Young Love

I had briefly met a married couple in passing several years ago and their love story was so beautiful that it stuck with me. I wrote this in their honor.

He straightened his tie as best he could without a mirror and shifted slightly in his chair so as to not wrinkle his freshly ironed shirt. Today everything had to be perfect. He didn't want her seeing him even with one hair out of place. Not that she'd mind, of course. She never seemed to care about the little imperfections that always bothered him. She had a way of laughing off gray skies, spoiled plans, and his perpetually unruly hair. His face cracked into a smile as he thought about her twinkling eyes that  always managed to make every problem seem insignificant. When she laughed he completely forgot there was anything wrong at all.

He thought back to their first date. It didn't seem so long ago. It wasn't really anything special, just a group of friends enjoying dinner together in a crowded dining room, but he knew he was with her. And she knew it, too. How quickly their hearts connected. He knew she was meant for him the first time their eyes met across the table. She told him later that she knew she was going to marry him from the first moment she saw him, nervously flattening down his rebellious hair and checking his watch every few seconds. How did she know that then? he wondered. Well, she had been right, as usual. He fingered the little black box in his lap, resisting the temptation to open it yet again and polish the simple gold band that was snugly secured in dark velvet.

She had wanted simple. She never needed much to make her happy. He had wanted to give her a ring that somehow started to express how lucky he felt every time he realized that she actually wanted to be with him. To live out the rest of her life with him. But neither of them had much by way of material possessions. He tried to think of a way to get some extra cash to get something a little nicer for her, but when she heard about his plans to sell his high school ring she promptly scolded him for being ridiculous. It was their first and only fight. He had hated every second of it.

"When you've been through what we've been through, you don't just throw out your past like it's a cheap bauble and nothing more!" Her voice had been raised and he could see his next door neighbor craning his neck trying to get a good view of the quarrel. "You listen to me, Paul," she went on, "we promised that we would never say we were starting over. We promised to always hold on to the lives we had before we met each other. That was the deal. I'm not willing to forget my life before I met you and you better not be willing to throw away even the smallest connection to your past either!"

He remembered the way she had cried after her outburst. He felt so foolish. He should have known better. He knew how much it meant to her to be able to reminisce about every small detail of her life before she had met him. They had both been through so much that it made sense. Both of them had seen their share of heartache and yet she always told him, "Every day I've lived has turned me into the person I am now and I'm happy being this person." He knew how much her past, the good times and the horrible times, meant to her and he never mentioned selling his ring again.

He cracked open the little lid and caught a glimmer of light bouncing off the smooth, golden surface. He felt butterflies fluttering in his midsection. Not that he was nervous at all; there was nothing to be nervous about. He realized the feeling he was experiencing was happiness. Pure happiness. Oh, it had been such a long time since he'd felt truly happy. But life is full of second chances. He'd had to learn that the hard way. And what a second chance this was! Her face shimmered in his mind's eye. No, that hadn't know each other for very long, but he already had memorized every curve of her face, every slight imperfection that somehow made her look even more perfect. The lines that stretched from her eyes when she laughed looked like wings and they made him feel like he was flying. The butterflies in his belly started up again.

A head peeked around the door to his room. "Good morning, Mr. Roberts! I hear today's your big day! Are you ready to head down to the chapel?" She said it in the overly cheerful manner in which everyone around here spoke. She walked around to the back of his chair and grasped the handles firmly. "And off we go!" As she pushed his wheelchair through the halls she kept up the chatter with the people they passed. "Mrs. Carson, you sure look fancy today! Oh, Mr. Mells, you'd better stop flirting with all the girls in here!"

He tried to shut out the prattle. The attendant was pleasant enough, but today he wanted peace and quiet. He shut his eyes and pictured her face again.

"Here we are!" The chapel door creaked open and he saw in the few sparsely filled pews his family and the few friends he had left. His great-granddaughter, Sophie, (was she sixteen already? Seems only yesterday she was turning six) got up from her pew and planted a gentle kiss on his wrinkled cheek. "I'm so happy for you, Papa," she whispered. He smiled up at here and patted her hand. His throat didn't seem to want to let any words out.

He was rolled up to the front, right next to the reverend who would be performing the ceremony. He looked down again at the ring box, still clutched tightly in his shaking hand. He wished for a brief moment that his hands would be well behaved  like his legs. They didn't move anymore. They just sat there useless and still, but at least they didn't shake uncontrollably.

The piano behind him started to play and suddenly there she was. The chapel doors had opened once more and his bride, his love, was being wheeled slowly down the aisle. Her chair was narrower than his and slightly lighter. They had often joked about having "his and her" wheelchairs, but at that moment he didn't see a chair. She looked beautiful, her silvery hair was freshly styled and gave the appearance of a halo. The look suited her. She had picked out a pale lavender suit to wear and her delicate hands held a bouquet of baby's breath and forget-me-nots. His eyes traveled down to her feet and the bright, ruby red heels that bedecked them. "These feet aren't any good for walking anymore so they may as well look pretty!" She said this every time he noticed a new pair of glamorous and terribly impractical shoes on her feet. He realized he was grinning like a fool.

She finally met him in the front. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. How was it possible for an eighty-seven-year-old man to feel so light? He almost got up from his chair right then, but he caught himself just in time. That's what she did to him. She made him forget his worthless legs and his withered hands. He didn't hate his colorless hair when he was around her and his faded eyes grew brighter when he looked at her. How can people call these my twilight years? He had wondered this every day since that  first dinner date. Life didn't seem boring around her. Every day seemed brighter and full of possibility.

The reverend shuffled his notes. In the brief pause he caught her eye. He slowly raised his trembling hand and gently grasped hers. "Hey, baby, " he whispered softly, taking in the sparkle of her eyes and the way her hand gripped his tightly, "after this, you want to go dancing?"

Bird on a Wire

I am not fond of crows. These black scavengers are scruffy and mean-looking and insult the rest of the winged world with their ugliness. It seems in the past few years the crows around here have grown in size and in number. Or maybe it's just my distaste for them that's grown.

Earlier this week, Joshua came home from work to find me tired out from working in the yard. He brought out two cold beers and we sat on our patio enjoying the coolness that was coming along with a light summer rain. We heard the crows cawing loudly nearby. One solitary black bird, with feathers ruffled by rain, was sitting on the telephone wire calling to his friend, maybe his mate. One caw, then another would answer. We could see his beak opening as the harsh sound burst out. Hardly mellifluous. But then I could see another crow, almost hidden by tree branches, calling back and responding in kind. What are they talking about? Could it be that even these wretched birds have relationships? Could it be that even they need each other?

It's raining again today. I don't mind it. I needed the refreshment as much as the dirt and plants did. I hear from my window another cawing. But no answer. There it is again. I find my heart tugging at my mind. Is that the same bedraggled bird I saw the other day? Why is there no answer? Is he lonely? Why do I even care?

But I do care. Maybe it's the kinship I feel with any creature that has the appearance of loneliness. Maybe it's me overreacting in my melancholy way to this gray day. Or maybe it's my heart telling me to stop. To listen. To listen to the voices I hear around me. To not be so taken with my own comfort, my own pain, my own life so that I don't even hear the people around me. And once I hear these cries, these caws, to feel them and respond. To try to heal the hurt in whatever small way I can.

Did I really just liken these miserable birds to people? I suppose I did. But aren't we all wet, bedraggled creatures, sometimes without even a beautiful song to help us through, just hoping someone will answer us when we call? And if I'm just like that crow, sitting on the wire, can't I at least answer a fellow crow? And then we'll both know, we aren't alone. And wouldn't that make all the difference in the world?

Wouldn't that change the world?

Home Is Where The Heart Is

I've fallen in love with a building. Yes, it seems silly as I read the words written out, but it's true nonetheless. It's amazing how a structure, a mess of wood, cement, glass, and wires, can hold such a prominent place in my heart. I suppose it's not so much the building as it is the people, my family, who are inside it and the memories that were birthed there.

I first met this love of mine when I was about two years old. I honestly can't remember the first time my family crossed the now familiar threshold. I have other people's memories to call on when I want to know what it was like then. As I get older, my own memories start taking over. Blissful hours of childhood spent running in the yard. Smiling friends planning and plotting and forming not-so-secret clubs. Eating delicious meals and then sneaking off with an extra brownie before a game of soccer outside. How many rowdy meals have I eaten here? The kind of gatherings that just about bend the walls to bursting with so many people crowded in, laughing and enjoying each other. Too many to count and more to come.

I suppose it really is the people that give life to any building. The people who walk beneath my roof are so dear to me that I'm at a loss for words to describe my affection. I guess family does that to you. I wonder if I could ever remember each and every time I laughed under this roof. And every time someone else's laugh met mine.

I'll be the first to tell you that it's not a perfect place. The kitchen gets on my nerves, an extra bathroom would be a huge boon, and maybe a little more space would be helpful, but I put up with it because it does what it needs to do- it brings the people I love together. I can put up with a lot because of that.

Over the years, I've poured myself into this building, as any good homemaker should do. I've cleaned, decorated, and arranged the furniture. I've painted the walls. I even painted a tree on one wall. I've framed my photos and hung them up. I've killed spiders, washed dishes, taken out the trash. I know where the light switches are and can flip them on in the pitch dark.

My heart lives here in this old building. My children see this love and echo it. How many generations will continue that love?

Today is Saturday. I've only seen my building twice so far this week. I'll head over there tonight for another family meal. And tomorrow, when my building is full of voices and bodies moving about, I'll be grateful that these walls can hold us all. And when we lift our voices as one, in worship of our one Father, I'll be joyful that this little building was chosen to help us do just that. And when the Spirit descends on my old building, I'll thank God once again for gathering us here, in my beloved church.

Father's Day

An open letter to the two most important men in my life. For Father's day.

To Dad and Joshua,

You two are the most influential people in my life. One of you gave me life and formed my youngest memories and moments and the other captivated my heart and now guides me through this bewildering life. So how do I properly express my full appreciation to you both? Where does one find words suited to this task? Ah, words. I think I'll start there.

Dad, when I think about the main ways you've blessed me over the years, these four rise to the top: you showed me the way to live in righteousness, you loved my mother, you gave me my siblings- the best friends I could ever hope for, and you instilled in me your love of words. I learned from a very young age that words are the key to unlocking beauty, truths, stories, and relationships. With the love of words that you gave me, I've been able to unravel many of the mysteries of life and through these same words I've reached out and touched other people's hearts. Words have become my greatest allies, the weapons I fight with, the colors I paint with.

It's no wonder then that I fell in love with a man who devours words as eagerly as I do. A man who knows where to find answers and how to read truths. Joshua and I share this friendship with words that began, for me, when I was a child sitting at the dining room table as you read to us after dinner. And now, Joshua, you are carrying on that tradition in our home. Our children are being showered with these words in your voice and they are grasping onto our love of these syllables, these sounds that meld together to communicate, to display God's glory. They love these words because you do.

What a strange thing for me to give my honor and devotion to one man all my young life only to transfer my affections to another man when I was eighteen years old. And yet, perhaps it wasn't quite so strange, after all. My father taught me unconditional love, high standards of morality and ethical integrity. He showed me how a man is to lead with a servant's touch and how a husband tenderly cares for a wife. So when I saw all these attributes in that handsome college student, now over a decade ago, I knew that what I was seeing was what I had wanted all along. This transfer of my affections was smooth and natural because it was moving from one honorable man to another.

Joshua, I wish you could have seen "behind the scenes" of the beginning of our relationship. The way that my dad eagerly asked if you had yet responded to that first email I sent you and then his giddy excitement when you did write back. It was quite the group effort, our courtship. Having my dad's blessing on our relationship meant the world to me. When he walked me down the aisle on that glorious July day and put my hand in yours, I know he did so with happiness and the knowledge that you were worthy of his daughter that he had poured his love into for eighteen years.

As I dwell on these memories, I'm utterly convinced that I have been blessed beyond what I can comprehend. I was raised by a man who sacrificed much to love me and now I am raising my own children with a man who is constantly putting his family's needs above his own. On this Father's day, I am overcome with gratitude for you both. My past, the foundation I built my life on, was sturdy because of you, Dad. It's because of you that I can run and jump and not be shaken. Joshua, you hold my future. I trust you with my life because you have shown me that your love has no end. You push me, protect me, forgive me, teach me, strengthen me, guide me. It's because of you that I can fly.

These words I love so dearly are struggling to keep up with my heart, to show how much I love you both. Thank you for being who you are and for loving me like you do. Happy Father's day.

Love,
Adiel

Lessons From a Thrift Store

Yesterday the kids and I hit the Salvation Army and got a few fun deals. One of our finds was a bouncy, pogo stick type toy that the kids immediately fell in love with. Unfortunately, as anyone with a few kids will understand, the bickering and fighting over the new toy started before we even left the store. Ugh, how did this ugly sin make its way into my minivan so quickly?

When we got home, before I let them play with it, I gathered them together and asked a simple question: "Which do you love more, the pogo stick or your siblings?" They quickly answered with a slightly mumbled, "My siblings." I told them that when they are playing with their new toy and are tempted to fight over it, to then ask themselves that question again.

I can't take credit for this bit of wisdom. I found it in some parenting book, blog, article, or something- I can't remember where. But it stuck with me and I'm hoping that it will stick with the kids, too. My goal is to make them crave and value peace with each other even more than a turn with the new piece of plastic. I want them to love each other so much that any breach in their relationship will be so distasteful and painful that they will quickly work to remedy the situation. I want them to always value relationships over anything material or even over their own comfort.

If, by the grace of God, my children do learn how to love like this, can you imagine what kind of adults they will turn out to be? If they are constantly asking the question: "Which do I love more?" and answering it correctly, then how beautiful will their lives be? How brightly will they shine Jesus' love to a world that needs it so desperately?

But of course, the only way they will learn this love is if they see it acted out first. Which means I need to be asking myself that question every day. "Which do I love more, a moment of quiet or my kids who need my attention?" "Working on my own projects or taking the kids to the park?" "Which do I love more, me or them?"

My heart is selfish and even though I know what the answers should be, I all too often answer them poorly in real life. But there's grace for parents like me and there's grace for kids who fight over pogo sticks. That grace is there because of how Jesus answered this question, "Which do I love more, my life or these unloving sinners' lives?"

And because of His answer, we can strive to answer well, too. 

How a Foot Learned to Love

I've been wrestling lately with the idea of belonging. How do I know that I belong here? What is my role here in Erie? How do I fit in my church family? Does anyone actually need what I have to offer? What do I have to offer anyway?

I've been trying to figure myself out and trying to see how my unique talents and skills could possibly benefit the people around me. I mean, I see how my creativity, for example, is a good thing for my family because it affects our home and our daily lives, but how can I translate that skill into something that the people at Faith Reformed Church need? Maybe they don't want my style invading our calm and peaceful church building. Maybe my signature impetuous ways aren't the best thing for the beautifully staid and contemplative Reformed folks there.

1 Corinthians 12 has been a huge help to me in this struggle. Verse 15 says, "If the foot should say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body”, that would not make it any less a part of the body." Yeah, sure, sometimes I feel like I don't fit in where God has put me, but this verse is telling me that I belong where I am. I may feel like I'm different from the people around me, but being different in His church is good. Different is how God designed us to be. Different helps us function well and grow. And even in those times when I'm feeling like a left foot in a right hand world, I know that somehow I'm needed right where I am. And my skills, habits, and tendencies are exactly what my church body needs. 

And see, here's the best part. 1 Corinthians 12 is followed by 1 Corinthians 13- you know, that famous "love chapter"? 

Paul spends a chapter talking about how each member of the church has an important part to play in the well being of the body and how necessary diversity is in the church and then he finishes with this, "And I will show you a still more excellent way." And, boom, he dives into chapter 13.

"...if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing."

So all that stuff he just said about how important all the members of the body are, everything I just learned about how needed I am in my church- if I don't have love, it doesn't mean shit. 

Anything and everything I do, whether in my home or in my church or in my neighborhood, must flow out from a heart that is so busy with love that I don't even have time to wonder if what I'm doing is needed or appreciated.

Honestly, I'll probably still feel like the odd man out sometimes. I'll probably still doubt that I'm supposed to be here. But I'm trusting that my God will keep changing me into a person who is more concerned with loving people than with being accepted.

I'll keep doing my thing here. I'll decorate my house with oddly bright colors, plan church events, and paint rocks with the neighborhood kids. God made me a foot and so I'll be the best foot that I can be. So what if the hands around me don't understand what I'm doing? I'm not sure I understand what they're doing sometimes, but I know I need them. We're in this together. We're all the same body and we are bound together by love. I think that's all I need to understand right now.

"Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

The Mystery of a Mother's Love

Occasionally, a bee or yellow jacket will make its way into our home. My first reaction is to close the door on whatever room the accursed insect is in and then I contemplate my next move. When I realize what I have to do next, my heart shrinks a little. Then I gather my bee-killing supplies and approach the closed door. After a quick prayer or three I cautiously open the door a crack and then abruptly shut it again. At this point, I'm so afraid of that wretched buzzing creature that I'm just about frozen with fear and considering just keeping the door closed until Joshua comes home 7 hours later and takes care of it for me. But then my mothering instincts kick in and I do the one thing that my brain keeps telling me is a bad idea. My feet barely move, but I make them take me back to the closed door. I open it, step inside, and shut the door behind me.

It's just you and me now, you vicious winged killer.

Maybe it sounds silly to be so afraid of such a little thing, but for me, the act of a mother setting aside her own paralyzing fear just to protect her children is a phenomenon that puzzles and intrigues me. Why do I face my fear and shut myself in that room inhabited by the thing that makes my heart pound and skin crawl? Why do I face that danger (whether real or imagined)?

I do it so that my babies don't have to. I'd rather be shut in with a dozen of my fears than to step aside and let any of them touch my children. Where does this love come from? When did it get put in my heart?

And what can I do to make it grow?