The SAGs

And this is Pat, the one who came up with the idea for The SAGs. She is married to Mark, and she has two very gifted adult children. Pat grew up in a tiny rural town in Minnesota, part of a hardworking family who made faith and a strong work ethic part of their everyday lives. Pat works with women who are victims of domestic abuse. She is a super-fit cyclist who considers riding her bike 100 miles in one day no big deal, she’s a voracious reader and organizes a long-standing book club, and she knows how to maintain her many cherished friendships.             

One night after a fine dinner, we SAGs were sitting out on the huge rocks by the shore of Lake Superior, talking about our lives in Christ, about books, children, and our hearts’ deepest desires. And then we got on the topic of which of our own sagging parts we would change if we could. 

E-Boy

This wonderful little boy is my grandson Elijah. He’s the second child and only son of my middle daughter Carolyn and her husband Jeremy. Elijah is five years old and is in Kindergarten this year. 

Now, I know what I’m about to write will sound like a typical obnoxious, boasting grandmother, but I promise you it’s all true: there is nothing not to like about E-boy.

He is tender hearted. He is compassionate and gentle with his little sisters. How many five year-old boys would truly rejoice over a baby sister’s first word (”hot!”)?  Elijah leans close to baby Audrey when she tries out new words, smiles hugely and encourages her, and probably makes her feel like her big brother thinks she’s really amazing.

He loves to draw and create and I have never heard him say “I’m bored”. Elijah makes great things out of Legos that really do look like what he says they are: ships, dinosaurs, robots, swords, dragons, and castles with towers. He and his older sister Clara often sit at Grandpa and Grandma’s kitchen table with blank pieces of paper and crayons, and they’re happy and content to draw for a long time, and to look up occasionally and watch the birds that come to the feeder outside the window. There’s a peaceful calmness about Elijah that isn’t often seen in little boys his age.

Our E-boy is also funny and silly, quick to laugh and to make others laugh. He’s also really good at cleaning up when it’s time to put the toys away. He does it quickly and without complaining.

When I pick Elijah up at his house to bring him back to spend the night at Grandpa and Grandma’s, he runs out of his front door with glee and throws himself at me, he’s so excited for our time together.

I asked Elijah’s daddy to give me a couple of words he thought best described his son, and he said, “Willing and brave.” I see these traits in Elijah, and pray that God weaves them into the very fiber of his character as he grows. Elijah’s name means The LORD is my God, and as he learns to walk with Jesus throughout his life, I believe God will help him to be a willing and brave man in his generation.

I told my grandchildren that when they look at the moon and stars in the night sky, to think thoughts of the fun times they’ve had and will have with their grandparents. I remind them that when they see the moon, Grandma can see the same moon at the same time, even though we’re apart. I tell them that when I see the moon, I send my love winging its way to them, and am thinking of them and praying for them. Elijah listened intently to this and later told me sweetly, “Grandma when I see the moon, I think of you and all the love there is at your house.” Even as I type this I have tears.

Oh, such a tender and beloved boy he is. And even at this young age, he’s a boy of substance, willingness and courage. He’s a blessing in every sense of the word to his family, and one of God’s most extravagant gifts to me. I’m very proud to introduce you to my grandson Elijah David.

Tauni

I am excited to introduce you to Tauni, one of my oldest friends. She’s only a year older than I am, so I don’t mean one of my most ancient friends, I mean that Tauni is someone I’ve been friends with a long, long time. 

Tauni and I met when we were very young - she lived in the house behind mine, or you could say I lived in the house behind hers. My family moved into that particular house when I was three and I believe Tauni and I met within a year or two, so we have known each other for over forty-five years. Our yards were separated by tall cinder block walls typical of what you still find in Southern California, and Tauni’s family was one of the privileged ones in our neighborhood who had a built-in swimming pool in their back yard. As I wrote earlier here, I was passionate about swimming from the time I was about five, and it was in Tauni’s pool that I spent most of my swimming hours. It was on that high block wall that separated our back yards that I often sat, looking longingly over into her yard and hoping that I would receive an invitation to come and swim.

Our lives did not converge that much in school. Tauni played the flute and was in band; I took organ lessons at home on my mother’s behemoth Hammond B-3.  Tauni and I even had different groups of friends we hung out with. Her parents were much younger than mine, and her family vacations usually centered around water-skiing at Lake Nacimiento, while mine were more sedate and involved driving north to Morro Bay and taking lazy strolls on the beach. Tauni was the oldest of four children; the only girl. I was the youngest of three children; also the only girl. We often spent the night at each others’ houses when it wasn’t a school night, sleeping in a pull-out couch and staying up late to watch television. Almost every scrapbook from my childhood has several photos of Tauni and me doing something together.

I think Tauni would say that she best remembers our many outings to Disneyland, our just as many trips to the beach together, and my mother’s homemade popcorn balls, which we wrapped in wax paper and were the size of cantaloupes.

I remember all of Tauni’s younger brothers, Rodd, Brett and Glenn, and the constant activity in their home and back yard, and the fun and the wild splashing and the creative games they engineered. I remember her dad, who teased me for years about being a Tibetan Llama (too long of a story), and her mom, who had a huge and warm smile, and always elicited the open-hearted sharing a young girl thrived on. I used to marvel at the intercom in their house, and the soft and soothing music that always came from the speakers in each room. I used to covet the lazy susan sitting in the middle of their round dining table.

A very vivid memory I have of being with Tauni and her family involves two specific songs. I can remember riding in the way-back of their station wagon with a posse of kids, on the way home from a day at the beach. We were all full of sand and either tanned or sunburned, and Tauni’s mom Ann was driving, and the radio was on. Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Lookin’ Out My Back Door” was playing, and Tauni’s youngest brother Glenn was singing his heart out on the “toot, toot, toot” part, with a huge grin on his adorable face. Then, when B.J. Thomas’s “I Just Can’t Help Believing” came on, Tauni’s mom murmured, “Oh I love this song”, turned it up and sang along quietly. To this day, whenever I hear those two songs, I’m instantly transported back to their car and the water-logged, sun-drenched days of our childhoods.

As the years passed, my parents divorced and my mom and I moved to another house, and Tauni’s family also moved, toward the end of her high school years. They were still in the area, but we didn’t see each other that often. We didn’t even go to each others’ weddings.

But God is the most brilliant crafter of friendships, and He knew when He merged our lives as children, that Tauni and I would need each other decades later as grown women. So we never completely lost touch. Sometimes years would go by, but we would still occasionally write letters, exchange our children’s school photos, and call each other to catch up. It seemed that the closer Tauni and I both grew to the Lord, the closer we grew to each other. Our friendship as adults is much deeper and more connected than it was as children.

I have watched this dear friend walk through things that would have ruined some, but she has clung to the Lord and His fragrance is always around her. I have seen Tauni persevere in circumstances others would not have endured. The loss of a cherished brother. The end of a marriage. Dark times. But I have also seen that she has chosen to forgive, to bless others in the midst of her suffering, and to allow hardship to make her better, not bitter. 

We all know people whose hard and relentless circumstances are written into the very lines and expressions on their faces. But Tauni isn’t one of those people. Look at her picture. The vivacity and joy and optimism you see there are real and deep. The trust she has in her Savior not only permeates her life, but shows on her countenance as well.

Tauni is the mother of two beautiful adult children who consider her their hero. She has made her mark on this world in many ways, but as a mother, most don’t even come close. She is now enjoying being a new grandma to her daughter Shannon’s baby Ben, and someday he will know how blessed he is that God gave him Tauni for a Nana.

Tauni and I are separated now by over two thousand miles. In years past we have each traveled and visited one another, and now we’ve made tentative plans for a long-overdue visit in 2009. The last time I saw her in person was in January of this year, when she and her new husband Curt (who is the blessing she has deserved all her life) drove quite a distance to attend a memorial tribute for my father held in Southern California. We only had a couple of brief hours together there, but as we sat together, I pondered thankfully what we’ve shared. Tauni and I share years of history. Countless memories. And an abiding faith in Christ that has kept our friendship intact for all these many years, and will continue to bind us together for the rest of our lives on this earth, and into eternity.

I admire and love her so. To me, she is beautiful inside and out. I wish everyone could know her. I am so glad to introduce you to my dear friend Tauni.

Doc, my dad

This is an amazingly accurate likeness of my father drawn in about one hour, by my gifted son-in-law Jeremy. This is the quintessential Doc, from the expression on his face, to the cigar in his hand, to the mouth poised to speak on whatever things he felt passionately about, of which there were many.

Most people knew my dad as Doc the high school basketball coach. Some knew him as Doc the golf coach, as Doc the veteran, Doc the patriot, or Doc the conservative. To me, he will always be Dad. 

From a very early age I began to sense that my dad was well-known in our community, someone special to many people. Whenever anyone heard my last name they asked me, “Are you Doc’s daughter?” I was proud to say that I was. 

My dad was the grandson of an itinerant preacher and the son of a pastor. From the time I was three years old, he made sure I got to Sunday School at the First Baptist Church where we lived, and I believed everything I was taught there. I remember every one of my Sunday School teachers, the first Bible verse I memorized, and the songs we sang. I remember the first time I realized that I needed a Savior and couldn’t be good on my own no matter how hard I tried. I remember walking down the church aisle at age twelve to ask Jesus to come into my life and take over.

Aside from being a record-setting basketball coach, my dad taught Driver’s Education, so I was a proficient and illegal driver by the time I was ten years old. There isn’t a time today when I’m effortlessly parallel parking and slipping into a tight parking spot in one try, that I don’t think of my dad teaching me the secret of that “very valuable life skill”.

My dad sang to me. He sang goofy songs he’d learned as a farm boy in rural Missouri, and old hymns that I learned by heart as I listened to him sing the words. Whenever he sang The Old Rugged Cross, he would get tears in his eyes.

Dad always let me tag along. He never treated me like I was just a child. He actually enjoyed my company, even though I could be a whiny little thing with a thousand questions. He never shooed me away, never once told me to be quiet, never told me he didn’t have time for me. I didn’t realize how remarkable this was until I had children of my own.

He was a kid magnet. He loved children, and children loved him. My three daughters couldn’t wait to take their summer turns to fly to California and spend two weeks with Grandpa. He sat for hours while they played beauty shop, putting gel in his hair, hanging dangling earrings on those huge ears, and giggling with him. He doted on them and made them feel special and cherished.

My dad was never one to hold back. You always knew where you stood with him. With Doc, you knew that winning was paramount, liberals were suspect, and that one should have at least six cigars in one’s shirt pocket at all times. And if you were fortunate enough to play basketball for him, you knew exactly how to snap your wrist sharply out to the right when you took a shot. 

My father could be difficult too. He was opinionated and hated to be wrong. I think he probably thought he rarely was. He demanded a lot of his basketball players and of those he loved. But I can honestly say that I always knew he loved me.

Even though my father didn’t live out his Christian beliefs as openly as I think he would now, I know he wanted to pass on his foundational faith in Jesus, and it “took” with me. I caught it.  It has changed my life, saved my life, altered my outlook and lifted my chin. I want nothing more and nothing less than to pass it on to my daughters, and I take every opportunity I’m given to let my seven grandchildren know how much they are treasured by their Heavenly Father. I fervently pray that they will catch it too.

My dad’s last words to me were on the phone on Saturday, November 17th, 2007. His voice wasn’t the booming, assured, laughing one I’ve known all my life. Instead his voice was weak and raspy, and he was closer to death than any of us knew. But we know now that he knew how close he was to leaving here. The last thing my father said to me was “Love you, love you, love you.”

My father died on November 20, 2007, in his home in San Luis Obispo, California, where he was lovingly pampered and selflessly cared for by his wife Dorothy. He was 87 years old.

My dad left me many things, but I’m most grateful for two. I’m thankful he led me to a place where I would hear and eventually believe the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I’m so grateful that he made me feel loved. For a daughter to know that she was her father’s delight is a priceless gift.

My father had a presence about him that isn’t often seen. So his absence seems to leave a larger void. Even now it doesn’t feel real that someone so commanding and confident is really gone. But I will see him again.

And today, nearly one year after not hearing his voice anymore, I miss him.

Carey

This is my dear friend Carey. She and I met about 24 years ago at a young couples’ small group gathering through our church. We were in our twenties then and still pretty naive about so many things. Now we are middle-aged and hopefully a little wiser. We giggle about how in another 24 years we’ll be clacking our dentures and cackling together on the phone like we always have. Cackling and clacking. We won’t look as cute if we cackle and clack, but the love will still be there.

Carey and I have seen each other through a lot in life. Or you might say that we have clung to our friendship while we’ve waited and watched for Jesus to see us through.  We have cried to each other too many times to count, carried one another’s burdens as the scriptures encourage sisters in the Lord to do, and laughed and lunched and longed for higher things together.

My husband and I were eating dinner with family the night we got the horrible call that Carey’s husband Gary had died suddenly at age 26. I spoke at Gary’s funeral and wondered how God would show Himself to a young widow who had experienced less than two years of marriage. Then God brought new love to her life, and I rejoiced when she and David were married. I also remember the phone ringing in the night and Carey’s soft voice saying, “We have a girl!” Now that little babe is doing wonderfully in college. I will never forget the night their third child was born. I went down to the hospital to be with their two sleeping young daughters, while she and David waited to welcome their son. I couldn’t help bursting into tears when I heard his healthy cry, and when I drove home I pondered: death, life, tears and tragedy, health and happiness. I’m so glad God gives us friendships to help us hurt and to help us celebrate. Carey has certainly done this in my life.  

Carey isn’t just a loyal friend. She is a real-life version of Wonder Woman, if you ask me. There are so many things she does well it’s astounding. She can cook and bake delectable meals and treats, and the desserts she makes look like they’re off the cover of Bon Appetit.  She can expertly fish for walleye, bring down a deer with an accurate shot, then gut it with a knife. She can butcher the deer and then make her own sausage from the meat. She can properly tear apart an outdated room in an old house all by herself. She can install ceramic tile. Carey can sew beautifully, and used to have a business doing just that. Then she started making the most unique and gorgeous dried florals, and couldn’t keep up with the demand. Today she makes jewelry and when she eventually has the website I think she needs, I’ll update this post and you can see her gorgeous creations. She can read a how-to manual on just about anything and then do the job well. She handily changed a flat tire for me once. She has sewn incredible Halloween costumes. She sacrificially and cheerfully did all the flowers for the wedding of one of our daughters. She can pour concrete and she can create a breathtaking English flower garden. She can canoe, portage and set up camp in the Boundary Waters and she can put on a fabulous English tea. But even though she’s strong and can meet a physical challenge, she’s very feminine, tender, beautiful and kind.

Carey is smart, too. Really smart. She has two college degrees and could probably get a third while building a garage, altering a wardrobe and feeding the multitudes. But she wouldn’t like me telling you that, because she’s humble. She has a quiet servant’s heart that always wants to make people feel cared for, listened to, and helped in a practical way. Not too long ago she came to my house and helped me put a bed together, move some furniture around, prime the kitchen walls, and fold some clothes. She made me feel like this was no big deal to her, yet it meant so much to me.

We were in a book club together for a decade. We have read and discussed and recommended books to each other time and again. I can imagine we’ll be talking books while we’re clacking and cackling. We’ve even talked about visiting some of the places we’ve read about. Our most recent travel dream is the island of Guernsey in the English Channel. Up until now the farthest we’ve gone together is Minneapolis, but we had so much fun on that trip I think we could handle Guernsey someday.

One special memory is when we met for a movie one evening - a film about chocolate. Or maybe it was just a movie about life, with lots of chocolate thrown in, which isn’t that far from the truth of our own lives, actually. Carey and I couldn’t simply sit there and enjoy the movie together. We hunkered down in the theater seats and ate huge, freshly baked and still warm, gooey, appropriately chocolate cookies as we watched, and washed them down with jars of cold, smuggled-in milk.

We know what brings joy to each others’ hearts. We well understand what brings pain and fear. But we also know how to point each other back to the Lord, and that is what I cherish about our friendship. 

Carey and I have been in many Bible studies together, marking each summer with a different Beth Moore study, and each fall, winter and spring we attend Community Bible Study. We have learned so much about God and His goodness together, talking things out and praying for each other. I think that’s the main thing that comes to mind as I think over the years we’ve been friends - God has grown us up together, in Him. He has instructed us about life and eternity, and about His inscrutable ways; He has shown us what we can live through as we walk with Him, and in His kindness He has given us our friendship, which is truly rooted in Christ.

After all these years she still warmly says to me, “Julie, it’s so good to hear your voice.”  I feel the same way about her. 

I want you to get to know Carey. It’s so good to have her as a friend.

Meet Mrs. Nisky

This is my beloved granddaughter, E.  If you look closely you might be able to see the light beaming from her face.  She is the second child of my oldest daughter Sharon and her husband Chris. Auburn-haired and copper-eyed, Miss E. has always looked to me like she could have been named Penny.

Although we learned when she was in utero that E. was going to be a Long-Femured Woman, this sweet four year-old is a peanut. Uncharacteristically petite (for our family, anyway) and thoroughly feminine, she reminds me of a pixie: gracefully flitting here and there, quieter by nature than her older brother and younger sister, yet fierce and feisty when she’s bossed around. She has a unique quality about her that is hard to put in words, and it’s apparent whether she is with you in person or just talking to you on the phone; she has this luminous essence that shines out from her and beams right inside of you and wrenches your heart. She has a whispery voice that, when accompanied by that pure and disarming smile that no one else on the earth has, just sort of melts me completely. 

Miss E. loves to draw and paint, color and create. If her brother, Mr. McBoy, isn’t often trying to engage and direct her in playtime, it’s likely she’ll be found stretched out on the rug, chin resting on one hand and legs behind, intensely concentrating on the small figures she’s drawing. 

E. has a penchant for collecting things. It started way back when she was a mere toddler. She always wanted to be carrying a purse or basket of some sort, and all throughout the day she would select small things to put in it, and then treasure and guard them carefully. If she was playing with a saucepan, little bits of things had to go in it. If she chose a decorative basket to put over her arm, hair bows and crayons and pennies and beans would be added. For a while she said her Rs in the endearing way so many young children do, and one winter when visiting Grandpa and Grandma she proudly announced, “I’m the collecto of the family.” Little does she know that she has collected and carries around our hearts as well.

This summer her parents gave her the best present for her birthday, one totally in keeping with her personality. She attended a week of “Cinderella Ballet Camp”, where this group of little girls were taught the fun basics, and got to be ballerinas and princesses at the same time.  It culminated with a darling recital at the end of the week, and the photos of E. doing her broom dance show a little girl truly aglow with satisfaction and excitement.

E. loves music too. Sharon says that she loves to sing and is always making up her own little songs, and she wants to know what the title is to every song she hears on the radio.  Sometimes when the music is instrumental and Mama doesn’t know the title, she’ll explain to E. that it’s classical music.  So now E. thinks that the name of all instrumental songs she hears is “Classical”. 

Miss E. likes being a big sister, and evidently thinks that very exaggerated baby talk is the best way for her little sister to understand her.  “Are you the cutest baby in the whole wide world, you big girl honey? Yes you are! YES YOU ARE! You’re the cutest little sweetheart!”  I wish I could be there to hear it, and to see little sister M.’s delighted reaction. 

When I was about three or four years old, I used to grapple verbally for ways to tell my parents how much I loved them, and apparently I used to declare, “I love you two chibben and fee!” which was my way of saying the biggest number I could think of - two, seven and three.  This bent for hyperbolic expression must run in our family, because Miss E.’s parents tell me that when she expresses affection to them, she says things like “I love you twenty-four six hundred!”, meaning, of course, lots and lots.

Over a year ago when her parents were talking with her and of course, using her first name, Miss E. interrupted and said firmly (and out of nowhere), “Don’t call me E.!  My name is Mrs. Nisky!” They never knew where that new moniker came from but had to restrain themselves from laughing because she was so serious. So while other families have nicknames that make sense, as in Bobby for Robert or Jenny for Jennifer, our little Miss E. wants to be called Mrs. Nisky.

Mrs. Nisky on her fourth birthday

When I talk to E. on the phone I often ask her when she is coming to our part of the country to visit us.  “How ’bout Saturday?” she always cheerfully answers.  Oh, how I wish it were so.  We live far away from each other, so twice a year visits will have to do for now, along with frequent phone and e-mail updates.

When I look at E.’s sweet face and deep into her eyes, I think of the song, “This little light of mine…I’m gonna let it shine!” because that’s exactly what she does.  It’s who she is.  She has this wonderful and steady little light inside of her, full of innocence and love and spirit, and she lets it shine, and shine, and shine.  Our family is so happy and thankful that God has blessed us with the luminous Mrs. Nisky.

Clear and bright…

If ever a child has grown into the meaning of her name, it’s Clara.  

All the baby name books say that Clara means “clear and bright”, and here are some of the definitions of those words from Merriam-Webster: Clear: luminous, cloudless, serene, transparent, unmistakable, keen, innocent, pure.  Bright: shining, sunny, lively, cheerful, intelligent, promising. 

She is my oldest grandchild, firstborn of our daughter Carolyn and her husband Jeremy.  Clara is six years old and is in the first grade. She loves to read (”Grandma, I guess you could say I’m a bookworm!”) and she’s very content to spend hours drawing, creating and imagining.  While she was at our house yesterday, she read Charlotte’s Web, made an 18-inch tall weather vane out of felt, construction paper, tape and pipe cleaner (making sure I knew which were the North/South/West/East arrows), built a small room out of Legos with an “emergency exit window”, demonstrated the difference between the calls of the chickadees and nuthatches at our deck feeder, and told me she loved me about seven times.

One of the things I love most about Clara is her very real devotion for her three younger siblings. She and her brother Elijah are sixteen months apart and are true friends. There is a deep bond between them and it’s beautiful to see. She thinks the antics of her little sister Vivienne are adorable and says, “Grandma, isn’t Vivie so sweet?” And Clara is genuinely delighted when baby Audrey smiles or accomplishes something for the first time (”Grandma, Audrey can crawl and sit up now!”).

I grew up loving books, and remember the first time that excitement for reading began in me: in the second grade at Workman Avenue Elementary School in West Covina, when my teacher Mrs. Lokken read aloud the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle books to our class.  We would sit resting with our heads down on our desks after a hard-playing recess in furnace-like Southern California weather.  I remember thinking that I was going to read those books to my children when I became a mother someday.  And I did.  What never entered my seven year-old mind was that I might eventually be a grandmother as well, and perhaps I would read them to my grandchildren. 

So when the children’s play “The Magic Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle” came to The Children’s Theater in Minneapolis earlier this year, we began a tradition that I hope to continue for many years: a Grandma Date. Clara and I drove to the Twin Cities and saw the wonderful production, stayed at a nice hotel, ate at restaurants, and made some memories. Elijah knows that next year when he is six, he and I will do the same together.

Clara is tall and long-legged, has golden hair and skin, and expressive blue eyes.  She can be shy around new people, but her conversation with those she’s comfortable with is constant, full of hypothesizing and frequent words of love. She is obedient to her parents, helpful and peaceful. She’s an amazing example for her younger brother and sisters.

Clara loves to watch reruns of The Lawrence Welk Show on Saturday nights.  When she happens to be spending the night at Grandpa and Grandma’s on a Saturday, she’ll often look at me with wide eyes and say, “Grandma! Remember what’s on TV tonight!”  And when I say, “Lawrence Welk?”, she smiles and nods emphatically, knowing in a little while we’ll be watching together, swaying to Guy and Ralna or Bobby and Cissy doing their thing.

She likes to hear about life “back in the old days” when I was a child, or about poignant memories I have of her when she was younger. Recently she asked me to tell her some things I remembered about her when she was a baby. One vivid memory came to mind. I told her that when she was about a year old, we had a high chair in our kitchen that we used just for her visits.  I told her how she would sit in this high chair and tentatively try some of the new finger foods her mama gave her. Even at a year old, Clara was watchful and quiet, and as I moved around the kitchen her eyes followed me, and when I spoke to her in Grandma-like coos and smiled at her, she grinned back hugely, breaking my heart into pieces.  I told Clara that as long as I was in the room, she was content. But if I left the kitchen and moved out of her eyesight, she would burst into tears. After hearing all of this, six-year old Clara looked into my eyes and placed her hand on mine and said, “Grandma, it’s still pretty much like that now.”

There are days now when life seems a little overwhelming to me. Years ago I couldn’t have looked in my mind to the horizon of our future and seen there the things that make up our life now. We have things I never thought we’d have, and are missing things I never thought would be lost.  Sometimes it feels like we are muddling around in the dark, trying hard to hold on to our Savior’s hand. Theologically, I know that He is holding us in His hands, but I forget that much too often.  How thankful I am for our grandchildren and the riches and perspective they bring to our lives. They cause us to lift our chins, roll up our sleeves and set our hearts and minds on what’s truly important. They help us to pray and to dream and to hope. 

My oldest grandchild Clara brings me joy.  She is just plain good company.  Her very presence can make things seem clearer and brighter, although at age six she has no idea that she exemplifies the meaning of her name. It is my prayer that as she grows, she will learn to walk closely with the Lord and that she will look to Jesus as the Protector of her heart.

I’m so proud and thankful to share about my granddaughter Clara.  I love her so.

Lana

You see her enter a massive room full of dozens of tables and hundreds of chairs, and you are immediately struck by her gorgeous auburn hair, cut very stylishly. Next you notice how perfectly dressed she is, and you realize she knows what colors a redhead looks good in. You watch as she (and possibly an assistant or two) methodically but creatively transform the plain room into an enchanting place that will hold a wedding reception that fulfills a young bride’s dreams. You note how efficient and particular this beautiful woman is as she expertly drapes each seat with a shimmery white fabric chair cover that she designed and made herself, and ties it off with a fancy, elegant bow for a final flourish.  A once nondescript room is now something that would evoke “ooohs” or “aaahs” from anyone entering, and would quickly draw them in. 

I want you to meet Lana.  Really, what Lana does with her started-from-scratch chair cover business is very similar to what she does in her life.  She does it with her family, her home, and her friends.  This creative and generous woman can take the ordinary, and quite simply, make it better.  She brings a sense of refreshment with her wherever she goes.

A little over two years ago, Lana introduced herself to me at Community Bible Study and lovingly told me she would pray for my husband, who had been recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Last year she became a core leader at CBS and our friendship really took off. Lana is one of those rare women who is immediately so easy to be with, to converse with, to get to know, that she has made me feel like we’ve been friends for decades instead of a relatively short couple of years.  Everyone who calls Lana friend knows her attentive, compassionate way of listening. She has a tender heart that translates into everything she does.  When I need comfort and encouragement, she’s one of the first people I think of.

Lana is a prayerful, devoted wife, and mom to three grown and fabulously talented children, yet she prays for my husband and children. Her faith in Jesus permeates her life in a humble and attractive manner. She’s a great decorator who brings peace and harmony to her home, not only with her creativity, but with her personality. She helped paint my newly remodeled kitchen and offered her service to us many other times. A year ago she heard that we had an undetected leak in a kitchen pipe which ruined floors, and she showed up at our door with a delicious dinner, to lighten my load.  She’s just there, with a smile and a prayer and a soft way about her that really does make me feel better.

Lana is a true mixture of elegance and grace.  Like the transformation that occurs when she works her magic on ordinary, utilitarian chairs, she probably doesn’t even realize she does the same with the people in her life.  She quietly changes any atmosphere into something a little more beautiful, a little softer and more inviting, with her gentle, sincerely compassionate ways.

She is a woman of many friends, yet she takes time to regularly communicate with me.  I am thankful for the richness and love Lana has brought into my life. I count her friendship among my most cherished blessings.

Meet Lana.

Mr. McBoy

Look at that face.  If you didn’t smile when you looked at my firstborn grandson, then I’ll be over with your bolus dose of Zoloft after I finish writing this post.

C. is 6 years old and is in the first grade.  He is the oldest child of my oldest child. And his father is an oldest child too.  If you’ve read my previous post on the Long-Femured Women in my family, you might guess that since C. is the offspring of an LFW and a very tall dad, he is a big boy, much taller than most of his age-mates.

Mr. McBoy has the most endearing, husky little-boy voice.  He is all muscle.  He has a contagious laugh.  He is a good story-teller, who always manages to work a little-boy dragon into his tales.  He knows who our current president is: Washington Bush.  He is confident, smart and friendly, and has no trouble introducing himself to new people.  We have called him Felix (for Felix Unger from The Odd Couple), because he sometimes has persnickety preferences that are unusual for a little boy.  He’s active and enjoys the outdoors, but hates getting dirt on his hands. He is certain that he has superhero powers. 

He watched the women gymnasts in the Olympics this year and when they propelled themselves so high into the air and did amazing round-offs and walkovers, he exclaimed, ”It’s like a MIRACLE!”  He then nonchalantly informed his mother that if he were in the Olympics his sport would be running, because he is already “one of the fastest runners in the world.”  

About me, he commented to his father, “Daddy, Grandma really likes God and Jesus, doesn’t she?” He is sweetly affectionate. He tells me on the phone that he loves me and misses me, and will soon come to my house to stay a week with Grandpa and Grandma.  Years ago he asked what the red birds on his family’s Christmas tree were called, and could only remember them as “birdinals”.  Today the creek in our back yard is named Birdinal Creek because of that word he unknowingly made up.

Mr. McBoy loves to do anything with his daddy.  They do man things together, like hiking, going to Daddy’s workplace and buying pickles.  He thinks he is the boss of his two little sisters.  He is very competitive and wants to win at all costs, whether it involves a game of UNO with his Grandpa who lives in Missouri, or a battle he’s creating on his bedroom floor with his army guys.

He resembles and walks like his daddy, but he has been painted from his mama’s palette - he has her hair and skin color and light eyes.

When C. was a baby he used to hold both his chubby little fists in the sign-language letter “E” position and wave them around in tight little circles.  We knew he was signing to us: “Excellent! Extraordinary! Enthusiastic!”, because after all, that’s what he was. And is. 

I am proud and happy to share about my excellent, extraordinary, enthusiastic firstborn grandson.  I love him so.

Ginny

If you don’t know Ginny, you are really missing out.  She and I have been friends for about eleven years now, but it seems like we’ve known each other since first grade.  Sometimes it feels like we were twins separated at birth and then returned to each other’s lives as middle-aged women. 

She’s the first to admit that she’s a sanguine party animal by nature, and I believe everyone always has a great time with Ginny.  But she’s also quick to remind her friends  that “this ain’t the party”, helping us to look past our current hard times and to never forget that untold joys await on the other side.  

Ginny is one of the first people I go to if I need prayer. I always know Ginny will pray. And keep praying.  I cherish this about her.

If you meet Ginny and become even slightly acquainted with her, she will very quickly christen you with a nickname.  Sometimes the nicknames make sense: she calls my husband Michael “Mickey”, and she calls me “Jewel”.  I like that.  She calls my youngest daughter Sara “Bubba”.  Now Sara no more looks like a Bubba than Queen Elizabeth does, but because Ginny says it with such fondness, somehow it just seems right.

Ginny’s passion, I think, lies in the word connection.  She’s someone who has a passion to see people connect with each other and with God - she wants people to feel welcomed, included and loved right away, and no one else makes that happen quite like Virginia Kay.  She would eradicate loneliness from the face of the earth today if she had the power to do so, and sometimes I think she just might. 

She likes to connect with her friends on a deep, sharing level. She cares, she calls, she listens, she laughs, she prays out loud for me and makes me feel loved. She knows how to put people in touch with whatever it is they need, whether it’s a wallpaper hanger, a restaurant, a blazer that’s 32 inches long, or Almighty God Himself.

She has nurtured women young and old in the faith for years. She says she can’t bake and can barely cook, yet each time she invites me for a meal I end up salivating all over the table and begging for the recipe. She loves the “type and shadow” found in the Bible and her huge eyes fill with tears when she learns a new truth.  Ginny and I were in a book club together for ten years.  We go to the same church. We have husbands with similar interests, primarily food and guns fishing and travel. We love attending Community Bible Study together.  And we are very partial to our Danskos. 

Ginny has never chosen to have children of her own.  I once asked her why and she cracked me up by responding, “I didn’t have kids because I didn’t want to wreck anyone - I was pretty sure mine would end up being the ones who sit on the tops of buildings with rifles in their hands.”  Yet she is the most maternal, wise, insightful, nurturing woman you could meet.  I recently heard this phrase and it so applies to Ginny: that girl could mother a fencepost.

For my last birthday she took the time to write out fifty of our memories, on fifty small strips of paper. I cried fifty tears and thanked God fifty times for a “jewel” of a friend like her. 

Meet Ginny.  If you don’t know her yet, you should.  Your nickname awaits you.