Children Are More Valuable Than Things

As I sit here holding the little hummingbird wing onto the little acrylic hummingbird fan pull for the second time in its life,   I wonder how many hundreds of things I’ve glued back together through the years.  Pieces of bone china angel wings , the lenox vase, picture frames, pieces of this, pieces of that, hummingbird wings.  I have a stockpile of things that are still broken and still need repair.   Things most people would throw away, and my children most certainly will when they go through my “things” after me,  wondering what in the world they are and why in the world I saved them.  But here I sit with my little hummingbird, patiently waiting for the glue to dry so I can finish my other chores around the house. 

 

I gave the hummingbird fan pull to my dad one year after he reached the stage of “whatever- I- want-or-need-I-just-go-get-so-there’s-nothing-really-you-can-get-me-for-a-present”.  It might have cost $12.95.  Or less.  Who remembers?  But he loved hummingbirds, and the ceiling fan in the den of the house in Paris, Tx with a 12 foot ceiling, was always running, so it seemed just thoughtful enough, just whimsical enough.  When Mom sold the house, and we kids packed it up, it was one of the last things I saw, still hanging from the ceiling fan…so someone got it down  for me.

 

I don’t remember how it broke.  One of the sons, or son-in-laws, probably throwing something -- doesn’t matter.  I stuck the wing tip in the desk drawer for repair at some later date, when I had time to patiently hold the wing on for a few minutes.  Don’t really have time today, but here I sit, typing with one hand, holding the hummingbird wing with the other,  and thinking about gluing things together.

 

One of the first things we learned in our marriage was this:  Everything I have, I have because God has given me.  And one of the first things I learned about parenting was this:  children are more valuable than things.  Maybe that’s the reason for all the glue.  They never really meant to break things, just like they never really meant to spill things.  It wasn’t ever premeditated.  They act childish, they are children, after all.  Accidents happen.  Fine motor skills are much harder to master than gross motor skills.   Eyes get big, lips quiver.  They weren’t concerned with getting spanked, they were just petrified of disappointing me or seeing a tear roll out of my eye and  finding out they had just destroyed another family heirloom that had belonged to my precious grandmother.  So I tried hard to be nonchalant, hugged them tight and said, “It’s o.k. baby, it’s not eternal.”  Because I believed it with all my heart… Things are just things.  They’ll burn.  But kids ARE eternal, and molding those little hearts was the most important thing in all the world.  

 

I remember sighing deep down inside every time the Lenox vase got knocked over and another piece chipped off.  It was maybe the only thing we owned that was really valuable (as the world sees it), and had been given to us as a wedding gift.  We would have never had the privilege to, or been able to splurge enough to, buy one for ourselves.  So I glued.  In fact I glued until it would no longer hold water.  A few Christmases back, Mom thoughtfully gifted me with an identical replacement vase she spent hours searching for.  And how my heart smiled!

 

So this Christmas I glued the camel foot back on, Joseph’s hand back on Joseph’s arm, and Joseph’s arm back on his body, and now the hummingbird wing again.  Everything I have, I still have because God has given me.  And children are still more valuable than things.  And thankfully, that will never change around here. 

 

Dr. Kilmer's Swamp Root Kidney Remedy

On a road trip without Duane last weekend, i stopped at a few antique stores along the way to pass the time, and found the greatest little bottle.  Engraved in the glass:  Dr. Kilmer's Swamp Root Kidney Remedy.


So i bought it, took it home, and looked it up.

Dr. Kilmer was the most famous purveyor of quack medicine in the 1890’s. And his legacy lives on, in this little bottle. It got me to thinking, what will people remember about me and what is important to me?

What legacy am I leaving? Are we leaving? I posed that question to my preschool coordinators at our weekly staff meeting and asked them what scripture comes to mind.

• 3 John 4. I have no greater joy than to know my children walk in the truth

• Psalm 78:4 We will tell the next generation the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord

• Proverbs 22:6 Train up a child.  Prepare them to trust God, teach them of His faithfulness

• Isaiah 63:7 I will recount the steadfast love of the Lord

Our conversation continued on towards speaking the name of Jesus in your home, and how important that is, and how it lingers in the hearts of your children long after you’re done. Which brought me to a story I had already been thinking about on my road trip and wanted to share.

We got a phone call one October morning at 6 a.m.  MY mom asked to speak to Duane instead of me, and told him my dad had a massive heart attack and the doctors said we needed to fly to Memphis asap. I was 7 months pregnant with Jeffrey, our girls were 5 and 7, and that wasn’t a phone call any of us were expecting. We didn’t have 2 thin dimes to rub together at the time, but the 4 of us hopped a plane, and flew to Memphis. Long story short and as love would have it, my Dad was given more time. Duane flew home with Kari, our second grader after a few days, but Ashley, our kindergartner, stayed with me another week until we thought perhaps she should go home and get back to school, too. I neede to stay longer and help mom, though.

I might as well have buckled my heart into that airplane seat, because it was like ripping mine out to send my five year old home alone on an airplane. Ashley was excited and bouncy, but I leaned down and held her freckled little face in my hands and said, “Ashley, I love you. Dad will be waiting for you in Houston. If you get scared, just close your eyes and whisper to yourself, Jesus – Jesus”.

Fast forward 26 years to this Christmas.  My 85 year old mom was with us and we were drawing questions out of the question jar to "stimulate conversation."  The question, “What was the hardest thing you’ve ever done?” Mom quickly answered, "The hardest thing I’ve ever done was sending Ashley home by herself on that airplane after Dad’s heart attack."  Ashley looked me dead in the eye, 26 years later and without a moment's hesitation said, “and I still remember exactly what you said to me – "If you get scared, just close your eyes and whisper to yourself, Jesus – Jesus – Jesus.”

There’s power in the name of Jesus.
Speak it in your home, speak it to your children. Leave a legacy. "We will tell the next generation the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord…His power, and the wonders he has done."

Welcome Home

A reminder popped up on my computer today about Frances' birthday coming up in a few days. Not meaning to be melancholy, because i really am happy for her- moving to a new location and living the astonishingly perfect life...pain free, no tears, sweet rest, closer to Jesus that i can imagine...


But i've really been missing her lately.


I just know she'd be so involved in getting me ready to go to Africa, have all these amazing ideas of fabulous creative things to do with the kids, hand me a list of things to bring back for the resource room, pray me there and back. And she'd already be fussing at me for not being better planned and already having my suitcase packed days ahead of time. Because she surely would have.


I was blessed to attend a Michael W. Smith Christmas concert in early December where i heard him sing, "Welcome Home", a new song from his latest project, Wonder. It fit right where my heart was at the time, and ministered to me having just lived through the tedious, emotional days of loving her to the Homeland. So every time i hear it now, my eyes fill up and spill over just a little bit, and i so miss the sparkle and life of my friend. But we do not grieve as do those who have no hope. What a blessed promise.


Welcome Home


I can't believe that I'm here, having to say goodbye.
And i can barely see you through these tears i cry.
I close my eyes.


I can hear the sound, as angels gather 'round
Saying, "This is where you belong - Welcome Home!"


There are the days that my heart aches wishing you were here.
But i know where you are the hurt and the pain disappear.
There's no more tears.


I can hear the sound, as angels gather 'round
Saying, "This is where you belong - Welcome Home!"


Happy birthday, Frances! I'll try to do good in Africa!!!


(And someone tell Duane that this would be a great song to sing at my funeral...right before the fireworks!)

Precious Hope, Precious Saint, Precious Friend

1 Thessalonians 4:13 But we do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope.

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His Saints. Psalm 116:15

I could simply stop here and let the Word speak for itself about Frances Ivins. Precious hope, precious saint, precious friend.

Precious Hope.
Jim, thank you for leaving your door open, so we could love her to the end. Frances was so astonished at everyone who wanted to come see her when she got home, and how loved she felt. She left with as much grace as she lived with.

We were able to hold hands and chat a few days ago. She told me she was at peace. She knew where she was going. She loved angels, was always giving me something with angels on it. So I bought her a little angel at the Craft Show, made from olive wood from Bethlehem, and pressed it into her palm the night I went to see her at the hospital. We had just found out it would only be a few days. She said, “I’m taking it with me.” We cried. But she wasn’t afraid. She was at peace. She knew she’d be welcomed by her Creator, the One who invested in her soul so much of His creativity.

I can imagine her delight in the perfection of Heaven. Her wonder when she met her Savior for the first time, and touched His face. And He said, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Welcome home." Precious Hope.

But in a few weeks, after she worships a few days, and feasts a few days (she hasn’t’ been able to eat for a while, and she loves a good Mexican food lunch), she’ll probably have her little part of Heaven redecorated and organized, the pearly gates oiled and leveled, and the streets of gold swept and scrubbed. If I know Frances.



Precious Saint.
She made it easy to love her.
Her heart was big . Her vision was Kingdom minded. Her touch made everything better.

We became friends when Frances started working in the Resource Room. Things just clicked for us. She was trained in good preschool ministry long before I arrived, and we had the same heartbeat for doing it the right way. Frances helped many inexperienced teachers tow the line of biblically and developmentally appropriate activities by her gentle guidance and helping them see a better way to teach, guiding them to use the curriculum, giving them a better activity to use instead of the one they had picked out, or jazzing up a mundane Bible learning activity with a little bit of pizzazz.

She did it for the kids. She gave in and filled orders way after the stated deadlines, b/c if she didn’t’ the kids wouldn’t have anything on Sunday mornings …she told me time and time again she did it for the kids. She kept little pictures of children taped to her computer screen who needed praying for, when she got a picture or an email about a child who was ill, or in need. She did it for the kids.

But she did it for the teachers too. She supported us. She enhanced us. She trained us. She suffered through us, and with us and prayed for us. I can see her rolling her eyes at me with all my last minute plans, and saying, “oh brother!” BUT she’d stay late or come early to do what she could to make me successful…whether it was decorating for a teacher’s meeting, or blowing up a balloon arch for an extra umph on Promotion Day or decorating for Christmas ADVENTure. We moved Nativity Scenes around from here to there, sometimes with minutes to spare…and she and Jim came earlier and stayed later than everyone else to make it happen, and put it back in order when it was done and everyone else had long gone home.


Nothing was more beautiful or satisfying than when Frances decorated the chapel for Christmas ADVENTure, our family worship celebration to begin the Christmas season focused on the true, biblical meaning of Christmas. The plaid bows she had artfully made were fluffed just right on the pews, the Christmas lights sparkled in the pine trees, and the manger scene sat right under the stained glass – the focal point of the entire worship celebration. I remember her happy smile, because it was all so breathtaking…and her heart was that the children would walk into the chapel with wonder, and be astonished at the simplicity and beauty of the baby King.

She was our backbone. She had an unparalleled commitment to kids ministry, to excellence. To organization. She was classy. And her love, her big heart, and her work ethic made us all better.


Frances did all things well. She was humble. She wanted to point to the Father, never to Frances. Always behind the scenes, never wanting the glory… Precious Saint.


Precious Friend.
For me, a trusted friend. She always called me her boss, and I always corrected her and said, “friend.” But the level of trust we shared was unspoken. She was so organized. She worked hard. She kept an eagle eye over things for me downstairs in the preschool area. She took the Resource Room to the next level – churches all over the convention come to tour her Resource Room and ask how to set one up like it. She was visionary. She kept things running that I never even knew about, she expected and provided excellence. I know there were times she actually scrubbed bathroom floors or light switches with toothbrushes, to make sure they were clean enough, because I know she loved her church, loved her job, understood kids ministry, and wanted things CLEAN! She would say, “The Lord deserves our best. We can do better than this.” I know she also had Pa building things in his workshop so we’d have all the things we needed at half the cost! She worked part time in the Resource Room for many years, but it wasn’t just a part time job for her—she enlarged her boundaries, she lived and breathed it, worked at home on her computer at night, always thinking of things, always pinching pennies to keep us under budget, always excellent—so we finally had to make her full time to try to compensate for all those extra hours! Frances even texted me one night from the hospital at 11:50 p.m., in ALL CAPS: I MISS MY JOB!!!

But how could we ever repay her? She served wholeheartedly. Her creativity. Her joy in serving, behind the scenes. Her way of making everything special—just going the extra mile. Her persnickityness to have everything in its place and everything in order. That was our Frances.

She always threw a party on the Thursday of Vacation Bible School. Now anyone who has ever taught in VBS knows that on Thursday you literally hit the wall. That’s the day you’re totally exhausted, the kids are tired and cranky, you haven’t made up your beds or had a home cooked meal all week long, and you’re wondering if you’re going to make it even one more day. So Frances throws a swimming party. So we can relax and chat and laugh, and soak up some little measure of friendship… She cooks this amazing Mexican taco casserole (who knows when in the world she has had time to do that), has an immaculately clean house, and invites her resource room staff and various friends over for lunch and the afternoon. As long as you want to stay. A friend party.

A true friend of the heart, we trusted each other. Nothing to hide between us, we prayed for each other. And each others kids. And each others grandkids. She Understood. Knew each others strengths and weaknesses. Knew each others hurts and pains. Let our guard down, together. Because of love. Because of trust.


She crossed over in faith. We grieve, but not as the rest who have no hope. We love you, precious friend. Have you in our hearts.

Heartfriends

These are the words from the little piece of stationey that Vergie pressed into my hand:

Heartfriends

How generous is God that He has given me these few and special women who are the true friends of my heart. How He must love me that He has let us find each other upon this crowded earth.

We are drawn to each other as if by some mystical force. We recognize each other at once. We are sisters of the spirit, who understand each other instinctively.

There is no blood between us, no common family history. Yet there are no barriers of background or even age. Older, younger, richer, poorer…no matter, we speak the same language.

We have come together in a special moment of time and the sense of union we feel will last throughout eternity. How generous is God that He has given me so many other women I can call friends. Dear, good, life-enriching women who add flavor, value, and delight. I would be the poorer without them.

Yet surely, God’s true concern for us, His children, is to lead us to these rare and special few. The ones who call out to us from the crowds, who hold fast to us through trials, triumphs, long separations.

The friends with whom the heart feels joyfully at home.

Unchanged

A sacred thing happened to me this year. I reconnected with an old friend from college.

It just always seemed that we were meant to be friends, the way the tapestry of our lives was woven together. We used to say of our friendship that it just must have been in our jeans. (Was that because we became friends in the seventies, before wearing jeans 24/7 was readily accepted except in the circle of semi-quasi-Christian-hippies we hung around with? Or was it our passive aggressive way of dealing with the sorority chicks strutting the campus in their high heels and mini skirts?)

So whether it was in our jeans, or in our genes, we knew the moment we became friends that there was something preciously God-ordained about our connection. There simply was. And before graduation, Vergie pressed into my hand a folded piece of stationery with words that summed us up quite nicely – "Heart Friends."

We stayed in touch some after college. Vergie was in my wedding party, and afterwards left town with my pink bamboo Hawaiian dishes that were fairly nauseating, but cleverly “Art Nouveau” at the same time. They had never even been opened when my mom bought them (cheap) at a garage sale so I would have dishes in my college apartment. Some poor man had bought them for his wife while he was in the army and on leave in Hawaii, and she hated them…that was the story. I couldn’t BELIEVE my own mom just gave them to her without asking me, but I got over it since I didn’t particularly like them either. Besides, it was Vergie.

Vergie even lived across town in Houston for a while, and we managed a few trips to see each other when the kids were little. We occasionally sent Christmas cards. Occasionally called. But life got busy and we lost touch mostly. I heard about her sometimes through mutual friends. So when I found that little piece of stationery in her handwriting that reminded me of why we connected deeper and on a core level, I kept it where I could read it over and over.

Then about this time a year ago, totally out of the blue, I got a comment on a blog post from my long lost Vergie. We have added approximately 35 years of living since college graduation, I think. However, the tapestry of our lives is still woven together by threads of faith and commonality. She has lost a precious son. I have lost my precious Dad. We started keeping up with each other a bit more.

So Saturday, I was flying out the door to drive up to East Texas for a memorial service for another friend’s father. Took a chance and shot Vergie an email – coming to your town- if you get this in time, call me and let’s grab a coke. My cell rang almost immediately.

I went by her house, we had a cup of soup together, went to the memorial service together, chatted familiarly along the way. Both when we saw each other for the first time, and when it was time to go, we hugged and held on tight, like friends who just needed to be reassured that it was indeed each other in the flesh. Vergie sent me home with a pot of her heirloom jade plant , a cutting of pencil cactus, and something interesting that she called “Moses in a Basket”. I promised to bring her a hanging basket of widow’s tears next time I blew through her town.

Has it really been that long since we’ve seen each other? You would never know. Things have changed, certainly. But there was still something preciously unchanged and God-ordained about our connection. There simply was.

I guess when it’s in your jeans, you just pick it back up where you left off. And anyways, how could you not be friends with someone named “Vergie”?

Tomorrow – Heart Friends.

Seven Years Later

Today is September 11, 2008. This morning on television, they read the names again, so we could once again remember...as if we could ever forget. Seven years later there are still tears running down faces. Seven years later there are still children who have never met their dad. Seven years later we still shake our heads in disbelief. Seven years later we still understand that the only safe place is "in Christ".

Seven years ago, I wrote the following thoughts in the Preschool Press (my little weekly announcement page for my preschool Sunday School teachers at church). Just wanted to share them one more time, because they still ring true.



GOD BLESS AMERICA.
I love America. You know I do. I love everything about it, and I’m so crazy patriotic that I embarrass my kids. I unabashedly wave flags, sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the top of my lungs, vote responsibly at EVERY election, even little ones, and cry at fourth of July fireworks shows. I love all it is, all it has to offer…the pureness of being able to gulp freedom like a jug of cold water, even when it hurts...and sometimes it does. I even loved the frustration of the 2000 presidential election, as we breathlessly waited for freedom to run its full course, as it eventually did. It’s how we live. It’s who we are. It’s all we’ve ever known.

Freedom is an incredible blessing, and an incredible responsibility. I learned that afresh from listening to the limits my daughter experienced being in a Communist nation this summer. I heard the sound of the gate slamming behind her team as they entered their college campus, the sound of the loud speaker that called the students to morning calisthenics at 6:00 a.m., the sound of the blinds being quickly closed as they turned on the VCR and quietly watched the Jesus video with friends.

Freedom. America. You say them in the same breath.

This has been a week of profound sadness for us all. Our blessed America has been attacked in an inconceivable act of evil. And we have all been changed forever. We’ve experienced every emotion possible from shock and disbelief, to sadness, helplessness, emptiness, disgust, and anger. Tears just keep welling up in our eyes and rolling down our cheeks in the middle of the day without warning. However, I most deeply hurt for our children, because their America will never be the same again.

So where do we go from here? How do we live from this day forward? What do we tell our children?

Start here: Hug your kids/grandkids tight, and remember the true source of our freedom: “If the Son shall make you free, you shall be free indeed” John 8:36. Then finish here: “The Lord is for me. I will not fear; what can man do to me?” Psalm 118:6 and “Do not be afraid of those who hurt the body, but cannot hurt the soul.” Matthew 10:28 Now we know first hand, the only safe place is truly “IN CHRIST”.

Hold your head high, and live in peace. You are my precious family. And, God bless America!

Backroads, Bluebonnets, and Blessings

An annual rite of spring for city-dwellers in this part of Texas is to head out of town for a breath of fresh air and explore the backroads in search of bluebonnets. Too many years to number, we packed two giggly girls and their little brother in a maroon '79 Astro van and headed to the country ourselves. (And I have the pictures to prove it.) Though we now have our route mapped out, I imagine in the past twenty years we, at one time or another, have traveled every little country road in Washington County.

So Duane and I did the bluebonnet tour on the bike this year (the bike being an 800 pound Honda Goldwing motorcycle). And at every turn of the road I saw them again, leaping like lambs in the meadows, standing on their heads in patches of bluebonnets, exploring the ramshackled porch of the broken down old house, hanging over fences, posing for pictures by the little white country church, climbing over a barbed wire fence to find a bluer patch... It was true. There was probably nowhere they hadn't touched and everywhere i looked, I saw them again...two giggly girls and their little brother. I have to admit, I missed them all so much I started to cry. Right there on the back of the bike.

And the bluebonnets, they were more beautiful than they've been in years. How blessed we are!

"For lo, the winter is passed. The rains are over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, and the time of the singing of birds is come! " Song of Solomon 2:12