Wisdom Over Youth

Humorous, inspirational take on growing up and growing older

General Blog

My Father’s Final Gift

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I have a picture of me standing next to my father in his baccalaureate robes from the local University. I am the 5th child of what will eventually number eight. He had completed a bachelor’s degree in business as the law degree he wanted became impractical with a family to support. I am five years old. We are holding hands.

I held that hand for many years. As a child, I rode the city bus downtown, getting off at 4th South and State Street and hiking to the Capitol building for lunch on the lawn with my father. He would take my hand as we chose the perfect spot in the shade of an elm tree for a picnic of meatloaf sandwiches, deviled eggs and homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Afterwards, he would fold up the paper lunch sack to be used again, I would give him a hug, taking in the smell of his clean dress shirt, and hike back downtown to catch the bus going home.

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Mother’s Day Mud Pots

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I spent 13 years riding the infertility merry-go-round. I can spin tales all day about the crazy up and down cycles. And after adopting our three daughters, I can tell motherhood stories with the best. But what I can’t talk about, is the actual pregnancy and birth process. My experience is limited to interactions with pregnant women and a terrifying black and white health-class film half a century ago, where the screams of the woman giving birth still haunt my dreams.

Recently, my daughters have married and are having babies of their own. Hitchhiking on their journey, I immersed myself in the online community of tracking the life growing inside, a virtually inexhaustible supply of birth stories and the aggressive marketing of everything for baby.

Covid-19 protocols scuttled the first invitation to witness a birth, but actually worked in our favor for the second. Two and only two people could be in the room. My son-in-law and I settled in, both equally inexperienced.

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‘Twas the Day After Christmas

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‘Twas the day after Christmas and all through the rooms,

not a sound could be heard even though it was noon.

The stockings lay empty ‘mid ribbons and tags,

torn wrappings and packaging, boxes and bags.

Deep snores rose from Dad fully dressed on the couch,

while scattered about him were tools from his pouch.

When Mama arose she took one look around

and crawled back in bed without making a sound.

The manger scene tipped as the dog tried to lick

the stray crumbs from cookies left out for St. Nick.

I righted the stable, the shepherd and sheep,

the Mary and Joseph and babe still asleep.

Again the three Wise Men could place by His side,

their gifts for the infant King long prophesied.

Could I give a gift? Something special from me?

I studied my jumble of gifts by the tree.

Would He like to try out my skateboard or sled?

My soft, fuzzy blanket would soften His bed.

And then, from above, there arose such a sound!

Forgetting the gifts, up the stairs I did bound.

Louisa had wakened. Oh my! What a stink!

I tore off her diaper and quick as a wink,

I put on a clean one, now sister smells great.

But wouldn’t you know, a new problem awaits.

It’s past time to eat, sister’s starting to fret,

and joining the ruckus are two hungry pets.

I rummaged through cupboards for something to eat,

and gathered up holiday left-over treats.

I plopped sister down on her favorite quilt,

and gave her a bottle of cold chocolate milk.

The dog wolfed the roast beef with horseradish sauce,

while the cat slurped the eggnog poured over the squash.

I picked up torn papers and boxes galore,

replaced all the tools, and then vacuumed the floor.

When Mom and Dad wakened, they looked at the sight.

Then wrapping their arms ‘round me said with delight…

“Of all of the gifts we received who could guess,

the gift that you gave from your heart was the best!”

And ruffling my hair Mom repeated this truth,

“By serving each other, we’re serving Him too.”

Without even knowing, my gift was just right,

to give to the Savior that first Christmas night.

Before

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A Letter to my Newborn Granddaughter

Before scraped knees, pinched fingers or a hard fall.

Before you compare yourself to what the world says is ideal — and feel discouraged, weak or ugly.

Before another child has taken your toy or pushed you out of line, called you names or shamed you for your clothes, your shape, your size or the color of your skin.

Before the economics of where you were born, your opportunities or the stability of your childhood give you wings or hobbles.

Before you  learn to spell unprecedented, divisive or pandemic.

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Look Mom, Bare Hands

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It is official.

I have turned into my mother.

Not because  I often repeat her mantra, “we are so blessed”. Or because I nap on the couch after a hard day’s work as she did. It isn’t because we share a love for personal planners, weekly menus taped to the cupboard, or house cleaning on Saturdays.

It is because I have finally mastered the task that seemed the most fantastical, most out of reach as a child; the task that inspired the most awe and wonder in my young mind. My mother could open the oven door and remove baked potatoes with her bare hands. No mitt. No tongs. No fork. Just her bare hands. It was unbelievable. I couldn’t have been more impressed if she had hoisted the family car above her head. I wondered, “Will I ever grow heat-proof skin?”

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A Nanosecond

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Author note: some identifying details  have been modified.

I made a dreadful discovery. One of my oldest and dearest friends is missing — disappeared down a political rabbit hole full of misinformation and craziness. I am stunned.

I have known her since childhood. We’ve eaten hundreds of meals together, gone to the same church our entire life, whispered our dreams at sleepovers. I’ve helped with her children’s weddings, celebrated each new child, grieved over deaths that came too soon. We have a deep reservoir of priceless memories together.

Now she has abandoned all reason and been sucked to the dark side.

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The Power of Kindness

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I recently had occasion to ride a train from an airport to the city. While awaiting the train’s departure, a man entered the car, secured his bike to the wall rack and exited to swipe his pass on the outdoor kiosk. Without warning the train started to move. The man’s cries penetrated our car but not the conductor’s car. The train did not stop. I shared a shocked look with the other passengers as his voice faded and the consequences of being separated from his bike settled on our collective mind. At the first stop, a young man approached the bike, lifted it off the rack and said, “I have the time. I’m going to get this guy’s bike back to him.”

Kindness blunts unforeseen consequences.

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A Father’s Day Tribute

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          My father is a quiet man. By today’s standards he would be labeled an introvert. His quiet way belied his wisdom, however. If I wanted someone to reflect my passion or validate my actions, I went to Mom. If I wanted thoughtful, measured advice, I went to Dad.

          Women’s liberation started in my childhood. By the time I was a teenager, it was churning full force. I listened, explored ideas with friends and tried to find a balance between my own stay-at-home-mom-traditional-family, and the ideas of breaking out from under the oppression of men and demanding equality that swirled around me in society. As I job hunted after graduation, it felt like an opportunity to join the cause and make my own personal statement. All kinds of fields were opening up. Anything seemed possible, and yet I found the sheer volume of choices more paralyzing than empowering.

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A Mother’s Day Rose

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                I got a rose in church for Mother’s Day.

                I tossed it in the garbage when I got home.

               It isn’t like I haven’t had difficult Mother’s Days before. Thirteen years on the infertility roller coaster equaled 13 years of ingenious excuses to avoid church on Mother’s Day. After adopting, I jumped overnight into Motherhood as I literally held the life of each child in my hands.

                But it has been said that the art of parenting is the art of turning over control of their life — to them.

                It is hardly a straight line. And so I may have been hovering a bit with my baby.

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Holding on to Hope

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New Years Resolutions Concept

The first time I saw The Look, I was standing in my own wedding receiving line. An elderly woman who had watched me grow up spoke kind works and then looked at me as if she had a secret she couldn’t reveal.

I filed it away and didn’t think about it much until I encountered it again years later. I was giving a seminar on home organization and a woman asked me how to get teenagers motivated to clean up after themselves. Not having any teenagers to lend legitimacy to my answer, I rambled off inane advice involving colorful containers. There it was again–The Look.

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