LUSCIOUS LEGACY

“Then God said, ‘Let the land produce vegetation:
seed-bearing plants and trees on the land
that bear fruit with seed in it,
according to their various kinds.’
And it was so… And God saw that it was good.”
Genesis 1:11-12

One hot, summer day, when I was a little girl, my daddy introduced me to the delicious hunt for strawberries. We were visiting Grandma and Grandpa Reuman, my mother’s parents, in Attica, New York. Their large home—hand built by Grandpa—overlooked a picturesque valley. I doubt that Dad and I talked much out there in the field behind the house, but just being with him and having him all to myself was a real treat. I couldn’t resist popping a few of the reddest and juiciest sun-warmed treasures into my mouth right there in the field.

Suddenly, the muted, country quiet was broken by an alarm sounding from Attica State Prison, far off in the valley, alerting the community that a prisoner had escaped. The harsh sound scared me to death, and I just knew that the escapee would come get me! Dad tried to allay my fears, explaining that the occasional escapee was usually a “trustee,” a prisoner who was trusted enough to work outside the wall. Such prisoners were typically due to get out of prison soon, but the security of what was familiar was more appealing than freedom, so they’d head downtown to a bar and wait to be captured, successfully extending their tenure. My fears were soothed and we enjoyed our berries with Grandma’s homemade shortcake.

Strawberries have always been a vital part of my summers, even when I did not have easy access to a strawberry field. During the summer, our neighborhood was frequented several times a week by a truck laden with berries. I got just as excited when I heard this truck coming as I did for the ice cream truck (well, almost). These luscious, locally grown berries sold for the tempting price of four quarts for a dollar. Mom would make shortcake and we’d top it all off with a generous spritz of Reddi-Wip. Dad registered his appreciation with groans of delight and lots of lip-smacking.

Before moving to Anderson, my husband and I lived in Northern Michigan where I went berry picking around the 4th of July. When we returned to Indiana, I couldn’t wait for July to come around, only to discover that I was a month late! You can bet I didn’t make that mistake twice.When my parents retired and moved to Anderson to be near my family, Dad and I took up pickin’ once again. For several years, we went to a local fruit and vegetable farm, oftentimes accompanied by my kids, Matt and Beth, who were as young as I was when I picked my first berry. Later, Dad put in a big garden next to his condo, a generous portion of it dedicated to strawberries.

Bethie and Grandpa loved to trek out to the strawberry patch where Beth would load up her t- shirt with berries and bring them in, thrilled with her payload. It was a special time between little Beth and Grandpa, reminiscent of my own special times with my strawberry-loving papa. I plan to take my own grandkids pickin’ someday!

Exodus 20:5-6 tells us that God promises his love “to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.” Just think: when we receive God’s love and respond with obedience, we pass God’s love on to the next one thousand generations! Is “a thousand generations” simply a metaphor to emphasize the abundance and availability of God’s love? I don’t know. But if the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Indiana can impact the ecosystem in China, then I certainly think God’s love has its own eternal “butterfly effect.”

Just as we receive a legacy from our Heavenly Father, our own family legacies are also passed on. Enjoying strawberries together is a love-filled legacy, a crimson thread in the enduring weaving that is my family. Such a simple act of grace! Every Father’s Day—appropriately celebrated during strawberry season—I fondly remember my strawberry-loving father, Frank Elmore. Thanks for the legacy, Dad!

SNOT AND GRACE

"Love bears all things..." I Corinthians 13:7

I know, I know! I’ve gone too far this time, stepped over the line of decency, causing Emily Post to turn over in her grave. Could I have chosen a more disgusting topic? To put things in perspective, unless you’d like to hear some of my brother Michael’s stories about autopsies and cadavers (during his tenure in medical school I had to endure such information over dinner!), then I suggest that you give me a few paragraphs to see what I can do with my less than savory topic. I have a couple of vignettes that demonstrate how tolerance for snot is a sure sign of grace:

Awhile back, I was visiting with my good friend, Sandra, and her two young children in the living room of their home when Caleb, her youngest, unobtrusively sidled up to his mother, as we were chatting, and rubbed his snotty nose on her sleeve. Now, you could say that he didn’t know any better, which perhaps he didn’t, but the crucial point, I think, is that a mother’s love “bears all things,” including snotty sleeves, saliva-soaked shoulders, a lap full of runny poop (on her Sunday suit, of course), a face squirted with warm pee, and the volcanic eruptions of a child’s partially digested stomach (of candy, pop, corn on the cob, and cotton candy following a hot, hectic day at the carnival). And she gracefully bears such indignities with dignity and grace. A Congressional Medal of Honor is definitely in order.

My second example transpired one warm, sunny, summer afternoon while boating. Rex had just boarded the boat dripping wet, having slalomed around the lake, and was toweling off when our newly acquired daughter-in-law, Kristy, informed him that he had snot on his face. Now, snot on one’s face following skiing—especially if you’ve done a nose dive and taken in a face full of lake water—is not uncommon. But passing on such delicate information to one’s new father-in-law is significant, to say the least. Obviously, Kristy felt comfortable enough with “Dad” to broach the subject and take it upon herself to inform him that he needed to wipe his nose. And “Dad’s” gracious acceptance of her remark was equally as significant. I remember commenting, as we all laughed, that this was a sign that Kristy was truly one of the family.

And so, I believe I’ve quite adequately demonstrated the subtle, graceful connection between snot and grace. Metaphorically speaking, life is full of moments when our noses run, catching us unawares and unprepared without a tissue or handkerchief handy. How we handle those moments, both as the one caught in the act of being human, and as an observer of the flaws and frailties of others, reflects our ability to give and receive grace.

I can’t think of any passages in the Bible that talk about snot (thank goodness!), but Scripture certainly has a great deal to say about God’s abiding love and grace. The realization that we are loved and of great value comes, on rare occasions, in the form of an eye-opening, lightning bolt experience – a dramatic exclamation point lighting up the sky of our hearts. Much more frequently, though, a slowly dawning awareness that we are deeply loved is nurtured in the day-in, day-out showers of tiny droplets of human love reflecting God’s incredible love for us. To be able to rub one’s nose on Mama’s or Papa’s sleeve, or to feel secure enough in one’s new family to be forthright (with tact, respect, and a dash of humor, of course), speaks of love on the grassroots level. This is love that grows imperceptibly, day by day, rooting itself firmly in rich, well-prepared, sun-warmed, heart-soil: embodied grace.

Isn’t it good to know that even when we’re feeling or acting snotty, we can sidle up to our Heavenly Father and… well, you get the picture!

“E” is for Encouragement: “Grace Happening People” Know and Emulate the Encouraging Son of God

This is the tenth installment of a twelve-week summer series based on the anagram “GRACE HAPPENS,” each letter representing a quality that equips us to be “Grace Happening People.”

My long time friend, Ken Knipp, recently shared with me a priceless example of encouragement from his life. One winter, Ken’s mom accompanied his family to Colorado to serve as baby sitter for their youngest child, Janae, so Ken and Vickie and their sons, Tim and Gabe, could ski. Ken managed to talk his mom into taking a skiing lesson and she was quite surprised and pleased when she mastered the bunny hill. Ken took things one step further and said,

Mom, would you like to go up the ski lift with us?”

“Yes, I think I would like that,” his mom replied.

And so it was that Ken and his mother and sons were soon aloft in the ski lift.

“Oh! I’m not sure this was a very good idea,” exclaimed Mom, several times in a voice increasingly edged with apprehension. Approaching the landing, she despairingly declared, “Oh. I KNOW this wasn’t a good idea!”

Stepping out of the chair onto the snow, she fell several times and Ken patiently helped her up. He was determined to see that his mom experience and enjoy the thrill of skiing. Surmising that their dad’s mission could be time-intensive, Tim and Gabe skied off with a cheery, “See ya at the bottom!”

“Mom, I’m going to ski you down the hill,” Ken said in his calm, reassuring voice. “We’ll take the green trail—the slope is no different than what you have already experienced on the bunny hill.”

Although Mom wasn’t thrilled with the idea, she allowed her son to stand behind her, his skis planted on either side of her skis, his arms firmly but gently wrapped around her waist. Very s-l-o-w-l-y and deliberately, Ken zigzagged down the hill, his mom gasping and prayerfully punctuating the turns as they temporarily picked up speed.

“Oh God, protect us!”

“Oh, dear Lord!”

“Mom, you’ve taken care of me for years, now let me take care of you. Just relax and enjoy the magnificent scenery.”

Joyce Knipp was 65 at the time—and continued to enjoy additional skiing outings. You go, girl!

On the ski slopes of life, I sometimes feel like a bunny hill skier whose been lofted to the top of the Rocky Mountains and left there to fend for myself. At such times, I cry, “I can’t do this! It’s just too hard!” My heart pounding in my chest, I teeter on trembling legs of rubber, immobilized. The slippery slopes of life’s dilemmas often appear too high, too rugged and treacherous, too overwhelming and scary.

In The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee found themselves teetering on one of life’s overwhelming slopes:

“I can't do this Sam,” Frodo lamented to his friend.

“I know,” said Sam wistfully. “It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo… Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer… Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.
“What are we holding on to Sam?” Frodo queried his encouraging traveling companion.

Excellent question, Mr. Frodo! Rather that holding on to “something,” I think we need to lean into the guiding arms of God’s Son and accept his firm hold on us—just as Ken’s mom accepted her son’s encouraging embrace. We may not be the most graceful, skillful skiers on the slopes of life, but the embrace of God’s grace will see us safely through the twists and turns.

Our Lord Jesus Christ… loved us and by his grace gave us eternal encouragement and good hope. 2 Thessalonians 2:16

Be eternally encouraged—and offer encouragement to those around you.