One of the bejeweled
moments of my son’s wedding: standing arm-in-arm with Debbie, Taryn’s mom,
watching our son and daughter dance their first dance as man and wife. Eyes shining, Debbie leaned over and said, “You
know what this means, don’t you? We’re
family now.” I wish there was a less
clunky way to describe our relationship than “my daughter-in-law’s mom” or “my
son’s mother-in-law”. She is family by
extension.
Family by extension works
in many wonderful directions.
My bro and SIL,
Dan and Val, are bringing a dear friend with them for their annual Oregon migration this
Saturday. Rachel, a sprightly senior
citizen, and Dan and Val are family to each other, celebrating birthdays, showing
mutual care. So, by extension, Rachel is
our family too. We are delighted for the opportunity to know Rachel and
to be known by her.
My Aunt Betty, who lives in South Africa, has informally
adopted a son, Jean-Blaise. They care
deeply for each other; she calls him Son
and he calls her Mother. Aunt Betty
emailed me pictures, which I forwarded to my siblings with the subject line, We have a Congolese cousin.
There are copious examples of families who have claimed a person or group as their
own. I’m sure you have people who are
family to you. We often give the title
Uncle and Aunt to people who share love, if not blood, with us or with our
children.
The root of the word extend is
the Latin word tendere, to stretch. A pregnant woman is a living demonstration of the stretching
that takes place to make room for a new member of the family. It is not difficult to open the family circle
and re-link hands in an expanded circle.
We did it every day we played dodge ball on the playgrounds of our
youth. Other cultures excel at family by
extension; if we were wise, we would learn from them.
God sets the solitary in families. Psalm 68:6
He makes His families like a flock. Psalm 107:41
Those friends thou hast, and their
adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of
steel.
Hamlet, William Shakespeare
Treat your friends like family
and your family like friends.
Cotton Mather
Last Valentines Day I wrote about Guys Holding Babies. My idea was to honor the memory of my father who died on this day in 1987 and honor my husband and sons because they are guys I love.
Does it surprise you to know that poetry used to be clearly in the center of masculine interests? Think of the epic poems and their authors: Homer, Virgil, Milton, some anonymous guys, and G.K. Chesterton. We’ve been reading through the The Top 500 Poems
My father loved poetry. My father loved words. He had a phenomenal mind; he could both recognize the bits of poetry and poetical references that blow past most of us and recite entire poems. Occasionally he would corner one of us kids with an imperious “Listen to this” and read a poem which took his fancy. I wish now that I had paid more: more time, more attention, more interest, more respect. Who were his favorite poets? I’m not sure, but I’d guess William Cowper, John Oxenham, Joe Bailey and Luci Shaw. Often a stoic in demeanor, the reading of a poem or article could break down my father’s reserve. I can still hear his voice choked while reading from Joe Bailey’s A View from a Hearst.
The poetry of my husband’s childhood was the poetry of motion: dodging tackles, arcing basketballs, change up pitches. However, he grew up with a rich liturgy and had weekly infusions of the Nicene Creed, the Lord’s Prayer and Luther’s hymns. He brings raw honesty to poetry. He will readily say, “I don’t get it.” But he will also show the impact of poems he does get. Curt was inspired by George Grant’s recitation of Alfred’s War Song and can still recite it years after he committed it to memory.
Real guys know the power of poetry.
Real guys love words.
Really great guys keep learning.
I’m thankful for the real guys in my life.
Your Grammy and I were sitting in the background, your Daddy holding Mama’s hand and your beloved ZhaZha (Aunt Jackie) holding her other hand. The hospital was short-staffed; they only had time to swaddle you and set you in the warm bassinet. The doctor and nurse needed to help your Mama. The doctor barked, “The baby needs a nurse!” to the unresponsive air. I walked over and stood next to you, watched your little pulse.
Happy Birthday Three Year Old!
Happy Birthday Curt, the great man who began as this young boy.
I want to honor my in-laws as we celebrate another year of Curt’s life. They played a huge role in shaping and forming him. Curt wrote the words better than I could, so I will share them with you. Here is an excerpt of a note he wrote them in 2006.
I am not sure how old I was, but I guess I was five or so
when bedtime prayers took a twist, and a new activity was initiated. Before ‘Now I lay me down to sleep…’ and
blessings were petitioned for every creature I could think of; I was now
required to learn to recite the Ten Commandments.
This seemed like a good idea. Since God was God, I accepted the argument
that we ought to know how He wanted us to live.
Call me weird, but no one has ever been able to convince me otherwise. There
I was, lying in bed, repeating every word my father or mother said first. I finally, bit by bit, one command after
another, nailed all ten!
I never forgot the gist of the thing. I found out later I had learned a shortened
version, but the basic list would go with me wherever I went. I knew what God did not want me to do, and I
knew as a result what He did want me to do.
The basic list did not include the inherent blessings and
curses attached to the commandments, but my parents had not neglected
them. Their commentary and explanation
impressed upon me the seriousness of disobeying God. I remember telling my mother how Bobby Martin
would show off by folding his eyelids back and displaying a hideous face. She warned me that God had the power to make
Bobby’s eyes stay that way! Whoa! This was my first exposure to the doctrine of
heart hardening, and I have since endeavored to steer clear. Along the way I have broken every one of
God’s holy commandments. But I have not
done so without shame, guilt, and a condemning conscience. Praise God for sorrow that leads to
repentance!
The Law of God continues to grow on me, and in me, thanks to
faithful parents who night after night drummed
it into my spongy brain. My hope is that
my children and my children’s children will love God’s Law with an even greater
fervency. What began for me in the top
bunk of the front bedroom at 10111 Washington
each night before I went to sleep — may it continue throughout all generations.
Happy Birthday Curt! I ought to thank God every day for you. I don’t, but I ought to. I do thank God for you often. You have been one of God’s best gifts to me.
Winter’s Storm on the Avenue, by Guy Carleton Wiggins
Askart.com
Happy Friday.
I used to think that if I were unencumbered by family ties (don’t mistake me: I love the cumbers), I would go to the pediatric ward of a large hospital and hold babies that needed to be held. I pictured myself in a rocking chair, hair in a bun, humming and rocking, humming and rocking. I would sing hymns, I’d make up songs about their names, I’d tell these little ones about the God who made them, and gaze into the deep pools of their eyes. Of course, the babies would never scream; gurgling and cooing would be the only sounds they would make. In my dreams.
Another dream is shoving its way to the head of the line.
That dream is having reluctant readers over to my house and reading great books aloud together.
After some modern, easy-to-read books, I assigned The Diary of Anne Frank to my reluctant reader-niece. She plowed (I so want to spell it ploughed like the English) through it because I dangled the carrot of watching The Freedom Writers in front of her. I chose Willa Cather’s My Antonia for the next assignment. Here was a book which combined her heritage from both sides of her family: one set of grandparents who grew up on the farm in the Midwest and the other set of grandparents who grew up in Eastern Europe and immigrated to America sixty years ago. She even has an Aunt Yulka, the name of the younger sister in the book. Nonetheless, she could not get into it and read it with eyes which forgot the top of the page before the bottom of the page is finished.
This morning we fixed large mugs of tea; sat down and read chapters aloud to each other, alternating paragraphs. We stopped to discuss (or pronounce) new words, clues, foreshadowing, and cultural checkpoints. Antonia wore cotton dresses in the winter. “What kind of dresses would normal people in Nebraska wear in the winter?” The Shimerda family lived in a dugout house. “Why were wooden framed houses rare?”
As we progressed I heard her read with more expression. Comprehension began to drip off the ends of her words like honey that refuses to be confined to the piece of toast. We got caught up in the story and began to anticipate events.
Reading aloud together is not efficient; reading aloud together could never be termed convenient. But it fits in with my stubborn insistence on slowing down at this time of year when we get sucked into hyperactivity. We were warm, comfortable, engaged…together. Reading together is a simple way to share the experience of being changed that comes from the powerful writing of a potent story.
When I look back on our homeschool journey, my favorite memories are the times we shared after lunch with a book in my hand and a glass of water handy. Those extra chapters read because none of us could bear to stop.
The magic that took place when signs and symbols on a page were spoken into the air. The exhilaration of being swept away, captured by a story, handcuffed to characters about whom we came to care deeply.
Sandy’s daughter, Cassie’s essay articulates the joys of a reading life. Reading: A Common Bond
I’m in Seattle, where we are visiting our newly married kids.
My daughter-in-law’s father occupies the same place in his family as I do in mine: he is the youngest of seven children. His siblings have an unusual way of staying connected: Friday nights are “family dinner.”
They meet at a food court in a mall, push tables together, and enjoy a meal together. Each person gets a plate of food, and the visiting begins. They have been doing this for decades, the group expanding and contracting with children (and snowbirds) added or absent.
We arrived in time to join the family dinner on Friday. Now I’ve been to a few food courts in malls and presupposed the typical choices – Cinnabon, A & W, Orange Julius, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, some noodle place, and McDonalds.
Hah!
Double Hah!
This is Seattle my friend and this food mall reflected the incredible richness of city cuisine. Korean, Japanese, Russian, Italian, Thai, Indian, Mexican, American BBQ, sushi — one could debate with oneself for hours. My husband ended up a large bowl of Korean noodles, and I chose a cabbage roll from the a Russian place called Pierosky (?). Not one hamburger could be seen!
It was better than an airport for people watching. Our small community at home is pretty “white bread”; we have to travel to mingle with so many different nationalities.
It was great getting to know the extended family. I loved seeing my son so comfortably integrated into this group of people.
Whenever I meet grown friends from large families I usually quiz them on how they stay in touch with their siblings. The challenge seems more difficult when both parents have passed. There are pros and cons to a formalized system of newsletters. One person organizes it and heckles the others into participating.
Fits and starts would best describe my own method of phone calls and emails. I reckon it a good season if I’ve touched base with each of my brothers and sisters. Most of them are better than me at picking up the phone. Thank God for sisters-in-law!! And we have a Lone Ranger who rarely initiates communication of any kind.
Any ideas out there? How often do you connect with your siblings?
For all the saints, who from their labors rest,
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy Name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!
O blest communion, fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
All are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
Alleluia, Alleluia!
And the Lord make you to increase and abound
in love toward another,
and toward all men,
even as we do toward you:
to the end he may establish your hearts
unblameable in holiness before God,
even our Father,
at the coming of the Lord Jesus Christ
with all his saints.
I Thessalonians 3:12-13
I love to sing Great is Thy Faithfulness because it was my mom’s favorite hymn and her memory is wrapped in between every syllable when I sing or play it. I love the rousing A Mighty Fortress Is Our God because it is solid truth; but it also brings to mind Martin Luther.
It is thrilling to walk where (fill in the blank) walked. I think history grabbed my young heart when I realized that these people really lived! All are one in Thee, for all are Thine. We. Are. Connected. There are so many saints who went before us; the page about their lives is blank. But we know The Book they read. And we know some of what they sang.
These fragments of their lives are precious remnants. Sometimes I work on memorizing a hymn or psalm while I wash dishes by hand. I think of the women who did the same tasks five hundred years ago, and perhaps sung the same songs. And I wonder…was Tallis as difficult to sing when Tallis himself was teaching them? Did they have to struggle with the melody before the beauty broke through? Did Goudimel hear the textures I hear when we sing his harmonization of the psalms?
We are tempted to squander our heritage. We search with diligence for the Next New Thing, dismiss the past, and discard it with nary a thought.
I’m getting a second chance tomorrow to recapture some of my own heritage. My husband, son and I are having lunch with my uncle and aunt (my mom’s brother and his wife). I’ve already told them I want to know more about my Dutch Grandma. She was born in Holland and emigrated to America. She was always more interested in being helpful than being the center of attention. Her daughter-in-law responded with warmth and enthusiasm. “I can’t wait to tell you all about my wonderful mother-in-law and all that she taught me.”
Happy All Saints Day.
A Living Pencil 