been our time for family photos (including snapshots of the little ones dressed as mermaids), challenging another family to a volleyball game, grilling and eating dinner outside, or walking swiftly in the pool until it becomes a whirlpool. My sister Kay and I brought two dozen people to join us on the Gulf coast this year, but last summer the number was almost double that. As I sat by the edge of the water last week, wishing for time to slow down, I thought of the people who have joined us in the past, and the unique layer each added to our beach memories. And then, like I do every year, I write my worries in the sand and wait until every letter is lapped up by the salty water which mixes easily with my tears.

            The beach is my preferred place of  prayer and I recently read something which helped me to understand why. “Go outside. Sometimes improving your connection with the living God is that simple: go outside and pray. The Kentucky farmer and writer Wendell Berry once commented, ‘The great visionary encounters (in the Bible) did not take place in temples but in sheep pastures, in the desert, in the wilderness, on mountains, on the shores of rivers and the sea… I don’t think it’s enough appreciated how much an outdoor book the Bible is… it is best read and understood outdoors.’”

            I’ve never regretted a trip to the beach. The sun, the fun, the food and even the day I’m forced to take time for pictures. But my most loved part of all are the sweet moments I spend praying at the coastline. Right before sunset.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

I Just Want Painless Compassion

So my knee started hurting. I blamed the bouillie cake I made. To be more specific, I blamed the two servings of bouillie cake I ate. One of the ‘interesting only to me’ effects of sugar is pain in my knee. My husband said that since the muscle (yeah, right) above it hurt, I likely twisted my knee. My daughter Elise’s diagnosis? “It’s just sympathy pain.”

“What?” I asked the child whose study of Counseling should have made her more understanding.

            “Mrs. Jackie just had her knee replaced. You went to visit her and now your knee hurts. Sympathy pain.” Yes, my friend had knee surgery. Yes, I went to visit her, but no, I am not so compassionate as to actually feel her pain.

            Whatever the cause, a little rest, ice, and Aleve worked to get me up and almost running, and Elise’s comment got me thinking. What if I did experience the same hurt, physical or emotional, as the people I care about? How differently would I act?

            On several occasions, the Bible lists the actions of Jesus after he was moved with compassion toward those in need. He healed, delivered, fed, and even brought a boy back from the dead when he saw the grief of his widowed mother. (Luke 7:12-15) But Jesus was able to do those things; what can we do? Maybe we could live by the Golden Rule and treat others the way we’d wish to be treated. Or take the advice of Mother Teresa, “If you can’t feed 100 people, feed just one.” And always pray.

            If there’s one thing I did while resting my knee, it was pray for Jackie’s. Every time it hurt to walk, I prayed for her to be free from pain and when the area above it hurt (yes, Elise, in the same exact place Jackie’s hurt) I prayed for her complete recovery and mobility.

            Even though I’m feeling much better, I still need to be more compassionate. To be moved to respond to others’ needs. To feel their hurt in my heart; but please not their pain in my knee.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com.

Who Likes Linen?

My daughter didn’t ask me to do her laundry. I was in her home only to watch my granddaughter Olivia for the day, but when I heard the dryer stop, I thought I’d fold the batch of clothes for Monique. Once in laundry room I found more clothes that needed to be washed and began the project. By the time Monique got home I was almost done. I’d tell you how many hangers my husband had to buy and bring to me so the clean clothes wouldn’t get wrinkled, but then I’d have to tell you how many more I should have asked for, and Monique may not appreciate me airing additional dirty/clean laundry information.

            It was really no trouble compared to the way my Memere did laundry. Her washer was an open tub with a wringer attached. Each item had to be hand fed through the wringer to squeeze out the excess water, loaded in a basket and carried outside to be hung on the clothesline. Yes, I’m that old and I only added that little memory to delay revealing my laundry mistake which I finally remembered to tell Monique.

            “I ruined Frank’s white linen shirt by accidentally washing it with dark clothes. It’s now the first stage of pink.”

            “That’s okay. I hate that shirt.”

            “How can you hate a white linen shirt? It’s classic.” I later asked if she hated seersucker too. She doesn’t. Only linen because it wrinkles. I  insisted she bring the shirt to me, with the other white clothes I didn’t have time to wash. My laundry expert and husband assured me he can restore the shirt to its original color, or lack thereof.

            I love linen. In addition to being cool and comfortable, it was God’s fabric of choice for the priests who ministered in the tabernacle. “When they enter the gates of the inner court, they are to wear linen clothes… they must not wear anything that makes them perspire.” Ezekiel 44:17-18.

In the inner courts, work gave way to worship; physical labor ceased as worship to the Lord began; relinquishment of self bowed in reverence of God. And on the occasions when I enter into that place of directed devotion, I find the peaceful revelation that my labors are fruitless unless they are His anointed plans.

Challenged by the often quoted phrase, “When man works, man works; when man prays, God works,” I seek increased times of worship, not to be relieved of actual labor for that has it’s time and place, but to simply honor God. Is it possible, even in the busiest of days, to set aside a time of prayer and worship? I think so. No sweat.

Happy Father's Day

It was many years after my childhood when I realized my father was way ahead of his time. He blazed a trail, going where few men had gone before… the kitchen. If we went to school hungry, it certainly wasn't his fault. In fact, it was very difficult to get out of the house without eating breakfast. Don't think he did as I would later do with my own children and point to the Pop-Tarts, or tell them to fix cereal in a plastic cup to eat on the way to school. No way. He insisted we sit down to eat the most important meal of the day. Bacon, eggs, grits, biscuits, fruit, and freshly squeezed orange juice were our breakfast staples.

            To give us a break from the cafeteria, he would occasionally bring us lunch at school. In addition to the hamburger, fries, and a Coke from Mac's Grill, the bag would also hold a York peppermint patty bought from Donaldson's Drug Store, conveniently located across the street from the bank where he worked. But the candy always smelled like Brut. I concluded that he would buy the candy, put it in his suit pocket where it absorbed the scent of the cologne, then pick up the hamburgers and deliver them to school. This helps to explain why I think of Brut and Dad and hamburgers and St. Peter School, when I see a York Peppermint patty. (Why I can remember all of this, yet walk into a parking lot without a clue as to the location of my car, remains a mystery.)

            I love celebrations, and am happy to celebrate Father's Day with him this month. I'd also like to wish a Happy Father's Day to the men whose lives I've observed, some from a distance, and some up close.

            Happy Father's Day…

            …to the fathers who work 40+ hours per week to house, feed, clothe, and educate their children. On top of that, they volunteer hours of their time at school, church, and in the community. May their diligent example echo for generations to come and urge many others into lives of service.

            …to the men who have jumped off of the corporate ladder, realizing the money they made was nothing compared to the moments they missed. May they experience the overflowing blessings of God for their commitment to their family.

            …to the dads who have the wisdom to draw boundary lines for their children and the courage to maintain those boundaries. Remember that the best guards are placed around the most valuable treasures. May they be strengthened in their God-ordained positions.

            …to the men who, for a season, or for a lifetime, have found room in their hearts and in their homes to care for someone else's child. May they reap bountifully from their giving.

            …to the fathers who are waiting for their prodigals to come home, or for those whose child has preceded them to our Heavenly home. May they find continual comfort from the Holy Spirit of our God.

            …to the dads who, at times, were called to also fulfill the role of Mom. This includes my own husband who spent nearly a year cleaning up after I suffered the effects of chemotherapy, taking care of our four young children, and keeping up with his job. He has never, ever, even in the midst of our most lively conversations, brought up all of the sacrifices he's made. May he one day see in himself what I see in him daily.

            …to the men who have been diligent to train their children in the ways of our Lord. May they find great joy in watching the seeds they've planted bear much fruit.

            These men may never see their names in lights or as the byline of a best-seller, but no earthly achievements would make me respect them more. They are men of integrity. They do the right thing just because it's the right thing to do, and I believe all of Heaven applauds them.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com