We just arrived home from one unforgettable weekend in Seattle. Carson and Taryn are married – but all the plans were changed because of windstorms which took out the power. Tomorrow I’ll post the story….and maybe some pictures. Thanks for your thoughts and prayers. God is good.
One of the fun parts of a wedding is that it provides an intersection for many disparate relationships. There are not many times in one’s life when so many different avenues gather and meet at one event. It is the locus of relationships familial and friendly, local and long-distant, old and not so old. And this is true transgenerationally.
It would be fun if there were more time to introduce strangers who have much in common. Just a few:
• the pastor with my older brother who have both taught Logic classes at Classical Christian schools
• my niece who has spent time in Zambia with my friend who grew up in Zimbabwe
• my nephew starting fire school with my friend who is an experienced Hot Shot
• a dear friend who walked through the deep waters of cancer & my siblings who faithfully prayed for her
I want the people I love to meet the other people I love.
After sorrow has settled into your soul, it loops off for a while until it reconnects itself for reasons both random and predictable. Predictably, there are times when the calendar is not a friend. Significant days are given over to grieving until, one year, you find yourself sighing instead of crying.
Random outbursts of grief can accompany a smell, a song, a smile, a photo, a familiar gesture, or some momento that revives a dormant memory. The most perplexing experience is when sorrows, like sea-billows, roll right over you for no reason at all.
I have learned that grief relative to my mom’s death touches down during major life transitions. (She died almost 40 years ago when I was 10.) The life transition taking place is the impending marriage of my second son. Recently I awoke in tears, disoriented and disheveled. I lay in bed and wondered why I felt so sad. The reason was simple: I missed my mom.
I yearn for one moment with my mom on the glorious day of my son’s wedding. I long to stand shoulder to shoulder with her, my arm linked with hers, our hands clasped together, as we watch “our boy” make his marriage vows.
In that sense, my mom had a part in raising this child of mine, this son whom I thought of as my “sandpaper” child. Of course, I was his “sandpaper” mom. Friction racked up frequent flyer miles in the flights of words that traveled between us. At one point it took faith to look forward to a future relationship between us which would be characterized by friendship.
At some undefined period, four or five years ago, the Spirit of God leaned down and blew off the grit, the grime, the crumbs — all the residue from years of sandpaper rubbing. He licked His finger, as it were, and polished the surfaces. He gave us repentance, for we both needed it. To our surprise there was a smoothness of affection, an ease between us, a fellowship that grew as he became more independent.
On Carson’s wedding day we will rejoice in the love between husband and wife; we will give thanks to the Giver of all good gifts; we will praise God for a son and a (new) daughter who both love the Lord. At some point I will whisper a personal prayer of thanksgiving for this son of mine, for the reconciliation between us, for the growing love and friendship we share.
My new daughter-in-law has thought of a wonderful way to give thanks for the heritage they have received. She is setting up a table at the reception with six framed photos: pictures of the parents of the bride and groom on their wedding day, and wedding photos of all four sets of grandparents. In an age of rugged individuality, it is refreshing to see the respect and honor given to parents and grandparents.
The Apostle’s Creed says: I believe in the resurrection of the body; and the life everlasting.
I do believe there will be a day, one fine day, when my mom, my son and I will embrace, squeeze each other and throw our heads back and laugh the kind of laughter that begins down deep and emerges in a glorious melody. Sorrow won’t exist, even as a distant memory. We will beckon others to join us: the beautiful grandma my son has grown up with, the wife of his youth, my husband, the grandfather I never knew, my son’s grandchildren, and their children’s children. Together we will dance and sing and celebrate the greatness of God.
Janie asked me to write a post about this Latin teacher whom I refer to so often. I solicited essays from two friends who also studied Latin. Bonnie at Btolly and Brenda at Tanabu Girl are writing today about our beloved Mr. F. (We always called him Mister even though he was a Ph.D.) Together we have a trifecta tribute!
When we decided to learn Latin, we were desperate for help. After a year of groping on our own towards one handhold of understanding I started praying and making phone calls. I randomly asked people over 50 if they knew Latin. “Well, not really; I took it in high school but don’t remember a thing,” was the general response. One phone call followed another as we tracked the scent of a Latin teacher.
Eventually I was led to a professor at our local university and she was intrigued with the idea, but didn’t imagine where she would find time. The next words out of her mouth changed our lives. “You need to call Dr. F. He is a retired classics professor who recently moved here with his wife.” As luck would have it (heh heh) my husband had been contracted to do some work in their home. My husband told me to wait in calling Dr. F. until he’d done a little background check of his own. He came home one day and exclaimed, “Do you know how many languages this guy knows? And he knows Biblical Greek!” But more than anything, he was impressed with Mr. F’s attitude. He was not pompous, arrogant, or weird – quite the opposite.
There are moments in your life that are indelibly imprinted on your brain. I remember odd details about making the “cold call” to Dr. F. For privacy and peace I was in our garage shivering and staring out the window of the garage door and contemplating the spider webs above the header. After he answered the phone I explained who I was and that I represented a group of about 25, mostly kids and some parents, who would like to learn Latin; would he be willing to teach us? His first response was, “Do you know what you are getting yourself into? It’s not quite the same as learning Spanish.” To which I rejoined that we would be willing to give it a try if he would be willing to take us on.
So began six years of the best teaching I have ever received. We met one night a week for two hours so our progress was necessarily slow. I think we went back to the beginning of Wheelock’s four or five times to shore up our faulty foundation. Here was a man who had taught the best and brightest grad students, a shining star in the world of classics, drilling young teens on the rudiments of Latin patiently, carefully, without a hint of condescension. I showed him my nephew’s Latin book; as he looked at the author’s name on the title page he exclaimed, “Oh my, yes! I had this fellow for a student.”
So we learned Latin. We learned the idiom (at times he corrected the Wheelock answer to make it more idiomatically correct); we learned grammar; we declined nouns and conjugated verbs. He told us that we were taught femina because it’s a first declension noun; however, mulier is the more common word in Latin for woman. Beyond that we learned the stories behind the sentences which we translated. Ah, the stories! Mr. F has an encyclopedic memory and could connect words and sentences to stories from classical antiquity, medieval lore, literary episodes and current events. My boys soaked up the story of the battle of Marathon as told by the beloved Mr. F. Wheelock’s Latin was just a springboard for teaching. His examples to illustrate a concept came from the wide world of his reading and study. I’ll never, no never, forget when he showed us the ethical dative and quoted Jane Austen using it. Who knew you could find the ethical dative in Jane Austen?
The Latin class became a culture class: we listened to Carmina Burana and other pieces of classical music. He would bring a painting out and give us a lesson in art appreciation as he explained elements of the art. He read us poems, excerpts from literature, a column from the Wall Street Journal. We read through some Latin psalms, early church hymns, Latin poems. A Homerian scholar, he quoted us Dido’s story in the Greek and explained it to us. He showed us humor in unexpected places. Mr. F. was several times a guest lecturer in my co-op literature classes.
The F’s love to name inanimate objects. Their car was Abishag: a comfort in their old age. They lived on a lovely piece of land and enjoyed cultivating and husbanding the property. Mentally they divided it into the twelve tribes of Israel; Mr. F would tell his wife, “I’ll be working on Asher this morning.” I can’t remember half of the great names they had but they were clever and fun. Soon he will retire a second time and they will move back east. The house they have purchased is grander than any they have previously lived in. Their name for it? Pemberly!
At some point the class shifted from Mr. F’s house to our house. Magister Dilectus and his wife joined us for dinner before class began. Although we came from different perspectives theologically and perhaps philosophically, we enjoyed sweet times of communion around our table. We now regard each other as life-long friends. When I wish to give myself a special treat, a phone call visit with these dear friends is the thing.
One of our first students went on to a well-respected liberal arts college (and is now a medical doctor). When one of his professors asked Eric how he came to know Latin as a home schooler he mentioned Mr. F’s name. His professor’s eyes bugged out and he said, “How did you get time with him?” Eric replied that Mr. F. had retired and lived in his home town. Thus began guest lectures at this college and eventually an invitation to return to teaching. And our beloved Latin teacher and his equally beloved wife (a scholar in her own right) moved away to a new stage in their lives.
By the end of our class we were down to three students; we had completed 36 of the 40 chapters of Wheelock’s. But we learned a wealth of information, and had been infected with a desire to learn, to ask questions, to seek wisdom, to love truth, beauty and goodness.
I may or may not pursue further formal studies when my stint as MagistraMater (teacher/mom) is completed. This one thing I know with knowledge deep in my bones: my Latin class with Mr. F. will be my Golden Age of learning. Multiple times daily I look at a word and see the Latin behind it. I feel like I’ve been given a secret code or a special set of glasses that makes the bright colors pop out. My world has been expanded far beyond my expectations.
How does one express her gratitude for such a gift?
Beloved Teacher,
Nothing is better than a life of greatest diligence.
Charles Curran, Songs of Childhood
My beloved Latin teacher introduced me to Charles Curran several years ago. I can relate to the little girl leaning on the piano. She’s getting a happy earful, don’t you think? Likewise, I used to drape myself over the side of an upright piano and listen to my piano mentor, Audrey St. Marie. Whenever she played and I was in the room I just had to be as close to the piano as possible. But I had to be able to see her hands on the keys.
Songs are as potent as smells in evoking childhood memories. There have been times when my sister was visiting and we broke into a camp song we hadn’t sung in twenty years much to my husband’s astonishment. At my in-law’s 50th anniversary party, just for fun, my husband and his sister sang “Haggalina Baggalina,” a song they sang repeatedly as children on cross-country car trips.
What songs do you remember from your childhood?
I try not to overdo the grandma thing: I have not yet approached a stranger and offered to show family pictures. [thought strikes me] But that’s what I’m doing now isn’t it? Horrors! I’ve become the woman people hide from!
This is my oldest son with his son. They are some of the greatest delights of my life. Dependability and responsibility have been hallmarks of this young man’s life. I snuck a peek during prayer group this week and I saw him holding his beloved son on his lap and demonstrating folded hands and a quiet posture. The toddler mimicked his daddy. No greater joy, folks, no greater joy.
The young girl sat up in her bed, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, threw her hair off her face in one easy motion, and scrambled out of bed. It was early Saturday morning. The house was hushed and still. With the stealth of a burglar she tiptoed down the hallway and carefully descended the creaky stairs.
After some major disruptions in the household, the ten-year old clung to the solid comfort of this familiar routine. She turned on the stereo, adjusted the tuner, and turned the volume at the lowest possible setting. Grabbing some pillows off the sofa, she plopped on the floor inches from the speaker, flat on her stomach, her elbows in the pillows and her hands cupped under her chin.
The next two hours brought radio programs for children. Thirsty for story, she drank in the drama while the rest of the house slept. Midway through the last program the jangle of the telephone ringing pierced the quiet. Like quicksilver she jumped up and grabbed the receiver before the phone rang again.
“Hello,” her high childish voice could barely be heard.
“Hi! Is your mommy there?” the other voice trilled.
“Mmm…no,” she whispered tentatively.
“Would you leave her a message, please?”
“’kay…,” her voice wavered.
“The chair she had reupholstered is finished and is ready to be picked up at the shop.”
“Thanks. Good-bye.”
She replaced the receiver and returned to her position on the floor.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The liturgy of the next Saturday was the same as the first. The family slept while the young girl listened to Aunt Bee, Ranger Bill, and Sailor Sam. She took every precaution to listen to her radio without waking them. Once again, the loud ring of the telephone shattered the solitude. Once again, she darted to the dining room side table and grabbed the phone before the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Hello! I’d like to speak to Nellie Harper!”
The girl paused; she finally said, “She’s not here.”
“Well, listen hon, this is the upholstery shop calling, and I called last week and left a message. I told her when she brought it in that it would be ready in two weeks, and this chair has been in the shop for a month now, and I really need your mom to pick up this chair. Would you puh-lease let her know?” Her voice was a mixture of cloying sweetness and ill-concealed irritation.
“Hmmm.” came out in hushed tones.
“Thanks, hon, I really appreciate it. You have a good day, now.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A week went by. The light was lasting longer, birds were chirping in the trees, and school was winding down. Summer had almost arrived, though the markers of seasonal change were little noted in that house. Once again, the young girl woke up early Saturday morning, worked her way around the squeaky steps and kept her rendezvous with the radio.
She wasn’t surprised when the phone rang; she answered it as she had done before.
“Hello,” spoken softly, so softly.
“Hi!” spoken in the tone of one eager to check off items on her list.
They both recognized the other’s voice; they both had the script memorized.
“Honey, look, is your mommy home this morning?” came the coaxing plea.
“No.” The single syllable dangled in space with nothing to support it.
Exasperated, the woman on the other end of the line raised her voice.
“Well, where is she? I’ve called, I’ve left messages, and still Nellie has not picked up her chair.”
She clipped each word shorter than a buzz cut.
The moment of truth could be delayed no longer. The words that were stuck in the child’s throat, words that could not be spoken the previous Saturdays, words that were impossible to say, even today, were forcefully dislodged.
“Ummm………she………well……..ummmm. She died.”
“Ohmygosh, she died? She died? Your mommy died? What happened? Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Was she in an accident? She died? I had no idea. Oh, honey, I’m so very, very sorry. Oh dear. I–am–so–sorry.”
“No…..she…….just……died.”
The silence was more uncomfortable for the girl than for the woman. She sensed the shock, the awkward drop, the conversational vertigo of the voice on the other end. The ten-year old knew she would have to bridge the gap and end this call. The girl found her voice.
“It’s all right. You didn’t know. It’s okay. No one told you. I’ll tell my daddy about the chair when he wakes up, okay? He’ll come to your shop and get the chair. It’s okay. You didn’t know… Good-bye.”
She walked back to the stereo, turned the radio off, sat down on the floor and sobbed.
It’s my brotha’s birthday! My youngest brother, Dan, the opera singer. He introduced me to the concept of blogging, although he doesn’t have one of his own. “Lurker extraordinaire” is what he calls himself. He installed Firefox on my computer and showed me how to open many blogs in tabs. Most of what I know about computers I learned from him .
We two were the caboose of a large family. We didn’t always get along, but those days of adolescent bickering are almost impossible to remember now. It seems that we’ve always shared friends, more so today than ever. He gave me one of my best friends when he married the beautiful Valeri. We spend at least one week together every year: a festival of feasting, cooking, reading, talking, listening and sharing.
How he got to be an opera singer is story for another day. He sings the big arias and requiems with gusto; when he approaches the end of the Lord’s Prayer the goosebumps break out; but when he sings Children of the Heavenly Father a capella I can only close my eyes and weep.
But I have this against my brother: he reads my blog every day but he will. not. comment. I know, Xanga is a pain in the patooie. However, if Martin Luther could post 95 theses on the Wittenburg Door dontcha think my brother could post one comment on this blog? Would you join my campaign to convince Dan to comment?
First, he needs a Xanga name. Any suggestions out there? GodLovesTenors? You all can do better than that, no? Pictures aren’t necessary, but here are some possibilities. Which one would you pick?
Happy Birthday, dear Danny. I love you more than the crisp clear air in the blue, blue sky today.
You have to imagine me dancing; it’s hard to catch on camera. I won these socks on my birthday the day after Donna’s birthday. She picked a name from her comments section that day. I’ve been gone and came home
to this lovely package. Thank you, Donna! Femina bona es.
The colors down at the farm in PA have been spectacular. Spec. Ta. Cu. Lar. A camera lens can never quite capture what the eye sees. Every conversation in the car was interrupted by the words, “Look at *that* tree!”
Tonight is my last night of a lovely lingering; by Wednesday I’ll be back to the books, back to teaching my son and back to real life in Oregon. This has been an incredible time with my oldest brother’s family. I feel like now I know my neices. In truth, now I know my brother and SIL! My husband and son were deer hunting while I was gone. They were both successful and we have organic, range-fed meat in our freezer (*wink* to our earth muffin friends).
Enjoy the pictures, my friend. Enjoy your family. Pick up the phone and make a call. You’ll be glad you did.
A Living Pencil 