memoir

The Making of a Bike

When I was eight, I was not the most coordinated girl, but I longed for a bike of my own.  I wanted to ride to the corner store that had a glass case filled with full size candy bars, to the library to walk through the rows of books, and maybe even to the park with friends.

Dad made my bike our project. He had a way of making an adventure of things.  The first step was a trip to the junk yard for a bike frame. The junk yard is a sad place. You had to walk among the parts and pieces as if you are weaving through the tombstones in a graveyard, as we did my heart began to sink.

The bike frame we found was tired and warn, and Dad must have sensed what I was feeling. He looked at me, his blue eyes dancing with anticipation, and promised my bike would be good as new. He had always been true to his promises and my heart lifted with a seed of hope.

Back in our garage we sanded and primed, making my bike frame ready for painting. As Dad spray painted my bike frame midnight blue, my seed of hope began to blossom. Next came the chain, the pedals, seat bar and handlebars. Then the beautiful white handlebar covers with streamers, blue, white and red. I could almost see them blowing in the wind. Finally, the crowing piece, my banana shaped bike seat, white and covered in bright and glorious flowers.

The Making of a Bike (1)

 

Dad’s final touch for my beautiful bike were meticulously cut, thin strips of white auto tape making jazzy pinstripes.  Then he painstakingly wrote out my name on my chain cover, one pinstripe at a time.

Then came the more difficult part: this uncoordinated girl had to learn to ride a bike. Days of trying to keep my bike upright while peddling seemed to be an impossible feat.  Dad tried all the tricks, running beside me, letting go while trying to make me think he was still holding on.  I spent far too much time looking back to ensure he was still holding on and once I realized he wasn’t down I would go.

With each crash I cried at the new dent or scratch it left behind on my beautiful new bike. Dad consoled me with his practical thoughts, “A dented bike is a well-used bike, it gives it character.”

We decided that the quiet alley beside our house was the softer place for me and my bike to practice, and practice I did.  Finally, the day came when I had mastered the art of bike riding.   My bike was officially well-used by then and I was grateful that my streamers were still intact.

Bike Streamers (3)

 

Riding a bike proved to be just as I had dreamed, carrying me to all of my favorite places.

 

Copy of Untitled

memoir

Stewards of the Earth

We always lived within walking distance of the The Little Store, an old two-story brick building that sat on a corner lot. Crates of in-season produce greeted us at the sidewalk, and inside the first floor was a local grocery packed with all things good.

The second floor was an apartment, and I remember thinking how lucky the person was that lived above The Little Store. All the bread, milk, ketchup, mayonnaise, brooms, dust pans, cigarettes, and candy they could ever need was just below them.

The candy counter was glorious to behold, the glass case displayed full-sized candy bars. Hershey Bars, Butterfingers and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups were always a big splurge at fifty cents apiece.  Adorning the top were glass bowls holding the best of penny candy, fire balls, bubble gum with a comic tucked inside, pop rocks and my all-time favorite, blow pops. What could be better than a lollipop with gum hidden inside?

Sally or Jack were the familiar faces behind the register, and they carefully surveyed the store that was often full of kids. The creaking wood floors gave them the location of kids who were reading comics, gazing at candy, digging through baseball cards, or leafing through the coveted Teen Beat magazine. The Little Store held the dreams of many young hearts within its walls.

Before I could walk to The Little Store on my own, I was game to tag along with Dad whenever he was going. I loved walking with him, holding his hand, and anticipating the treat that was waiting for me.

One afternoon as we walked home, Dad blowing the smoke of a Winston into the air, I unwrapped my treasured Blow-Pop and I held the wrapper tight, until my hand began to itch and sweat. What a relief it would to be free of the pesky wrapper.

I waffled back and forth in my mind, something deep within told me it was a mistake.  The lure of sweet relief won and I slowly opened my hand, letting the wrapper fall to the ground, as I wiped  my sweaty palm on my jeans.

Dad suddenly stopped, his blue eyes on fire. “Pick that up now. McCracken’s do not litter. Do you hear me, we never litter. The Earth is our home and it is our job to care for it and keep it clean. I never want to see that again.”

As I ran back to pick up the wrapper from my blow pop, fire crept up my neck and burned in my cheeks. It was the first time in my life I remember feeling ashamed—ashamed that I had disappointed Dad and marred the family name, ashamed that the lure of temporary relief had captured me so easily.

I ran back to Dad with that wrapper back in my sweaty hand and tears of shame on my cheeks. A lesson taught and lesson learned. Dad held my hand the rest of the way home and I knew that even though I had made this terrible mistake, he still loved me.

I have had the opportunity to litter hundreds of times since then, but Dad’s words still ring in my ears. I’ve held wrappers in my hand for hours or stuffed them in my pocket, but never again, from that day to this, did they fall to the Earth.

Copy of Untitled

memoir

Makers

For as long as I can remember my parents were makers. The act of working with one’s hands brings a special kind of joyful satisfaction that is not found anywhere else.

After a full day of work and caring for our family, the sun would set on another day and the moon would rise. Once Mom tucked my brother and I in bed for night, out would come Mom’s fabric, pins, cutting board and the quiet hum of her sewing machine would begin. Often, I would creep out of my bed and peek into the living room and see her sitting in the lamp light, cross-legged on the floor, holding a pin in her mouth, her gaze intent on the fabric in her hand.

For those hours she was consumed in the act of making. Far ahead of American Doll she was making my dolls and I matching flannel nightgowns, wardrobes for my barbies, superhero costumes for my brother. She found a quiet joy in the making hours.

Dad had a shop where his latest projects came to life. From loading his own shot gun shells, making fishing lures, refinishing wood pieces to crafting leather his hands were always at work, and were rough stained and often garnished with a piece of duct tape, acting as a band aide.

He spent hours in his shop, sanding, building, cutting, staining and stringing, and we were always welcome to join him.  The shop was a magical place, filled with the smell of wood and leather, and my brother and I were always invited to join.  Boxes and drawers were filled with trinkets and heirlooms and every piece had a story.

Dad’s shop sits empty now and my heart aches each time I peek in. I long to see him look up from his worktable with a smile and say, “Hey, baby girl!” when I pop in to visit. I long to hold his stained, rough hand in mine and feel his warmth.

As Mom balanced Dad’s care and working full time her sewing machine grew quiet for years.  On a dark winter morning the three of us huddled around Dad as his last breath passed from his lips and we all grew quiet, not sure what life would be like without him. I know this, life is less without him.

It would take a pandemic for Mom to pull out her fabric, her pins, and her cutting board.  Her sewing machine hummed once again as masks were made and pressed, a safe covering for family friends and neighbors. She was making again, and joyful satisfaction was found once more.

I have had many failed attempts at trying to find some way of making that would fill my bones as it did my parents.  I have drawers filled with cake decorating supplies, paint and brushes, glue guns, yarn and crochet hooks.  It wasn’t until I stuck my hands in the dirt, nurturing seeds as they rooted and grew, that I finally found the joyful satisfaction I had seen on their faces for myself.

Winter is long in the North East and a making had to be found to fill those long, dark months when plants sit quiet.  I found that words are like seeds, you write them out, bury them, go back and water them often, and they too will root and grow.

Copy of Untitled

memoir

Hometown Vigilantes

It was a summer of tree climbing, front porch sitting, walks to the library and the community pool with friends. There may have also been a little cigarette smoking and joy riding.

Front porches were one of our favorite summer perches, and we noticed a short, middle-aged man with a pot belly and sandy brown hair, feathered back like Shaun Cassidy who started by walking past the house once a day, then multiple times a day.

For the first few weeks he never spoke a word, he just circled. Gradually he became brave, and began making little comments, then sexual comments that grew more crude as the days went by.

As he grew brave, we grew brave too, “Pervert!” We would yell back at him from the safety of a porch. Then a shift happened and some of our phones began to ring, only to hear breathing and sexual threats, the kind of threats that are thick and heavy making your stomach roll and skin crawl.

We were smart enough to know that this danger had become real and parents were told. Word flew around the neighborhood that danger was lurking, and it was hunting their children. Suddenly the hairs on the back of necks were raised, eyes were wide and alert.

I was walking home from the library one late afternoon the sky was blue, the sun warm and books were tucked under my arm. With not a care on my mind I walked and daydreamed. Suddenly Mom pulled up beside me. “Get in the car,” she hissed. The kind of hiss that meant I was in big trouble, or something terrible had happened.

Even on the sunniest day darkness can dwell, and it turned out the predator had been tailing me and I hadn’t even noticed. A friend’s mother had been driving by, her mama bear instincts sensing danger, and she rushed home to call my mother.  Mom dropped everything to come rescue the clueless prey from her predator.

Late that summer Dad and his friend happened to spot the man walking and pulled their pickup right up onto the sidewalk behind him. In an instant the predator had become the prey.

As my Dad would tell it, they pushed him up against the pick-up truck, roughed him up, and then threatened him within an inch of his life. They reminded him that if he looked or spoke to any child in the neighborhood again, they would simply run that old truck right over him.

I remember feeling so proud and protected. Grateful to my friend’s mother, who was normally quiet and reserved, for sounding the alarm.  Thankful for my mother who would drop everything to come to my rescue and cheering inside for a strong father and his fellow vigilante, who made it their business to protect children from the predators of this world.

 

 

Devotional

The Mark of a Disciple

A phrase I heard recently keeps rolling around in my mind…

God is Supernatural and We Are Not

Yet He welcomes us to play a part in spreading the Gospel. He welcomes us as co-laborers, His Hands, His Feet to the world in which we live. What an honor and what an adventure.

We see a beautiful picture of this in the life of Phillip. His first interaction with Jesus was Jesus simply saying to him, Follow Me.

And guess what? Phillip did and his life was never the same.

He was present when Jesus fed the five thousand and we see a bit of his personality.

John 6 4 Now the Passover, a feast of the Jews, was near. 5 Then Jesus lifted up His eyes, and seeing a great multitude coming toward Him, He said to Philip, “Where shall we buy bread, that these may eat?” 6 But this He said to test him, for He Himself knew what He would do.

7 Philip answered Him, “Two hundred denarii worth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one of them may have a little.”

We see in these verses that Phillip was a logical guy, a guy who tried to figure things out. A life of following Jesus was about to change all of that.

One of my favorite stories in scripture is Acts 8: 28-40
Take a walk through this story with me…

Christ Is Preached to an Ethiopian

26 Now an angel of the Lord spoke to Philip, saying, “Arise and go toward the south along the road which goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.” This is desert. 27 So he arose and went.

An angel of the Lord appears to Philip and gives him instruction, to go to the desert. I’m sure that desert was not a preferred local. People were not lining up to go to the desert. Yet, we do not see Philip hesitate, even ask a question. He obediently AROSE and WENT.

the mark of a disciple (1)

The mark of a disciple is one who is willing to walk out this verse.

Then he said to them all: Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. Luke 9:23

I’m betting that a trip to the desert was not on Philips agenda for the day. Yet, he rearranged his day, denied his plans, picked up his cross and followed the Lord’s instruction for that day.

We are planners. We have our days planned, our weeks even months planned out. What we will do, where we will go and who we will be with. We leave very little wiggle room in our schedules. When God asks us to reorganize, change our plans, take up our cross. We resist and we miss out on partnering with Him, co-laboring with him and we miss out on miracles.

If there is one thing these strange days are teaching us, it is that delay and unknowing have released us of all the plans, all the schedules.

The question is, once this is all behind us, will we fill our schedules again. Will we again leave no wiggle room to take up or cross daily and follow our Lord wherever He will take us. I fear if we do, we will miss out on miraculous opportunities.

Let’s look at the opportunity that was set before Phillip –

And behold, a man of Ethiopia, a eunuch of great authority under Candace the queen of the Ethiopians, who had charge of all her treasury, and had come to Jerusalem to worship, 28 was returning. And sitting in his chariot, he was reading Isaiah the prophet.

Philip comes across a man who is seeking. His interest in Jesus had peeked and he has pulled his chariot to the side of the road, reading the scriptures. A strange place to be reading the writings of Isaiah wouldn’t you say.

29 Then the Spirit said to Philip, “Go near and overtake this chariot.”

30 So Philip ran to him, and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah, and said, “Do you understand what you are reading?”

Again, Phillip receives a command from the Lord via HIS SPIRIT. Go and overtake this chariot of a man from another nation. I would guess that this could have been somewhat dangerous.

Yet again Philip does not hesitate, as a matter of fact, HE RAN TO HIM.

When is that last time God has given us an assignment

and WE RAN in obedience to complete it?

31 And he said, “How can I, unless someone guides me?” And he asked Philip to come up and sit with him.

I love this picture. A man who was seeking, simply needed someone with more information to guide him. What does Philip do, he climbs up into that chariot and sits down beside him.

Philip had taught to large crowds, when he prayed, people were healed. Yet he did not hesitate to sit down with one man and tell him all he knew about Jesus.

Most people that God calls us to simply need someone to sit with them,

to spend a little time with them.

To tell them the things we know about Jesus.

  • We do not have to be counselors
  • It is not our job to convince them
  • We do not have to lay awake at night worrying about them

We simply tell them what we know, help in any way we can and then trust God to do what He does best, the work of the heart.

32 The place in the Scripture which he read was this:

“He was led as a sheep to the slaughter;
And as a lamb before its shearer is silent,

So He opened not His mouth.

33 In His humiliation His justice was taken away,
And who will declare His generation?
For His life is taken from the earth.”

34 So the eunuch answered Philip and said, “I ask you, of whom does the prophet say this, of himself or of some other man?”

The question of all questions, who is this prophet talking about?

Himself? Or Someone else?

Philip knows the answer, because he has seen and experienced the answer. He experienced Jesus!

35 Then Philip opened his mouth, and beginning at this Scripture, preached Jesus to him.

Philip then tells the man all about Jesus.

That is simply all we are called to do, tell people who Jesus is, and who He is to us.

  • Tell them why we love Him
  • Tell them why we are willing to deny ourselves, take our crosses up daily and follow Him.

36 Now as they went down the road, they came to some water. And the eunuch said, “See, here is water. What hinders me from being baptized?”

37 Then Philip said, “If you believe with all your heart, you may.”

And he answered and said, “I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God.”

So Simple, So Beautiful!

The Lord’s priority for Philip, that one man on that one day. Time well spent!

Now are you ready for a few WOW moments?

38 So he commanded the chariot to stand still. And both Philip and the eunuch went down into the water, and he baptized him.

There just so happened to be, sitting in the desert – a pool of water. Everything that was needed had been supplied.

39 Now when they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord caught Philip away, so that the eunuch saw him no more; and he went on his way rejoicing.

In this moment Phillip joined a club that few are in. The club of being caught up in the Spirit of the Lord and transported to another location.

Can we agree to say – WOW!

40 But Philip was found at Azotus. And passing through, he preached in all the cities till he came to Caesarea.

We find Phillip right back to business as usual. I wonder, could this have been a normal occurrence for him? Oh, I hope so!

We wonder shy the Ethiopian man did not seem concerned that Phillip had disappeared, the answer is clear… he was too busy rejoicing!

Friends, will we loosen our grip on our daily schedules?

Will we take up our cross and daily Follow Him?

I wonder what supernatural adventures could await us.

Copy of Untitled

memoir

Of Planting and Tearing Up

My hands have been deep in the dirt these past weeks, pulling and planting.  It is a peaceful place for my hands, heart and mind.  Sweet memories, the seeds and water of my life, re-root there.

Dad was a man who was always willing to try new things, I loved that about him, and I am grateful that he passed that willingness along to me. Nothing makes my heart stir like a new project.

One Spring someone gave him burlap bag full of strawberry plant starters.  Dad began to talk about a strawberry patch, how we would have so many strawberries and would be eating all the strawberry shortcake and strawberry pie we could stand by the next June.

He went to work clearing out a small plot behind the garage.  It wasn’t easy turning over that earth, it was covered in strong rooted grass.  He was strong and never a man to give up and after a few days of toiling and turning, the rich dark soil showed itself.

Once a shallow crevice was dug out for each one, we carefully planted each of those tender strawberry plants.   Our strawberry patch was perfect, there is something wonderful about freshly turned soil and newly planted plants, it is a place where hope dwells.

We checked our patch every day, giving our plants plenty of water and tender loving care.   Dreaming about the day we would have more strawberries than we could imagine.

Those dreams came to a crashing halt, when our neighbor Mrs. Kitch, who’s favorite past-time was to snitch, came to my parents with the bad news.  Two boys had pulled up all of Dad’s strawberry plants, and she just happened to know which neighborhood boys they were.

I remember my Dad standing over our precious strawberry patch, his camouflage hat in one hand, his head bent in defeat with his free hand running through his hair.  This told me he was upset. Our once strong plants laid scattered and uprooted, their leaves wilting in the sun.   Inside I raged, not only for our uprooted plants, but for the loss of our hope and plans.

The next thing I knew Dad was walking down the sidewalk to the house of one of the boys.  After a few minutes Dad, one of the boy’s father and two crying boys stood over our decimated strawberry plants.  In silence, the father shook his head in shame as he surveyed the damage, not wanting to believe that his boy was one of culprits of this act.

I stood off to the side watching the scene unfold and I’ll admit I enjoyed it, every uncomfortable moment.  It’s easy when you are not the one squirming.

After some discussion the boys and the father were back with gardening tools.  The two men, with arms crossed over their chests, supervised two scared and sweaty boys as they carefully and gently replanted each plant that they had torn out.

When their work was finished, I watched as my Dad looked each boy in the eye, he shook their hands and tousle their hair.  His way of saying, this can be forgiven.

The sun would not be so forgiving, and our plants would require extra water and tender loving care.  With that care, they rooted, they grew and our hopes and dreams for them revived.

Strawberries

Seeds were planted in the hearts of two boys that day, forgiveness and redemption can come when one rights a wrong. Plants that have been torn out and left for dead can thrive again when planted in good soil.

Seeds were planted in the heart of a girl, as she watched from afar the ways of good men.  Seeds of humility and forgiveness, of wisdom and kindness, of words spoken with grace producing sweet and lasting fruit.

I think of that day in the early Spring, as I clean out my strawberry patch.  Tearing out the weeds, making room for the new runners that will dig in and new young plants will sprout.  I am reminded as I dig and pull that hope dwells here.

 

Seeds and Water

Seeds and Water

Here we are in week four of quarantine and life has taken on a strangeness. Gone is the normal schedule, gone is the daily flow. We find ourselves being tossed around on the waves of unknowing. Our sense of daily awareness is gone, the hours and days running together.

Through out these weeks I have been thinking about my Dad and what his reaction to all of this would have been. I miss his calming force. He had a sense about him that made you feel like everything was going to be alright, even when it wasn’t.

I began to write down all that I could remember about him, for you see, I’m terrified I will forget, forget his laugh, his smile, his words. Funny thing, when you start recalling memories, God is good and brings you an avalanche of them.

They come in the shower, while bending over a sink full of dishes, while folding laundry and when you lie in bed at night. Some memories bring life and comfort, others the sting of pain still lives.

I found that not only memories of my Dad came, but memories of many people who have come in and out of my life. I began to imagine them as seeds and water, the planting and watering of a garden, the growing of a girl.

Seeds and Water

Some of the seeds took deep root in my life, some blew away in the wind. Some of the watering was like soft spring rain, other torrential downpours that washed growing seeds away. All of them have grown me into the woman I am today, teaching me many life lessons, about others and myself.

I have been wrestling with Paul’s words about those who plant and water our lives. He says that they are important and equal, God sees their labor and their reward awaits them. Yet is is God who does the growing, the growing of a girl, a vineyard, a garden, she is the house where God dwells.

God, who causes the growth, is the only One who matters. The one who plants is no greater than the one who waters; both will be rewarded based on their work. We are gardeners and field workers laboring with God. You are the vineyard, the garden, the house where God dwells. 1 Corinthians 3 7b-9 The Voice

We are often looking forward, preparing and planning, rarely looking back. I must say, this time of looking back has been good for my soul.

Some of my planters and waterers still live and others have gone home for their reward, and I know their rewards are sweet. If I do not share how their stories entwined with mine, who will ? How will they be remembered? How will their seeds continue to grow in future generation?
It is a strange time we are living in friends and we have been given the rare gift of time. Let’s allow our memories to stir and then watch the avalanche come. Remembering the stories of those who have planted seeds and poured water over our lives.
Our life is but a breath and we are the only ones who can tell our story, and everyone loves a story. Say what you have been given to say.

With Love,

Copy of Untitled

Poetry · Uncategorized

Home

Here most of us are, sitting at home.  On any normal day isn’t this the place we long to be?

Here is a little reminder of the beauty of Home –

 

Home

A place of solitude

The building of a sanctuary

Where peace is found

 

A place of communion

The ringing of laughter

Where joy is shared

 

A place of gathering

The keeping of conversations

Where bonds are made

 

A place of meals

The filling of the empty

Where hearts are warmed  

 

A place where wisdom is taught

The falling of tears

Where grace is given

 

A place of warm blankets

The drifting off to sleep

Where rest is found 

 

A place of understanding

The art of listening close

Where knowledge is known

 

A holy place

Where rooms are filled

With precious and pleasant riches

 

D.E. White