For the next hour, I watch Hannah as she celebrates liberation. She runs and leaps and then climbs to the top of the jungle gym that is in the yard. I snap a photo of her as she performs feats of daring up there that still make me gasp.
Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is wild, and I wish that utter abandon and unbridled joy could last forever.
When my daughter comes home, Hannah is momentarily stricken. “I didn’t finish my math sheets,” she confesses at once.
I hold my breath. I watch my daughter as she looks at Hannah, at me, and at the day that is surrendering to dusk.
And Jill says the very thing I might have written in a script for her:
“You can finish your homework later,” my daughter tells hers. “Play some more!”
And on a glorious spring day, I silently bless my daughter for her wisdom.
Sally Friedman
I Can Make It Grow
I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children; and what an inhumane world, without the aged.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
My granddaughter Lydia, who was five years old, was visiting her grandpa and me one spring day when we all decided to go for a walk, taking Missy, our dog, with us.
Since I have multiple sclerosis, my legs have taken on wheels to accommodate me; I use a three-wheel scooter. Nonetheless, I enjoy the sunshine and the adventure of getting out and about like the rest of the family.
Now Liddy, as we call her, was taking in all her eyes would allow. As you may know, the eyes of a child spot things an adult’s eyes may never see. So it was on this particular day. In the subdivision where we live, there are no sidewalks; everyone goes for their daily walks strolling down the middle of the streets. There is a slight embankment along the road, and it is in one of these shallow ditches that she spotted it.
“Look, Grandma,” Liddy said eagerly.
I tried to muster enthusiasm for the little artificial flower that had somehow made its way into the drainage ditch. “Oh, that is nice, Liddy.”
She held it tenderly. “It’s a beautiful bouquet. Isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.” I placed it in the basket on my scooter.
“I want to plant it when we get home,” she informed me.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her it would do no good to plant an artificial flower.
“I know how to plant flowers. I planted some at Grandma Carolyn’s house.”
Grandma Carolyn was her grandma on her mother’s side, and I never questioned her endeavors or abilities. After all, that grandmother was more able-bodied than me. Liddy spent more time there, staying overnight and bonding with her other grandma in a small rural community a few miles away. I was sure Grandma Carolyn had helped Liddy plant real flowers in her yard.
We continued on our walk, with the artificial flower surviving quite nicely in my basket. It sat there rather staunchly, as if it knew it had a mission.
As our home came into view, Liddy, too, had a mission. She was going to plant that flower.
“I can make it grow,” she told me confidently.
She reached into my basket as we arrived at our house. I thought to myself, How am I going to tell this sweet little child that this is a flower that will not grow when planted?
“Liddy, you know that is not a real flower; it’s artificial.”
“I know,” she said without batting an eye.
She told me she needed a shovel, then she picked out a spot beside the front walk leading to our porch.
“Grandpa, would you get Liddy a big tablespoon?” I requested of Bill, my husband.
I was not going to quash our granddaughter’s spirit or her faith. She was sure she knew how to dig a hole, plant that flower and make it grow. She was adamant in her abilities and in that plastic flower’s ability to sprout into an even more beautiful bouquet. She felt capable of achieving her goals. I wasn’t going to deter her.
Liddy planted and watered her flower, proudly showing her daddy when he came. She had placed it in a spot where it wouldn’t be missed on her next arrival.
Several visits and a multitude of rainstorms later, on one of her stopovers, Liddy, with a dejected look on her face, informed me that her flower was dying despite her loyalty. I couldn’t stand the disappointment she faced.
One day a few weeks later, Bill purchased some flowers to plant in our backyard. A light went on in my brain.
“Bill, take one of those flowers and plant it by the walk in the front yard were Liddy planted that artificial flower.”
On her next visit, Liddy’s eyes sparkled when she saw the purple, flourishing flowers. Her faith was renewed. She continued to water that flower and care for it each time she came, declaring, “I told you I can grow flowers.”
Sometimes nature and children need a boost in achieving their intended objectives.
Sometimes we just need to give a child hope in her dreams.
Sometimes we adults need to be encouraged to have the faith of a child.
Sometimes we need to replace our artificial lives with the real thing.
Other times, we need to water our hopes and dreams with effort, determination and will, having patience until they grow into being.
Most times, a child can teach us a multitude of things about ourselves and about life—if we just look at life through the eyes of a child.
Betty King
off the mark by Mark Parisi
www.offthemark.com
Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi. ©2005.
Motherhood 202
What do we live for, if not to make life less difficult to each other?
George Eliot
At the age of eighteen, I became the mother of not one baby boy, but two. Being an inexperienced mom frightened me. I had never even held a brand-new baby before. The day I left the hospital the nurse placed a baby in each arm. Equipped with two care packages filled with formula and baby wipes, off I went to face an adventure of a lifetime. At that time, I didn’t realize the sacrifices I would make and how much of my time these two beautiful babies would require.
Instead of going home, my husband and I stayed with my parents for a couple of weeks. The more help we can get, the easier it will be, I thought. Both of my parents worked during the day, so at night they were forced to get some much-needed rest. Sitting up most of the night with the boys as they took turns vying for my attention, then washing diapers while preparing formula during the day, was very exhausting, to say the least.
My wonderful grandmother, Mamma, came to help out. She walked inside, and love immediately poured from her heart as she gazed into the bassinets in which my tiny babies slept. I was so glad to see her. I threw my arms around her neck and held her close. I’ll never forget how soft her hair was and how good she smelled that day. It reminded me of the times that she squeezed me tightly when, as a child, I needed a hug.
She smiled and said, “Babies raising babies, Lord. Now just what do you think about that?” By the expression on her face, I knew she still loved me, as much as ever. Suddenly I understood the sacrifice that she made when her girls were small and, later, while helping my parents to raise me. I also realized that I would always be a baby to her, regardless of my age.
During the next two weeks, Mamma and I spent a great deal of time together. While she rocked one baby, I changed the other. When I sterilized bottles, she folded mounds of diapers. I never imagined that two little babies could create so much laundry or drink so much formula. While I appreciated the efforts that Mamma put forward to physically help me get through the first two weeks of my babies’ lives, I appreciated more the loving support. Just when I needed it most she said, “You’re doing a good job, darling.” She blessed me with instructions, giving me a crash course in Motherhood 202.
“Love them while you have them, darling,” she said after we got both boys to sleep one morning. “Life is so short. Before you turn around good, they’ll be gone.” Of course, with them being less than t
wo weeks old, the thought of them leaving home was the last thing on my mind—I was just concerned about making it through the next few days! But I listened and clung to every word she said.
“Always be positive,” was a favorite hint that she repeated many times during our roundtable discussions. “If you ever say ‘no,’ don’t back down” and “Remember to say what you mean and mean what you say,” were favorite lines of hers. “Sometimes it’s better to say, ‘Let me think about it’ before answering. Never base your decisions on guilt, pride or obligation. Let love be your guide.”
Mamma was never afraid to say what she was thinking. “Be willing to admit, even to kids, that you are capable of making mistakes, darling. Tell them you’re sorry when you make a bad decision. They may be little, but remember that they have feelings too,” she said as she kissed one of the baby’s tiny cheeks.
“Never put them on the back burner of your life,” she said. “God has given you two blessings. Pray for them daily, thanking him. Let them know you are praying for them too,” she followed. “That is very important.”
The two weeks passed quickly, and suddenly I turned around one day and the boys were walking, talking, and too soon they started school. A few years later, Mamma left this world behind. Through my tears, I watched as my little boys sang her favorite hymn before a chapel full of her friends and family. In my mind, I saw the love in her eyes as she gazed into their bassinets just a few years earlier. I knew in my heart that their sweet voices would make her feel very honored.
Over the years, as little storms crept into our lives, I never forgot Mamma’s instructions. Many times I had to admit I’d made a mistake, and I told my kids I was sorry. When they became teens, I made some tough decisions. Like Mamma challenged me to do, I tried to base every decision not on guilt, pride or obligation, but on love. I am positive they have always understood how important they are to me. I realized life was short and they’d be gone in no time, so I spent quality time with them every single day.
When the boys grew into young men, I was elated as they walked across the university auditorium and accepted their hard-earned diplomas. I thought of Mamma and how proud she would have been of them both. When the dean called their names, in my heart I heard Mamma say, “Babies raising babies, Lord. Now what do you think of that?”
Somewhere, beyond the cheering, I also heard her say, “Good job, darling. I give you an A+ in Motherhood 202.”
“Thank you, Mamma. You taught me everything that I know.”
Nancy Gibbs
7
GIFTS FROM
GRANDMA
Presents which our love for the donor has rendered precious are ever more acceptable.
Ovid
Unexpected Gift
The heart of the giver makes the gift dear and precious.
Martin Luther
During 1956 and 1957 I worked in the various refugee camps near Linz, Austria. As a male volunteer under the auspices of the service arm of my denomination, the Church of the Brethren, I worked with people who had lost their homes and possessions in Eastern Europe during World War II or after the war when they fled from areas under Communist control. Although they desperately wanted to immigrate to a country where they could begin a new start in life, many were still stranded in dreary refugee camps.
My experiences with the survivors of World War II led me to enroll in college upon my return to the United States because I wanted to discover what had caused the terrible war that caused so much death, suffering and dislocation. In the summer of 1958 I organized and conducted a tour group of Americans visiting the tourist points of Western Europe, including Amsterdam, Paris, Rome and the Swiss Alps. In order to show these first-time visitors another side of European life, I also took the tour group, which included my mother and aunt, into a refugee camp (Camp Haid) to visit one of the refugee families living there. I was both glad and sad to see an elderly woman with whom I’d worked two years before.
About a week later, on August 14, 1958, a portion of the tour group departed for home on a regularly scheduled KLM (Royal Dutch Airlines) flight. Tragically, this airplane was the first plane to go down in the Atlantic Ocean since World War II. Among the ninety-six casualties were twenty of my tour group, including my mother and aunt. I was devastated.
Two years later I took another tour group on the same itinerary. Although hoping that by this time all the refugees would have been permanently resettled and no longer living in a refugee camp, I again took the group into Camp Haid. When I knocked on the door of the family’s area of the old barracks, I was again face-to-face with the same elderly woman with whom I had renewed a friendship in 1958. Upon seeing me, the color drained from her face and the ashen-faced lady whispered, “Herr Kreider, I thought you had died in that airplane crash.”
I explained that only a portion of our group, including my mother, had been on that particular flight. I shared with her that tragic period, but then said I had much better news to share. I told her that I had just learned by telephone that very morning that my wife had given birth to a little girl in Kassel, Germany.
The refugee lady froze and just stared at me in apparent disbelief. What was going through her mind? She then turned and walked to the other side of the room. Reaching up, she grasped a white puppy made of yarn. The cute, handlooped poodle was about ten inches high, with floppy ears, sharply defined eyes and a pug nose. She walked back, handed the puppy to me and said, “This is a gift to the little baby—from her grandmother.”
What a flood of emotions swept over me. How could this be? She explained that back in 1958 when I was showing other parts of the refugee camp to others in the tour group, my mother had remained in this lady’s home and admired her handiwork, a handmade puppy. Despite her inability to speak German, Mother had communicated with the lady, ordered a puppy to be made, paid for it, including postage, and left her address. The old lady heard of the fatal accident and, assuming the worst, never mailed the puppy.
Now, on the day her first grandchild was born, a gift from Grandma was presented to her little granddaughter.
J. Kenneth Kreider
Grandma’s Attic Treasures
The manner of giving shows the character of the giver, more than the gift itself.
John Caspar Lavater
“I don’t want to go. You’re not being fair.”
My mother glared at me. Her tan cheeks flushed with crimson.
“I won’t go!” I hollered.
“You will, and that’s final.”
“But . . .”
“Final,” she said as she walked out of the room.
The ride from our home to Grandma’s was lengthy, but the hours of silence intensified the dreary trip. I couldn’t find joy in the book or music I had brought to occupy my time. My parents sat silently in the front seat. The hum of the car on the road and my brother’s rhythmical snores were my only companions.
I looked at my watch. By now my friends were on their way to the jazz concert, having fun. I rubbed my jaw, trying to relax the tight muscles.
For the next three days I worked quietly beside my parents as we cleaned my grandparents’ house so they could sell it and move into an assisted-living residence near us. The dust, mold and musty smells were pungent, but not as foul as my attitude.
How could my mother treat me like this? Why would she insist I spend the most important weekend of my life doing such a rotten job? Most of my friends would graduate in three weeks, so this would have been our last chance to go to a concert and hang out together. Sweat rolled down my back as I scrubbed the kitchen cupboards, but the steam boiling in my heart was hotter than Grandma’s perking teakettle.
My arms ached every night from the day’s work, but my jaw ached even more from the tension built up in me. My only reprieve was following my grandparents up the rickety attic stairs to browse through the years of history stored on shelves and in boxes.
From antique dressers to handmade cedar chests, old papers, Christma
s ornaments, dishes and toys, the attic was full of wonderful treasures. With every item I picked up, Grandma had a story to tell about it. I couldn’t wait for our day of cleaning torture to be over so I could vacation in the past with my grandma.
Though the attic was an excellent distraction, my jaw tensed each time I thought of my friends at the concert.
As we packed to leave, Grandma tiptoed and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for helping us,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” I muttered. Her tender gray eyes sparkled. My sacrifice had meant a lot to her. “You’re welcome,” I said again, hugging her.
Three weeks later we moved my grandparents close by, and I was able to see them regularly and enjoy the vanilla wafer cookies and milk Grandma offered me. Their new home was cozy, but I couldn’t ignore the dreamy look in Grandma’s eyes when she talked about her home on the beach. Together we reminisced about the objects we had seen in the attic, and Grandma’s familiar smile added happy wrinkles on her face.
When Christmas arrived, Grandma and Grandpa came with wide smiles and arms full of gifts. I enjoyed having my older sister and brother home from school. And though I knew the majority of presents under the tree were for my three-year-old brother, this year was special because we were all together.
It wasn’t the bright lights on the Christmas tree or the multitude of presents hugging the trunk that caught my attention—it was the porcelain doll snuggled into the red and green plaid skirt surrounding the tree. Her hands were primly folded on her white, flowing dress. The pink satin bow around the waist and hem of her dress were bathed in the Christmas lights.
This precious gift was the last one to be handed out. Would my older sister receive this porcelain princess? Oh, how I wanted to hold it.
Grandma’s curly hair bounced when she nodded her head at my mom, who tenderly picked up the doll . . . and placed it in my lap.