Wayne County and old photos

Allen and I spent Memorial Day weekend visiting his great-aunt up in Indiana, and despite a rough start on Friday and Saturday (lack of sleep + lots of stress = grouchy) we really ended up having a good time. Despite her age and dodgy hearing, Aunt Kathy can really be a hoot. She and Allen joked around, and she can be pretty stubborn when she wants to be :) I was expecting to spend a whole lot of time sitting around in her room, but instead we ended up spending quite a while driving around Wayne County visiting various places she hadn't seen in a while. Saturday, after we took her southern soul to get some chicken and dumplings with okra, we ended up walking around the rose garden (well, Aunt Kathy we wheeled around) and driving around town trying to find her old church, so we'd be sure we could find it in the morning. Then we went back and looked at pictures and talked until she started falling asleep. I've never seen someone (outside of Allen's family) with that many family pictures. I've seen maybe one or two pictures of my grandfather, but Aunt Kathy has dozens and dozens of pictures of her husband. Some are snaps taken during WWII and some are from family events and trips. She's got pictures of her in-laws (taken in the 30's) and her husband's grandparents and her brothers and sisters and so many other people. It just astounds me. Allen and I ended up scanning a fair few just to make sure the family doesn't end up losing them.

The next day I was able to sleep in while Allen took Aunt Kathy to Sunday school. (Have I mentioned lately that my husband rocks?) Fortunately our lodging and her church were close enough together that Allen could slip back and pick me up before services started. It was funny. Allen told me that when he delivered Aunt Kathy to her Sunday school room all the ladies were thrilled to see her and promptly shooed him off to the young men's study. From his telling I was getting a "run along to your own fort, boy, we've got our own right here" impression :) That was the first time I'd been in a Baptist church in umpteen years, and, God love Aunt Kathy, I stood up with them and sang the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" on Memorial Day weekend. I wanted to ask if we could sing "Dixie" afterwards, but I figured that since it doesn't have "hymn" in the title they wouldn't go along with it. (For the record, it doesn't matter if you change the name - the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" is a Yankee military song and has no more place in a church than "Sweet Home Alabama" does. Which is to say, it's not a hymn or psalm or spiritual song.) As for the sermon, I shall pass over it quietly. There are places where Baptists still like their sermons loud and full of vim, but that doesn't mean that they aren't a kindly, friendly lot. Every single member of that church came down from afterwards (at the pastor's request) to hug Aunt Kathy's neck, and that was such a delight to her.

Later that day we went and drove off to find some of the places Aunt Kathy remembered from her newly wed days just after the war. I think she may have pointed out three or four different places where the school teacher lived. I don't know if there were a bunch of school teachers or just one who moved a good bit, and it really didn't matter. She did end up directing us to the cabin Uncle Haskell built for them - it was the last house they lived in together I believe. Every time I go up there I'm reminded of how fragile and short life is. Like those boxes of pictures Aunt Kathy has - those pictures mean the world to her. They mean a lot the generation after her, and they even mean a good bit to Allen and I. But what will they mean to our kids (or if not our kids then the next generation of this family)? It's not something I've gotten my head wrapped around yet, but I think Psalm 103 contains at least part of the answer:

15 As for man, his days are like grass;
he flourishes like a flower of the field;
16 for the wind passes over it, and it is gone,
and its place knows it no more.
17 But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him,
and his righteousness to children’s children,
18 to those who keep his covenant
and remember to do his commandments.
19 The Lord has established his throne in the heavens,
and his kingdom rules over all.

Perhaps, at the end, it is enough that God remembers.

on wonder and pain

Sometimes when we're out camping I'll tell Allen it feels like Christmas, but when I've tried to explain why it doesn't really translate. Sometimes I'll say it feels like Thanksgiving, but that doesn't translate well either. There's no lights or presents and the only turkey comes sliced from Trader Joes. And yet there are days that will stay with me. Often when I want to think I write, and in trying to form the first awkward sentences of this post I think I've figured out what I mean when I say that a day feels like Christmas. On the surface of it Christmas connotates wonder and joy and fulfilled anticipation. On the trail this can translate into a beautiful campsite and a warm supper or a double rainbow after an unexpected storm. Every trail or park promises a bit of magic and wonder, and sometimes they deliver in full measure pressed down and running over. But when I say a day feels like Christmas I don't just mean the Christmas of stuffed turkey and bright lights - a day that delivers an satisfactory emotional experience. Every Nativity points to the Cross - joy leads to suffering which ultimately leads to abiding joy which can, though promised and assured, seem like a distant dream of peace as we slog through our present troubles. In Christmas we see wonder, redemption, and joy embrace a suffering world. Christ came because He felt the miserable weight of our sin. Pain, wonder, mutability, mortality, and eternity mingle together. So when I say a day feels like Christmas I could mean that I'm baking an apple pie on a crisp day and am savoring the smell of spices. It could mean that something unexpectedly lovely has happened. Many times though, it will mean that even as my senses dance with the day, the view, and whatever treat up I'm cooking over my camp stove I'm struck by a deep yearning, almost a nostalgia, over how quickly these moments pass and how powerless I am to keep them with me. The very things that make them rare and beautiful make them hurt. In a moment I will hike down the trail, drive away, finish my tea, or unplug the lights, but for one more moment I marvel. It could be that I will never again see or experience anything quite like this. At times like these I find my heart yearning for eternity, and oddly enough the very mountains that break my heart with beauty speak again and speak comfort. The Bible says that we can have no idea of what eternity will be like - that it isn't within heart or mind of man to conceive what glories will exist in the New Jerusalem. The most beautiful mountain meadow is a dim reflection of the beauty we'll find in heaven. It reminds me that I can long in hope and marvel in hope because the One who boggles my mind with dragonflies and mountain passes is preparing things which are as far above my present conception as the notion of surfing would be to an infant. For now, though, I will continue to feed my soul on these small tokens of eternity, and when my heart breaks with hearing Creation's Advent cry for our Savior to deliver it I will remember the first advent and try to be content knowing we are that much closer to our final deliverance.

End of the story

We ended up flying home for another funeral last Saturday. We're pretty tired of it honestly. This is our third funeral in under twelve months. But, it's family. You have to be there. Much as I didn't want to sometimes, for this particular funeral I really had to be there. Mamaw died at age 88 while driving to the store for dog food. The details are unclear, but they involve an 18 wheeler and anecdotal evidence that she might have had a heart attack or something before the accident. Anyone's who's read my old blog knows just how much Mamaw meant to me. She treated me like close kin. There's a lot I could share about Mamaw, but for now I just wanted to share one thought that occurred to me while we were busy saying goodbye. Funerals are a chance of us to hone in on the end of the story - to read the last couple chapters and find out just what we were seeing all these years. As my professor pointed out, when you open Othello it looks like a comedy, but it ends as a tragedy. Without the end it's hard to understand the beginning. At Mamaw's funeral I saw the end of a story that more people should be writing. She loved God and loved people and poured out her life blessing everyone around her. She was a saint with crooked teeth and a garden patch and a hug you'd be happy to drive a hundred miles for who went out and mended fences and loved me more than just about anyone I've ever known. So many times we see only a small portion of someone's life, and it's hard to know where they're going. At all the funerals we've been going to these past months, we've gotten to see just how all those actions and intentions played out. They all three of them told a story of love and faithfulness, hard work, cheerful endurance and unending gratitude. Seeing how those stories unfolded and pronouncing the final "amen" over their graves gives us a nudge to evaluate how our own characters are unfolding, and for that we can be thankful. To see the end and be about to change our own beginnings is a great blessing.