A Story to Tell: Thanking God for the Hard Parts

I submitted this piece about my grandma, Margaret Ruth Barnes (11-15-24 to 12-17-12), to a Ladies Home Journal writing contest while she was still living.  It didn't win but I thought it was a fitting tribute to a lady who taught me how to play Canasta, and Karem, and how to make noodles. I learned to ride my bicycle in her drive way.  She took me to Branson to see Shoji Tibouchi when I was in grade school.  She rocked me in her easy chair the night I threw up in her house even though I had already grown taller than her.  She "clouded up and rained all over me" when I deserved it and always gave me Edy's ice cream with chocolate syrup to make up for it.  She was a complex woman and love seemed to be hard for her with some people but she was a pretty awesome grandma. I will miss her.

We walked, hand in hand, down the wide white hallway.  Being in this place makes me uneasy.  Perhaps it’s the smell of urine that makes my eyes sting.  Or the men and women we steal glances at as we walk past their open doors.  Some of them stare back at us as we pass.  Anyone who is left in their room at dinnertime is confined to their bed.  I can’t imagine what goes on in their minds, hour after hour, day after day.  I see them with their hair matted and spittle on their chins, legs twisted and lifeless in the beds.  Their eyes are sometimes dull and glazed, sometimes confused and crazy.  In the split second that I spy on them as I pass their rooms, I try to imagine what they were like when they were young, vibrant, healthy, and beautiful.  I wonder what kinds of things they did with their lives, how many kids they raised, what adventures they went on, and if there is anyone left to tell their stories.

It makes me sad to think of this Greatest Generation leaving our world one by one.  There will never be another like it.  They were shaped and molded by hardship.  It made them strong and self-sacrificing.  They knew what it was to survive on next to nothing.  And when they had plenty, they were grateful for it and didn’t squander it.  But it was the hardship they endured that gave purpose and meaning to their lives.  Overcoming it gave them a story to tell.

Finally in the dining room, I spot her from across the room, even though all that is visible of her is her tiny head, with her soft white “teased and set” hair peeking out above her wheelchair.  We come around her chair to greet her and her eyes light up in recognition as always, though I’m not convinced she could actually tell us our names.  I don’t ask her to.  I don’t want her to feel bad.  She is wearing a crocheted red sweater and holding a stuffed dog in her lap.  I don’t know who gave her that dog but I’ve never seen her without it when I’ve come to visit her here.

I pull up heavy chairs, scraping them along the tiled floor so that we can sit close to her, despite the plate of pulled meat and green beans that has been placed in front of her.  “How are you, Grandma?” I ask her.  She shrugs her shoulders and smiles, giving me a garbled response that I can’t quite make out.  Her dentures don’t fit inside her mouth anymore so they nearly fall out whenever she tries to form words.  I just smile and nod.

“Three pretty girls,” she says, looking at my daughters.

“Yes,” I tell her.  Placing a hand on each of their heads, I say, “Allison is in second grade, Rachel is in Kindergarten, and Morgan is about to turn three!”  She puts a hand over her mouth as if to feign surprise. 

“Really?” she asks.  “They grow so fast.”  Again, I smile and nod.  I don’t really have any other news.  At least none that I want to share with my grandma, who I’m not convinced yet, knows who I am.  I don’t feel like telling her that my husband lost his job last week.  For the second time in three years.  What difference would it make to her that we had blown our savings getting us through the last time he was unemployed and, having struggled with a decline in income, hadn’t built it back up yet?  Would she care that we didn’t know if we would be able to make our house payment this month?  That there was no way our house was going to sell in this market anyway?  That unemployment was hovering above 9% and it could be a very long, very uncertain, and very painful time ahead of us?

Lost in the thoughts of my own troubles, my mind is yanked back into the dining room when I overhear one of the nurses on duty refer to another one as Shorty.  “Who is Shorty?” I ask, looking between them.  The petite middle-aged woman who is feeding a patient next to my grandma looks over at me and says, “That’s me!”

“Margaret’s husband was called Shorty almost all of his life,” I tell her.

“Is that so?” she asks, continuing to feed her patient.  I begin to tell her how I once found an old high school English textbook of my granddad’s copyrighted in 1934, in which a friend had doodled a face behind bars and jokingly wrote underneath, “Shorty in 15 years” but my story fades when I see that she doesn’t seem all that interested.  That picture has always fascinated me because I never knew much about my grandparents.  I knew they were my dad’s parents; two kind and generous old people whom I stayed with every once in a while and saw on holidays.  They were wonderful grandparents and very much loved.  But they didn’t often speak of their early life and so much of what made them who they were always remained a mystery to me.

I know just a few things about my grandma.  I know that she grew up very poor during the worst of the Great Depression.  She told me once that when she was a young girl she shared a table with another little girl who ate an orange with her lunch.  My grandma had never tasted an orange and the sight and smell of that orange had her transfixed.  When the girl left the table, leaving behind the orange peelings, my grandma ate them.

I know that when she was 16 in 1939 her parents told her she was old enough to take care of herself and not to come home from school.  So she didn’t.  She stayed on the bus that day until the route was finished.  The bus driver asked if she had anywhere to go.  She said she didn’t, so he and his wife took her in and finished raising her.  She learned to drive a stick shift by driving that big old school bus and once told my sister and me that’s why she preferred to drive an automatic.  The wife of that bus driver would later come to be known by us grandkids as “Granny” and she would spend her last years in the care of my grandparents.

I have no idea how Grandma met Granddad but at some point after marrying him, she put herself through beauty school and opened a beauty shop.  She was a working mother and an entrepreneur long before Women’s Lib.  I find this ironic since I sit here, privileged to be born into a world with “equal pay” and I choose to stay home with my girls.  I have no memories of that beauty shop she owned.  By the time I came along a generation later she had semi-retired and was servicing a few loyal customers out of her basement.

My grandparents must have been very successful in life.  They seemed positively rich to us kids.  They certainly did to me now that I sat in front of her as a grown-up, feeling decidedly unsuccessful in life at the moment.  Grandma and Granddad nearly doubled the square footage of their house with a massive renovation.  And they enjoyed traveling a great deal.  They went to Hawaii, Europe, Nova Scotia, and made many weekend trips to Branson, sometimes even taking a few lucky grandkids along.  She brought two little Hawaiian dresses, one red and one blue, back from their trip to the Island for my sister and me.  I had just told my own daughters about those dresses I remembered so vividly from my childhood a few days before so I asked my grandma if she remembered taking that trip all those years ago.

She didn’t.  Did she remember the trip to Europe?  She shook her head no.  All those tour bus trips with your friend, Naomi?  No.  I leaned back in my chair, surprised and disappointed that she had no stories to share.  More than that though, I was sad.  I studied her tiny, fragile, shell of a body, bent over from osteoporosis.  Her hands which had once performed magic on ladies’ permed hair were arthritic and bony, with skin so translucent I could practically see through it.  Once so strong and capable, she had spent a lifetime working, sacrificing, and saving so that she could enjoy the pleasure and luxury of travel and now she didn’t even have a single memory of it.

We left the nursing home after a bit more small talk.  She probably wouldn’t remember we were there so one of my daughters left a homemade picture on her nightstand. 

I pondered that sad conversation often over the next few days.  I couldn’t resist making the comparison: my husband and I are in our 30’s and practically starting over from scratch.  Again.  We may never achieve the wealth and luxury that my grandparents enjoyed.  At least it feels like it in this scary and uncertain moment in time.  My grandparents knew fear and uncertainty very well early in their days but they spent the rest of their lives making sure they never would again. 

Grandma, like me, wanted security.  She pursued it with tenacity because the avoidance of pain was the topmost priority.  And when she achieved it, she rested comfortably in it and lived as if she had never experienced life any other way.  She never really wanted to tell the stories of her youth, the really good stories of overcoming hardship, stories about the things that shaped her.  She only leaked out little bits here and there, leaving us to piece together the picture of her early life.  But today, in the final chapters of her life, those are the parts that really matter.  The trips to Hawaii and Europe have all but faded from memory.  Just like the house, the pinnacle of all they had worked to accomplish. 

Grandma and Granddad had always taken immaculate care of their stately post-war 60’s style ranch.  A quick drive past it today reveals the shrubs, which once sat at attention, crisp, and horizontal against the white siding, are now dead and bare.  The birdbath in the front yard has been knocked over.  A large tree has fallen in the backyard and its dried dead branches hang over the mangled chain-link fence like giant brown, bony fingers.  Their once lovely home with its paid off mortgage, a tangible symbol of comfort and security, now sits in disrepair, abandoned and literally crumbling down with rust, rot, and time.  As if it never even mattered.

Could it be possible that this time of hardship that I am living in right now is what really matters in my life?  No one will remember how many vacations we took or how much comfort and security we had.  I won’t even remember them if my grandma’s state is any indication of the future that awaits me.  But there is a reason that the “stuff” that gives us comfort and security in this world is so quickly forgotten.  Those things are boring.  They don’t make for a good story.  They don’t shape anybody.  And pursuing them will only blind me to the bigger story that is being written for my family today.  We will one day tell a story from this time in our lives that will be about hardship and pain.  But it will also be a story that is about more than personal comfort, self-gratification, and the false sense of security in a world that will pull the rug out from under you at any moment.  It is a story in which life is meaningful without that stuff.  And if a life that experiences pain is meaningful, then the pain must have meaning because it helps to shape the characters in the story of that meaningful life.  The stories from my grandma’s early life and others of her generation prove this to be true. 

If you believe in something greater than yourself, then you can trust that it is God, the greatest storyteller of all, who writes the uncertainty and pain into the stories of our lives.  He does this not because he is cruel and mean-spirited, but because he wants our lives to be filled with meaning and purpose instead of just “stuff.”  Our desperate attempts to avoid pain and seek comfort rob us of the potential greatness of our lives.  The lack of stories from my grandma’s later life proves this to be true. 

Knowing this doesn’t make it easy to live through the painful parts of our stories. I freely admit that I dread the coming months of uncertainty for my family.  So, in order to survive them and not let them destroy me, I have to surrender them to God, trusting that he will bring meaning from them, that something beautiful will come from them.  That beautiful thing may not be a paid for home and a trip to Hawaii.  I think it will be even more wonderful than that. 

I think it will be a story of redemption—a story of a family changed, made stronger, made better.  Comfort and security don’t change people.  It’s the pain that occurs in the darkness of night that changes people.  As long as I have the hope of redemption—that the story will end well—I can endure pain, loss, even suffering.  Indeed, I can be fulfilled by it, knowing that true and lasting joy, not the superficial pleasure that comes from comfort and security, will come as a result of it. 

 I guess there will always be a part of me that, like Grandma, craves security and fights desperately to attain it.  It’s human nature.  Maybe one day I’ll have it within my grasp again and life will be boring.  But until then I have a story to finish.  It will be a story about pain and adversity, loss and uncertainty.  And I intend to finish it well, coming out on the other side whole and new, and thanking God for every moment.

Living in the Dark

"I had never seen a spectacle that was so repulsive, yet so intriguing as that which I saw on a blistering hot afternoon in August of my 16^th year on this earth."

Not me, of course.  My 16th year was tragically dull and verifiably consumed with whatever it took to be "cool" in my little corner of the world.

These are the words of a girl whose life is much more exciting than mine.  If it wasn't, who would want to read about her?  I promised in my last blog, so.....this is the first sentence of my story.  Or a variation of it.  It will likely be revised about two dozen times as I get to know my girl.  But it will be something this.

And now you know a few things about her.  For one thing, you know that she has seen something unusual.  Something that has repulsed her and drawn her to it.  Ever seen anything like that?  Think car crash, video footage of a suicide jumper, those commercials for starving children.  She has seen something along those lines.  But I'm not telling what it is.  Maybe in another blog! 

You also know that she's 16.  Why 16?  Well, in her world a 16 year old would already have been married.  She is not so this puts her at a bit of a social disadvantage.  But I would say it puts her maturity level at about a 25 year old today.  I couldn't make her 25 because she would be middle-aged during a time when the average life expectancy was about 43.  Actually, it's probably younger due to disease but there are no records I can rely on to be sure.  There are very little records of what life was like in the Medieval world, or the Dark Ages, if you prefer.  Why this time in history for my story?  That's a very good question--I'm glad you asked!

I happened to be watching the History Channel one night and caught a documentary on life in the Dark Ages.  I remember the discussion of how it must have felt to see crumbling evidence of the Roman Empire all around: roads, aqueducts, buildings, etc.  To live a life that was so bleak, that was defined by hunger and poverty, and then to see with your own eyes that before your lifetime was a time of brilliance, innovation, wealth, and greatness.  To know that humanity had already peaked and you were unfortunate to be born on the miserable downhill side of it.  That captured my imagination.  I also began to wonder: how on earth did Christianity survive this time in history?  A time before scriptures were available to anyone but learned clergy, a time when superstition and heresy dominated popular thought.  But somehow, this period of history gave way to the Reformation and the Rennaisance.  Even after all the research I've done, it's still pretty much a mystery.

So I began to imagine a character who has a feeling deep down that God is real but has no where to go for answers.  How would God make himself known to this character, propelling her foward in her quest?  What kind of resistance would she meet along the way?  What mistakes would she make?  What character flaws would make her feel inadequate to do this "thing" of seeking answers, particularly in a world that did not respect women?  How would the experience of reading scripture for the first time make her feel?  Scripture like Hebrews 2:14-15 "Because God's children are human beings--made of flesh and blood--the Son also became flesh and blood.  For only as a human being could he die, and only by dying could he break the power of the devil, who had the power of death.  Only in this way could he set fee all who have lived their lives as slaves to the fear of dying."  We take verses like this for granted today because we hear the same message every Sunday.  Plus, we tend to think we're immortal and don't give much thought to dying.  But imagine...you're life is miserable, everything is stacked against you surviving, and yet the thought of hell being worse than this life is too awful to bear.  But you don't know how to avoid hell.  You don't personally know anyone who has access to scripture and even if you did, you can't read.  Maybe the local priest recites the Apostle's Creed in Latin during mass, but for the most part, leaves the concept of grace a total mystery (maybe he's even a bit confused by it?  Oh!  An unexpected plot twist!).  And then, after risking everything--after experiencing this great adventure, you make the discovery that you are set free.  Free from fear of death, free from the fear of hell, free from penance, free from the darkness of just not knowing.  

Remember how it felt the first time you really realized that someone came before you to break the power of hell (which, in this ancient world was very, very real)?  The first time you felt that love--and then immediately felt unworthy of that love?  Maybe it's just me, but I think that makes for an incredibly compelling story! 

But that's just a part of the journey--a part of the story.  Because as any believer will tell you, belief is really just the beginning.  Like I tell the kids in Kid's Church, if you were lucky enough to wake up this morning, you have a job to do!

And now I'm  off to mine.  That's right, fixing lunch for a hungry toddler.  Because such is my life!

There's this girl.....

I'm going to do it.  I'm going to take a risk.  Last week I wrote all about how we were made to do big things and that there is a sense of urgency because this life is brief.  So what good is all that thinking and pontificating if I don't even take my own advice? 

So I have no choice in the matter, really!  What am I going to do, you ask?  Well, it's kind of hard to say it out loud because I might never even finish it.  Or if I do, nothing may come of it.  It could be a huge waste of time.  Wait a minute....maybe I should rethink this....NO!!  I have to!  Right?!?!  Okay...want to know what it is?  I'm going to...er...I'm going to attempt to...umm...well, I'll just spit it out:  (gulp) I'm going to write a novel.

What on earth makes me think anyone else would have any desire to read a story that comes out of my head, you ask?  It's all right.  I've asked myself that many times already.  But I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't really matter.  I'm not doing it for acclaim, or accomplishment, or wealth.  Those are things the world offers and 1 John 2:15 tells us not to love this world or the things in it because "the world is fading away, along with everything people crave."  And besides, I know for certain that my mom and my sister will read it, so it won't be a total loss, right?

I am doing this for one reason.  This is something I can do that can bring honor to God.  I believe that when He poured the ingredients into the soup of my soul He threw in some gifts and talents that combine for the perfect recipe to make a writer.  For a long time I didn't even know I had these gifts and talents.  Then I had a feeling I might possess them but I let them simmer for a while so that I could have my babies and take some time to get to know God better. 

Then an interesting sequence of events transpired.  Several months ago a good friend loaned me a book by Francine Rivers and I fell in love with fiction again. 

That's how it began. 

I'll continue the story in subsequent blogs.  And I'll reveal bits of the other story, you know...the novel (it feels strange even saying that).  All I'll say for now is that there's this girl...she wants something really badly and she's willing to risk everything to get it.  And when she finally gets it?  Well, that's when the story really gets interesting.  Her story is my story.  It's every person's story who has ever pursued a relationship with the One who made them only to discover that we were made for a purpose--one that is scary and foreign and seemingly impossible.

To be continued......

Taking a Risk

I've never been what one would call a risk taker.  Except for when I was an ignorant kid who couldn't see my future past the end of my nose.

I did a lot of my growing up years in a small town with a very busy highway running alongside it.

One day when I was about 16 years old I found myself in an old beat up S-10 pick-up truck sandwiched between two guy friends, who, one can only assume, had nothing to lose.  On a quiet little road that crossed the highway, the driver got the sudden brilliant idea to floor it and race across the intersection without stopping.  I held on to the rickety dashboard for dear life, envisioning for a split second what it would look like for us to get side-swiped by a car going 65 miles per hour.  Another split second later, we were safely on the other side and the two guys laughed like idiots and high-fived each other.  Pretty much an idiot myself and not wanting them to know I nearly soiled myself, I probably laughed too.




I took other risks too.  Risks with my heart, with my soul, and with my reputation.  It is only by God's grace that none of these risks resulted in consequences that lasted a lifetime (except for one garish and regrettable tattoo that still makes me cringe when I look at it).

I think it's interesting that I was so willing to take a risk when I so proudly (and foolishly) boasted that I was the only one looking out for me.  Now that I know God, and I know that He made me, He has plans for me, and He'll never forsake me, the thought of taking a risk makes me break out into a cold sweat.

When my husband was unemployed for just a few short days, the thought of not making a house payment, losing the house, and (horrors!) having to change school districts struck such fear in my heart that I found myself weeping in the arms of my pastor's wife who I needed at that moment to quiet my fears and reassure me that this would not, in fact, be the end of the world.

When did I turn into such a wimp?  I think it happened when I became a slave to the false hope of worldly security and personal comfort.  God gave me this gift of my life, not so that I could pursue home ownership and full retirement accounts.  He put me here to do big things.  Risky things.

And time is running out:

"Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be.  Remind me that my days are numbered--how fleeting my life is....  My entire lifetime is just a moment to you; at best, each of us is but a breath.  We are all moving shadows, and all our busy rushing ends in nothing.  We heap up wealth, not knowing who will spend it.  And so, Lord, where do I put my hope?  My only hope is in you."  Psalm 39:4-7

It's true, when you believe in God, you know that this life is not all there is.  But you also have a responsibility to make this life count for something.  I can't do that if I'm going to be a wimp and cling so tightly to security and comfort that I miss the opportunity to take a risk.