{Tuesday Tip: Be Sentimental}

I don't want to force you to be sentimental, but there's something whimsical about letting one's mind wander to the past to dwell there (with rose colored glasses, of course) for a moment or two.

On Mother's Day it seemed fitting to my sentimental self to use my grandmother's china for our brunch. Have I told you the story about how it came to be mine? Let me tell you. Several years ago, after both of my maternal grandparents had passed away, my mom and aunt were going through their home, sorting possessions and reminiscing. They came across a very carefully packed and labeled box (my Noni was a devoted labeler), and when they opened it, they were in for a surprise.

So was I, but I didn't know it until a few months later on my birthday. A large package was placed before me and with it a card with my grandmother's handwriting: "This set of dishes to be given to our first grandchild that gets married. Packed: Sept. 1977." I was two. And I ended up being the first one to marry.

It was overwhelming and extremely touching to picture her adding to the set, wondering who would end up using it. She never knew. I was only eight when she died. (Although I do like to think that she gets a glimpse every now and then of her great grandchildren eating Sunday scones on the pretty white plates and sipping tea from the dainty, silver-rimmed tea cups.)

Because it was Mother's Day, I couldn't stop with just one burst of sentiment. I had to include as many grandmothers as I could. So I whipped out another tea cup, this one given to me by my paternal grandmother -- my Nanee, whom I am blessed to see about once a year -- and placed it above my plate. Jamie's grandmother left us a set of crystal goblets that we included, adding a sparkling charm to our brunch. I was surrounded by a sweet, quiet heritage of maternal pride and elegance.

It was special to point these things out to my children, as I often do. To say, "Let's use the Noni china" or "How about the Grandma Fern glasses today?" To add a history to each piece, to keep the names special and familiar, even with those whom they never met.

We don't need fancy items -- or any items at all, really -- to be sentimental. We can bring up stories and memories as our children grow and "become." Even today, as Aidan took apart a fan to clean it (for fun, curiosity, and just because he likes to help) I said, "You remind me so much of your Papa when you help me like that, Aidan!" I was linking his actions to a hero, to a heritage that I want him to be proud of and one day pass on to his own children.

     

{Open Windows}

"Do you wanna hear me play?" She shouted out the open living room window at her friend across the street. Both girls knew it was bedtime. Maybe just a song or two? 

She sat at the piano, recital music scattered and worn. Her friend, an eager audience, sat in her own front room, window open, ready for the concert.

The familiar strains filled the house (loudly, to accommodate the distant listener). She's been practicing for months -- one of her favorite things to do. (I'm not kidding.) At times she breaks into "Let it Go," just for fun. (I'm guessing I'm not alone in this experience?) And many times she plays the one that really gets me: "I Surrender All." 

As she played the hymn for her friend, I thought of the words. All to Thee, my blessed Savior . . . . I watched my Little Miss play with feeling and the sweet, self-conscious proficiency that rises to the surface when there's an audience.

I thought of her friend, sitting at her open window, soaking in the melody, likely not familiar with the words. Perhaps not even familiar with the Savior.

And I thought of that house. The tumultuous years with sketchy neighbors. The house everyone avoided but kept a close eye on until the cops finally cleared them out. It sat vacant for months and months. We watched. We prayed. We wanted new neighbors. We wanted the right neighbors. 

Not perfect neighbors, but "right" in that we asked God to handpick the people who would eventually settle into our community. Maybe it would even be a family.

It was. The house was completely remodeled and filled with a family of five. The kids held their breaths. Maybe they're close to our ages? They are. And, thankfully, they appreciate piano recitals.

Little Miss finished her songs and the windows closed with farewells for the night.

This morning, as I sat in the front room with the sun's rays and a cool breeze spilling through the open window, I heard a little voice. "Hello? Hello?" I looked up from my tea and Bible and peered out the window. I didn't see anyone. The voice came again. "Hello? Hello!!!" And then a little flash of color as the four-year-old sister popped into view at her open front window. She popped away again before I could wave, but she was there again tonight. I waved and smiled. She shyly waved back -- her tiny head barely visible above the sill -- and the curtains fell.

I pray that the windows stay open. I pray that the friendships continue to blossom. And I pray, as our yard fills almost daily with at least half a dozen neighborhood children, that our family will live a chorus of beautiful surrender. 

All to Thee, my blessed Savior. I surrender all.

  

{On Her Knees}

She knelt before me last night, deftly folding the hem with pins in her mouth. (It's next to impossible for me to find jeans that are the right size.) As I stood before the mirror and tested the length, we were both pretty quick to notice. We've done this before.

How many times have we done this over the course of my life? How many times did I stand on the kitchen table in a gingham dress while she measured and pinned that final hem as I slowly twirled on my sticky, bare feet? How many times did we stand before the mirror in her bedroom as she pinned and tucked and gathered and pressed my prom dress? My wedding gown?

How many times did my mother kneel for me?

My mother has spent hours on her knees. Tending and washing, mending and playing. She knelt when my sister and I invited her to play Barbies with us. She scooped that Barbie up, dressed her magnificently, and made her walk just like a real person and we were in awe.

She knelt when the three of us had the flu, when we had chicken pox, when we had lice. She knelt with us as we leaned weakly over the "sick bucket" and she knelt as she scrubbed our hair and bandaged our knees and gave our Cabbage Patch dolls eyebrow-penciled "chicken pox" on their own chubby faces so we could be matching.

She knelt when we asked her to trace our bodies on the sidewalk with chalk and when we played hopscotch in the dirt while camping.

But her knees never seemed to get tired. Never worn.

I suppose God gives mothers something magical in their knees. Something that allows them to bend and tend without breaking because that's where He needs them to be.

He needs them to be on their knees. And as mothers continue to grow and tend and learn and seek, they realize that that's right where they need to be. Where they want to be.

And so mothers kneel. Sometimes with a desperate, heavy weight because there's nowhere else to go, sometimes of their own accord because they just know. Sometimes in grief and sorrow, sometimes in humble worship and adoration.

I turned in front of the mirror and nodded. Yes. The hem was just right. Just where it needed to be.

We packed up the kids after a day filled with Mother's Day adventures and said goodbye. And I knew that my week, too, would be filled with opportunities to be on my knees, just like my mom.

{Waging War}

I set my foot on the path and stepped into the sunlight, hoping an afternoon walk would clear my mind of the busyness and emotional stress it had been under for days. Normal days, but the weight has a way of pressing down at times -- decisions, questions, doubts, delays. 

Breathing deeply, my pace was slow at first. My senses had become numb, so I asked the Lord to awaken my spirit.

Lord, show me beauty.

As soon as I looked up, a host of purple irises danced before my eyes, their bold faces reaching confidently toward the sun. I moved on, and again my eye caught the purple -- this time a merry bed of bluebells. My pace quickened as I continued to see the purple splashed throughout the neighborhood. The lilacs, the periwinkle, the rhododendrons and over and over again, the irises.

I wondered over the significance of the purple. Ah, yes. Royalty. And then the reminder from my King, "I am King over all. Over your schedule, over your emotions, over your fears and doubts and questions, over everything within your control and over everything beyond your grasp. I am King."

Allowing my mind to develop the story, I was swept from the pavement into another world. At first my King was seated majestically on His throne and I found joy in being the demure, pampered princess, robed in beauty. But no sooner was I delighting in my palatial home than I was swept onto an intense battlefield, my ivory, floor-length gown sullied and torn, hair streaming in the wind, eyes frantic. I held a weapon in my hands -- a stone-encrusted sword -- and the enemy advanced from all sides. But that sword! It was too heavy. The tip of it dragged across the battlefield as I desperately clutched the hilt, begging for strength to lift my weapon and fight.

Almost immediately, my King was at my side. This time, King Jesus was not seated on His throne but astride a powerful white horse, His own gown dipped in blood. The epitome of awesome rage, fury and glory, He swept me up in one strong, jealous grasp. I dropped my sword and clung to His chest as His horse reared. He didn't require a sword. The enemy was already silenced in defeat at the sound of His Name.

We were still on the battlefield. But I was at peace.

My feet touched the pavement once more, and I turned toward home as yet another chorus of purple irises greeted me, triumphant and victorious.

{Happy May Day!}

I was swept back to my childhood once again as my little elves busily created and stuffed their May Day baskets this morning.

Once the baskets were assembled, the elves ran stealthily from door step to door step, giggling and whispering, knocking and running.

They were greeted with waves and hugs, some of them from the very same neighbors who waved and hugged my sister and me as we made very similar deliveries, once upon a time.

If you don't live in our neighborhood, we leave this virtual basket on your virtual doorstep (complete with a giggle and a hug), wishing you a very Happy May Day!