Tea and Servanthood

I spent yesterday propped in bed, sipping hot tea and fighting cold symptoms. Taking the advice of one of my "Tuesday Morning Mamas," I resisted going through stacks of books or cleaning out the fridge! Why is it that we women need permission to take the day off?

Days like this remind me of the times when our boys were little and I had an occasional day of feeling poorly, all I wanted was to be left alone! Irma Bombeck said she understood why animals go off in the woods alone when they are sick. Makes perfect sense to me. However, having such a day makes me feel thankful again for the people who have helped me over the years.

Like Emma.

Emma came four days a week when I had five little boys running around, and she was like their second mother. (Mine too.) Our kindergartner at the time told his teacher he had a stepmother; her name was Emma. Emma rescued me, or I should say rescued the kids, when I didn't have a clue how to raise babies. She made it look easy. Many afternoons the younger boys would walk home with her and she'd make them peanut butter/jelly sandwiches at her house. Seems things always tasted better there.

The reason I'm so aware of these memories is probably because the Tuesday Morning Mamas all went together to see The Help at the movies a few nights ago. It grieves me to think about some of the injustices that have been done to people who were created in the image of God and made to love one another. I grew up on a farm in the Deep South, and our relationship with all the people working was one of mutual respect and genuine love. I will always be grateful to Emma, for the patience she had with our children, the laughter we shared over family incidences, and for the days she let me enjoy a cup of hot tea alone in my room and not feel guilty about it!!

Our Tuesday Morning group began a study this week of Proverbs 31...you know, the chapter about the perfect woman. Reading it is like inviting Rachel Ray, Paula Dean, or Julia Childs to come for dinner: regardless of what we'd cook, it wouldn't measure up to their standards. That's how most women feel when they read about the Proverbs Lady. I hope, however, this study is going to be inspirational to all of us and not the opposite.

The main point this week was that the woman in the scripture receives praise from her family because of her serving others. Jesus made crystal clear the value He placed on servant attitude. When two disciples were squabbling over who was the greatest, He put everyone in his place by saying, "You know that in this world kings are tyrants, and officials lord it over the people beneath them. But among you it should be quite different. Whoever wants to be a leader among you must be your servant..." (Mark 10: 42-43).

There is no pretty way to state it: mothers are servants. But we serve out of a heart of love and not resentment (except, every now and then, right?). In the end, it's the servanthood we have demonstrated that causes our husbands and children to praise us. Looking back, I realize the things I praise Emma for were all acts of service, things that made my life easier and our family's life more enjoyable. Our families will feel the same way about us as moms. The things they will remember are sometimes the things we resent doing, a.k.a. the serving. But the first step in our fulfillment is to let the attitude be in us as it was in Christ, who refused to resent the servant's role that He took on Himself. At the same time, we must believe the Spirit will work on our family members to give them ability to appreciate what we do.

In a Christ-centered marriage, grace is imparted into our husbands and children to praise us. In other relationships, there is no guarantee that we won't be taken for granted. This added to my list of things to thank God for this week: a godly man who praises and appreciates me, and children who bless me every day... and occasional days when I can stay propped up in bed with a cup of tea!

Jed's Dog Pete

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this post. I think it's going to be about a faithful and companionable dog. But it might not be. It might be about a son going through a transition. It could be about a family pulling together in support of a sibling who is hurting. It might be about a mom and dad who connected with a son in a special way. It could be about a mother and her son.

Maybe it's about all the above.

The death of a pet who has lived out his life is more than just giving up a companion someone has enjoyed. It means the end of an era, the closing of a period of that person's life. A few years ago, another of our sons had to end the life of T-Bone, his sixteen year old Cocker Spaniel, whom he had had since he was nine years old. Another son had to euthanize Buck, his handsome German Shorthair. Burying T-Bone meant burying little-boy memories−- the camp-outs and deer trackings, snuggle times in front of the fireplace, races down the driveway, and fishing in the creek. This was when I realized the 25 year old man in front of me was the same little nine year old boy in his heart, and that part of him had to be reached to bring real solace.

A similar thing happened this week. Pete's master was Jed, only Jed didn't have him as a boy. He got Pete in his second year of college at UGA, so it was Pete who saw Jed through the uncharted waters of living away from home, pledging a fraternity, graduating, getting the first job, buying his own home. Pete was his comforter when relationships didn't work out or deals didn't go through. Pete was his pride and joy when he pointed a covey of quail or simply strutted his barrel chest. I think Jed's biggest struggle wasn't accepting Pete's demise, but that of wondering if Pete was really ready to go on. As emaciated as his body was, his eyes nevertheless followed Jed and their spirits stayed connected. It was not until our veterinarian/in-law gently explained that we would not want to live as a human in such a compromising physical condition that Jed was able to make the final call to terminate Pete's life.

Throughout the last three days, Burt and I were able to feel so close to our adult son. In the absence of a family of his own to share his grief, we could fill his emotional tank, and he was willing to let us. I'm thankful he didn't keep us at arm's length.

What I have to accept as a mom is that my own sons are not little boys, or college boys any more. If they were not the strong men of God that they are, this might be sad, but the fact is, they have become exactly what God told me to rear: five godly Christian men. But this doesn't keep me from looking back in my memories, just as I look back sometimes through pictures of them as little boys and very young men, just as Jed will look back and remember Pete and a pup. Jed can hold the memories, and he will, as he accepts Pete's passing. I too, will hold memories of our boys as they grew and matured, and I must accept that they are now men.

It's Tough on a Dog

By Jean W Sawtell

It's tough on a dog when his boy grows up,

When he no longer romps and frolics like a pup.

It's tough on a dog when his boy gets old,

When they no longer cuddle on his bed when it's cold.

It's tough on a dog when his boy gets tall,

When he's off with the boys playing soccer and baseball.

They no longer paddle through the mud in the bog,

Hoping to find a turtle or frog.

They no longer run through the grass up to their knees,

Or roll in the piles of fresh fallen leaves.

It's tough on a dog when his boy gets tall,

When he's off to school, looking at girls in the hall.

It's tough on a dog when he has work to do,

When he forgets to play as he used to do.

It's tough on a dog when instead of the woods or field or pond,

His boy becomes a man— and the man is gone.

A Place of Quiet Rest

A place of quiet rest is not where I've been lately! After successive weekends filled with various activities, the birth of a new granddaughter, overnight guests (in our unofficial B & B!), the freezing of fresh peaches and vegetables, and the company of two very active toddlers for nine days in two weeks, I hit my wall this morning. I couldn't seem to get on top of things the past two days and my blood pressure was high! After remembering all that has been going on, I understand why.

The most disturbing thing was the feeling of being haunted by some phantom fears...nothing definable, just vague feelings of uneasiness.

Just yesterday we were talking with a young couple who were staying in our guest house for the weekend, and they were saying how hard they had been working and how overcome with "busy-ness" they were. Being here gave them the chance to have a period of rest and reflection, and they echoed the same thing everybody says about our property: there is such a feeing of peace here. I told them about Nancy Leigh DeMoss's book, A Place of Quiet Rest, how inspirational it is to me and how I though we'd make a habit of giving a copy to everyone who spends the night here. They wholeheartedly agreed their biggest need was to be still and let God's peace surround them.

This morning I was in our bedroom, praying for our son Jed who was driving home today to have his beloved German Shorthair dog put to sleep. I was also thinking of our second oldest son, who turned 39 today, and how we wanted to be with him, but felt we needed to be here for Jed's sake. Anyway, in the process of it all, I had the desire to hold up my arms and ask Jesus to take and comfort me. I just felt tired and emotionally drained. I felt that something was missing. Then it came to me: I needed the place of quiet rest.

The remainder of today has been just that. It has been filled with emotion, but also comforting and convicting. We humans simply can't sustain ourselves without Divine help. What do people do who don't have a relationship with the Savior, the God of all comfort?

Almost everybody I know is familiar with Psalm 23. We hear the phrase "He restorers my soul" quoted in all kinds of situations. What does this really mean? To quote Nancy DeMoss: "I'm convinced that one of the major reasons we can't handle the demands of day-today living is that our spirits are weary. Our souls need to be restored...The restoration of our souls is a ministry of our Great Shepherd...If I don't take time to get my spiritual tank refilled, I soon find myself 'running on fumes.' Before long the least little demand is more than I can handle, and I find myself reacting to even minor annoyances and interruptions out of frustration and irritation."

This describes my condition the past three days. Now I know what was missing, and I'm recommitted to the practice of spending time each day in God's presence. Oh no, it's not easy, especially with little ones demanding time and attention. This week reminded me how challenging it is for a mom to find even ten minutes of quiet, but how restorative it is. I pray for mothers to find the still waters and green pastures. Just as I wanted to take our adult son in my arms and comfort him through this time of sadness, so I want the Holy Spirit to engulf me and impart peace and comfort and rest. I have been reminded that He is so willing to do just that.

We Survived!!!

We just returned two of our adorable grandchildren to their rightful owners! This past week, Pops and I had the fun of keeping Harrison (age 4) and Hannah (age 2) to give Helen a chance to recover from the birth of little Hartley. What a blast! The week was a contest to see who could get the dirtiest and the hottest. Simply put, there are things that little kids can do in the country they can't do in the city, such as...

Going to the dirt pit (which Harrison used to call the arm pit). This refers to the big hole in the ground that Pops uses to get dirt for maintaining the roads throughout the property, and it is—literally— a big dirt pit. Nothing amuses the kiddos more just now than stripping off everything but their underwear and playing in the red dirt. The walls of the pit are sloped at just the right angle for sliding down and climbing back up again. The dirt clods are just the right degree of firmness to throw and explode at the bottom of the hole. The loose soil has just the right moisture for digging with the fingernails, and the powdery dust is just right for sticking to the scalp. The quarter-mile walk to the pit is always exciting and promising, but the same walk back home is hot and challenging. I got the brilliant idea to take the red wagon with water for us to drink. What I discovered was the kids thought I brought it so I could pull them back home. At one point, I was trying to make it up a steep hill in the woods with both children riding in the wagon and I didn't think I'd make it. About that time I heard Harrison call out, "Lollie! You can DO it!!" Well of course I did!

I was the favorite grandparent only until Pops decided to upstage me by taking them to "swim." The place he chose was safe, for sure. It was a BIG muddle (a made-up word for "mud puddle")! Actually, it was a pool of clear water that had collected in a field road where the irrigation system was running, but it soon became a muddle when the kids got in it! They first waded, then wallowed, then started throwing globs of mud at Pops and each other! I took a picture on my phone and sent it to Clint, their father. He replied, "Brings back memories!" When I sent him another picture of Hannah, whose diaper was so filled with muddy water that it sagged below her bottom, he responded, "Just make sure this doesn't hit Facebook!"

Bedtime was, umm...interesting. They wanted to sleep together in the recently acquired red twin beds, pushed together. It didn't take me long to realize that they were never going to settle down by themselves, so Pops and I lay down with them and I told them a made-up story about two children going to visit their grandparents. They loved it, and wanted to hear it several times. The last time I made up a story for Harrison, he thought I was saying that a little boy got buried alive, and that wasn't what I said. Now their parents are a little suspicious of "Lollie's stories." (I never wanted to be a children's writer anyway!) Anyhow, I kept this one PG rated!

If anyone should ask Harrison, he might say the highlight of his week was helping Pops drive the big tractor, operate the levers on the grapple hook and pick up piles of limbs. Or he might say catching two toad frogs, a baby and a larger one, plus a cricket was the epitome. He named the frogs Rufus and Oscar.

Maybe this was the week that I started to complete the metamorphosis from "mother" to "grandmother." I am seeing how much fun it can be. Burt and I thanked God every day that we can relax in the joy that our grandchildren are being reared by parents who love the Lord.

Mother/Grandmother

I'm up early this morning (5:45 a.m.). There were things on my mind I wanted to remember today when "Pops" and I go to Macon to assist Helen with our new granddaughter, Hartley Burgin Strange, who was born this past weekend. I stayed up late last night cooking food to take for the freezer— chicken and rice, roast, squash casseroles, scalloped eggplant, and peach cobbler. I'll finish with peas and creamed corn when we get to Macon.

The cooking brings back memories of our sons' births. It seemed they all came when vegetables were in season and things were the busiest (of course, it would have seemed that way regardless of the birth month). I always scurried to get cooked food in the freezer before going to the hospital.

This activity also gave me reason to ponder the question, do I feel more like a mother or a grandmother? I'm not sure I've made the transition. I think this is the season where I should relax and pop popcorn and watch movies with the grandchildren, but I still feel the weight of responsibility when a new baby comes into the family. I remember the lack of time to get things done, and the fatigue that demotivates a new mom. I also recall the persistent demand of the existing siblings.

My transition from mom to grandmother was further underscored this past week when I changed our son's bedroom at our house from "his" to "theirs." This meant I took away the hunting/camping/college/boy-toys and replaced them with red twin beds, "Hungry Caterpillar" sheets, and stuffed animals. His reaction to the picture of my accomplishment was classic: "You did what to my room!?" Forget the fact he's a grown man, married for nine years! He still has his boy-place at Mom's house. As I pulled out stuff and re-lived memories, I have to admit, he still has a boy-place in my heart as well.

Making the transition from mom to grandmother is still a struggle for me. It means my role is changing. I'm learning to embrace the changes instead of trying to function in the role of responsibility I've always known. Today we're going to Macon to welcome our newest grandchild. I'm going with the intent of playing games and reading books. I know I have a position of influence, and I will reinforce the training of the children, but I can let go of the primary responsibility. Our grandchildren couldn't have better parents. They are being taught and nurtured, and they will become strong men and women of God. The first thing I read this morning reminded me of our blessing:

And this is my covenant with them says the Lord. "My spirit will not leave them, and neither will these words I have given you. They will be on your lips and the lips of your children and your children's children forever. I, the Lord, have spoken!" (Isaiah 59:21)

Pops and I have kept the charge we were given, and now it is time to reap the rewards.