A Valentine's Day Encounter + Gift

A heavy door, a handful of balloons and a windy day could easily qualify as an Olympic sport in my mind. That was the scenario which played out while attempting to extract myself and my heart balloon cache from the Dollar Tree Friday afternoon.

On top of it all, I sensed someone behind me also trying to leave the store, and, of course, felt compelled to politely hold the door. Add this extra layer to my exit and it was most definitely a task tricky enough as to require extreme athleticism from my balloon burdened body. 

I held the door and then I heard her voice. 

“God bless you, my dear.”

The tiniest little elderly lady holding three of her own heart- shaped balloons came lightly out of the Dollar Tree door with me. For a quick minute she and I and all our balloons almost became tangled up together like one big Valentine’s Day disaster. 

But it wasn’t the intertwined balloons which drew me in, it was her voice. And her words.

“Oh my, what a day! Love is in the air!”

I nodded in agreement. “Yes, it is.” I lamely offered, hoping to get on quickly to my car.

“But love is always in the air,” she continued, “because God is love!” 

Again, another exuberant response from me: “Yes," I smiled, He is." All the while trying to remove myself from the store, and, if I’m honest, from further conversation with this seemingly nice lady. 

But she persisted. “Do you know Him? Do you know the love of Jesus?” 

I stood there, my balloons dancing uproariously in the late winter breeze, and I finally looked into her face fully. It was pure sweetness. Nothing was off at all. There were no wild eyes or crazy hair or strange countenance one might notice in a persistent stranger conversation. No street corner, sign holding screamer anywhere to be found. She was the embodiment of joy and peace. That sounds awfully cliche, I know. But it is true. That was exactly what I thought staring at this little wisp of a woman in her cute cheetah print coat and red and white Valentine’s Day scarf with hands holding three pink balloons. 

I stopped and smiled. “Yes, I know Him. I know His love.” 

Her face grew even brighter. “I’m so glad! It’s why I tell everyone I meet about His love. It is everything. I can’t not tell others. I absolutely can not.”

By this time we had managed to make our way toward the parking lot. She came closer to my car, “I want the world to know of God’s love. It has changed my life. And I am so sad for those who don’t know it.”

There was an earnestness about her.  Again, nothing off or strange, but a beautiful intensity in what she was saying. I was ashamed of my obvious desire to not engage with her. It was a busy day. I was running late. I was trying to get to my mom’s assisted living to drop off some balloons and cookies for her care team and my day had already gone a bit sideways. I had no time to stop and talk to a stranger about anything. Not even Jesus, apparently. 

But when I finally called out these cross thoughts running in my head, I was immediately embarrassed for myself. “Seriously, Jody. You are in such a rush to go show love, you can’t stop and talk a minute about Jesus’ love? Shame on you.” 

The little lady was oblivious to my internal dialogue and didn’t miss a beat. “I’m afraid for all the people in this world who don’t know Him. This world is so sad, so broken, so lost. There is much pain. Everywhere I look I see it.” 

There were tears in her eyes as she continued sharing, “I have a brother who is sick. He has been in the hospital since January. He doesn’t know Jesus. I wish I could change that.”

We stood facing each other. Our balloons still billowing. Our eyes locked on one another. And I nodded, “I understand. I too worry about people I love.” 

“My brother’s name is Ashok,” she offered. 

“I will pray for Ashok.” 

“Bless you, my dear.”

And we hugged. With all of our balloons. With all of our love for Jesus. With all of our sadness for this world.

And then she was gone. This lady—tiny in stature, but tremendous in her love for Jesus and the telling of it to others. 

I got into my car and realized I had never asked her name. I wish I had. I usually do. But I have her brother’s name. And, what’s more, I have a moment impressed deeply on me to be bolder, stronger, and more earnest in my telling and talking of Jesus. 

Because as she said, “How can I not?”

Her exuberance was inspiring. How can we know the love of Jesus and not feel compelled to share it with others? If this petite woman could be so bold, how can the rest of us walk around mindlessly with our errands and our tasks and our busyness and forget easily about the most important message we have for this weary world? "Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations." Matthew 28:19. Go therefore and tell others of His love whether we are at the Dollar Store or the grocery store or the gas station. Talk about God's love. Show God's love. 

Why is the news so good and yet the task of telling often so hard?

This Valentine’s Day moment with Ashok’s sister and my sister in Christ was a gift so much more beautiful than any chocolate or flowers or heart-shaped balloon. 

It was the gift of God's love. 

“Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.” 1 John 4:11 

"Let brotherly love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unaware." Hebrews 13:1-2

The Elevator Ride

 

The doors opened and in they all piled. Loud, laughing and each with an armful of old photo books. Hoping to make some extra space, I pulled my mom's wheelchair further back into the corner of our tiny elevator. But, even so, we were pretty much nose to nose with these new riders. And when you find yourself nose to nose with strangers it's probably best to just go ahead and decide to be friendly and acknowledge one another as cordially as possible in such a tight space. 

And so our pleasantries began. 

Without me inquiring, the three men cheerfully offered they had  just been to see their dad who lives up on floor three. 

"You're all brothers then?" I asked. The resemblance was indisputable. 

Like a mischievous trio of school boys, they laughed and nodded.

 "Yes mam! We sure are," said one of the middle-aged brothers.

"Nothing we can do about it now," chimed in another.

More laughter. 

I chuckled a bit too. "Brothers!" I thought to myself.

Three middle-aged men with arms full of photo books and faces full of mixed emotions. That is what had climbed into the elevator with mom and me.  And we all stood there tightly together waiting for the doors to close. My hands wrapped around the wheelchair handles. My mom quietly taking it all in--Probably watching them closely lest they attempt to snatch her pocket book which she no longer carries. 

Our slightly awkward conversation continued as we all stared earnestly at the gaping opening of our elevator. Minutes ticked by.

It's probably a universal thing in assisted living communities, but the elevator doors at mom's apartment are the slowest closing doors in the state of Georgia. For obvious reasons, I suppose. Normally, when I get on this elevator, I am quick to push the "door close" button, but I was definitely too tucked away in the back of this elevator box and to do so would have required even more awkward and possibly uncomfortable contact with these men. And friendly or not, my mother would have been quick to remind me: "Jody, they are strangers." =) 

And so I resisted. 

And so we waited.  

It felt like we stood there ten minutes making small talk and hoping for those heavy mechanical doors to finally meet in the middle and signify the time for movement.

In those minutes (hours?) of waiting, I couldn't help but notice that lovely, jovial ease of brotherhood between them.  I wouldn't have been a bit surprised had one brother playfully punched the arm of another as they bantered back and forth. 

Having a couple of boys of my own it is something with which I am quite familiar. And, even more so, something for which I am immensely grateful. Their goofy grappling and guffawing can get my boys through pretty much anything. Nothing is off limits. Nothing too sacred or serious for a little brotherly braying. There is almost no situation which can't be solved or at least lightened a little with some boyish horsing around and, on occasion, some unsavory sorts of humor. Trust me on this.

The doors finally closed and down we went. Our elevator ride over and I didn't know much more about these brothers. I didn't know how old their father or how ill or how long he's been living here. I didn't ask. It didn't matter though. I had all the information I needed by the time we reached the ground floor and parted company. I watched them hug each other and then head out the doors and off to their own vehicles. 

We went on our way as well. I pushed my mom's chair down the hall, and with every turn of her wheels, what I did know is those men from the elevator--those siblings--they clearly had each other. And without knowing anything more about them--who they were or what their story might be--I knew, as brothers, they weren't alone. They were in this together.

And that is everything. 

It's everything in this new season of navigating a parent aging and in need of more assistance. There is so much. So many discussions. So many decisions. So much for which to solve or plan or process. So many worries and what nexts. 

We are in the throes of this new stage in our own family. We've been here for a good bit especially since moving our mom into assisted living 18 months ago. We've made some mistakes. We've made some changes. We've also learned a million lessons. What to do. What not to do. 

Maybe what we've learned the most is the impossibility of doing any of this without one another. I cannot imagine this particular journey without my three siblings. I think of that often. 

I don't always have them in the elevator with me. But I have them. They are always there. Just a phone call away. I have climbed into this very same [slow] elevator and made the immediate call to one of them. For answers. For feedback. For support. For someone just to listen to my story or talk me off the ledge or comfort me in my tears. 

Someone who knows me and knows us. Someone who knows intimately all the details, history, idiosyncrasies, and difficulties. 

Even the dearest of friends can't always be that person. It takes a brother or a sister. Someone who also calls my mother by the very same name--"mom." 

I have thought a million times how grateful I am there are four of us doing this very hard-holy thing together. It is brutal. It is necessary. It is not at all what we imagined.

And that was what my encounter today with the three men in the tiny elevator reminded me of---The indescribable gift in sharing life with siblings. The beautiful, joyful, wonderful. But, even more so, the very hard, the holy, the holding on.

I never got the names of the three elevator brothers or the name of their father on floor three. 

I don't need to know their names.

I know they are all of us.

Plastic Crates & Precious Childhood

 

Every year, when putting away our Christmas crates, I feel the intense stares from the “other” plastic crates sitting sedentary, slightly dusty and very impatient on their shelves in our basement storage room. They glare at me. Call to me. Cry out— “It’s our turn! Open us up! Organize our contents! Purge our papers! Whittle down our detritus!”

I know plastic crates can’t really talk. But if you store up enough of them over multiple decades of marriage and parenthood, trust me, they begin to become a bit sassy, if not a little snide and sinister. 

So this was the year. This was the January where I was going to face the music and bring some real order to the mess and mayhem in our storage area. 

It was high time. Three of the children are all the way through school and completely out of the house. The fourth is about to graduate college and the youngest is scheduled to start her senior year of high school in 2025. We are getting close to wrapping up these busy and crate-busting educational years with a big bow. Not quite there, but close enough for this project to feel right in its timing.

I’ve always tried to keep things under control. The crates had labels. There were some paltry attempts at order, but, nonetheless, when multiplied by five kids and, what seems, a thousand moves the contents of these crates had become decidedly overwhelming. 

Even with these formidable feelings, I still somehow became motivated. I want to be the one to go through these things. I don’t want to leave it all for my kids to figure out. I don’t mean that to sound morbid, but there’s truly no time like the present. We just don’t know. Gosh, that’s one lesson I’ve learned lately. Right now I feel good and clear-headed and quite capable. Now is the time. 

And so I began. One child, one crate, one crumbly art project at a time. I spent most of my week buried in our basement pouring out the contents of plastic crates and pouring over my kids’ words and pictures and notes and school projects. Yes, it was a monumental task, but more than anything it was an act of joy walking down this particular memory lane. We’ve been collecting bits and pieces of our children for almost three decades. Again, multiply that by five and it added up to a lot of stuff. A lot of heavily glued macaroni noodle masterpieces!

I had oodles of fun sending to our family group text photos of their artwork, their silly notes, their poems and projects and pictures. I think they all had a few good laughs as well. It was entertaining for them to see each other’s funny spellings and awkward writings and drawings. There was lots of laughter and teasing back and forth in our text thread this week. 

It also brought a renewed sense of perspective. Each one has come so far. The child who couldn’t hardly spell her name in Kindergarten. The kid who couldn’t color inside the lines or finish his math facts fast enough. The one who wrote me literally endless letters of apology because that was how she processed after getting herself in trouble. I remember those moments. I remember wondering if my son or daughter would ever get it. Get their act together. Get their ducks in a row. Learn to count the ducks in a row. 

If you’ve parented even one child, you know what it is I mean. We just naturally have some worries as we watch them learn and grow. Leap and … sometimes fall or fail or crash or never seem to catch on. We’ve all been there. It’s such a process. Each child on their own timeline. In their own way figuring it out. Each child with their own strengths and weaknesses which so often lead to our worries and what ifs. And our job to keep on correcting, coaching, cheering, challenging. Definitely to keep praying. It’s exhausting. And yet, it’s exhilarating. Because life and love are both things most always. 

Several times this week I found myself in tears as I remembered their frustrations and my own failures as a parent. There are so many. The path is strewn wide and deep with them. The crates told the stories and reminded me of long forgotten lessons. There were also sweet joyful tears and deep gratitude to read the beautiful handmade cards, poems and love notes from our children. Funny drawn pictures from when they were so small to their thoughtful notes and letters in more recent years. I treasure them all. I made one box for me and one for Rick which included all of their love offerings to each of us. 

What a gift it is to (sometimes) save things.

My goal was to get each child down to two big plastic crates a piece. Two crates from birth to college which would hold all of the important or precious items of these years. I wasn’t entirely successful. The girls were especially hard. So I did my best and decided not to worry if it took an extra crate or two to contain their lives. 

These crates all lined up are only a tiny part of the story. There’s absolutely no way to capture all of these bursting years of childhood in four walls of plastic with a lid. Not possible. Not even close. These are nothing more than a snapshot or a hint of who they were and what they’ve become. I might have been able to whittle down the detritus a bit, but there’s no whittling down of our lives together. It is really for them to have and go through some day perhaps with their spouse or children. 

I’m so glad I saved what I did.

I’m actually a purger by nature. I don’t love clutter. I don’t love things sitting around which someone else might be able to better use. Ask my kids how many trips they have taken to Goodwill or some other donation location. Just this past Christmas Connor hauled off another load in the back of his pick up truck. It’s never ending. 

We are always getting rid of stuff or giving it away. But I’m so glad I saved the things I did. Even though I tossed a lot this week, it was wonderful having the chance to hold their little selves in my hands again for a few brief moments of motherhood. Strangely, as emotional as some of that was, I felt no desire to go back. I mean sure I’d love to redo a few things or revisit a day or a special moment with young kids, but the truth is, I love having my older kids now. I love having this chance to see the full scope. I know there’s more ahead. I pray there’s much more ahead that I get to experience with them. But I’m so grateful for these amazing few decades of motherhood which aren’t only contained in a good number of plastic crates, but which are much more so captured in my heart. What a gift to watch our children grow. To watch them grow up and go on and go forth. 

To know things like that little girl who couldn’t seem to learn to write her name graduated with high honors from college and is killing it in the work world right now. That boy who so often had to be dragged out of his bed each morning is now up early and at the gym before he heads into his office. I could go on, but you get it. They grow up. They figure it out. And all those challenges and failures actually help make them stronger in their futures. Even if right now it doesn’t seem that way, I encourage you young parents, keep collecting the bits and pieces and watch it happen. Keep praying. Keep believing. Keep encouraging your children. They are never too old or too far away to cherish what was and celebrate what is to be. 

The boxes I put all the saved notes, cards and letters from our kids. One for me. One for Rick.

The final product. Ready to be picked up or put back in storage.

A New Year

Everywhere I've gone this week. Everyone I've talked to. It has been the same thing. A big sigh of relief. An enormous exhale. A collective hoping. A universal embracing of the new year. Bring it on!

We all want it. Need it. Crave it. Come to it. Hope for it. Hang all of our hats upon it. 

New. New. New.

It's our January vocabulary. 

And I get it. I've always had a thing for cycles and seasons; a romance with new chapters and blank slates and fresh starts. I don't know about you, but I'm a do-over kind of gal through and through.

Let me take another stab at that! Another crack at it!

Let's start this game over! Whether it be basketball or board games.

Let's begin again!

 

Gosh. I'm an addict when it comes to another attempt and all things new.  Always hopeful I'll get it right. This time. Next time.

Confidently certain the second or seventieth time will be the charm.

And so that's what January does for us. 

Flip the calendar page and start again. Anew. Afresh. Awake. Always. 

Perhaps God intended this very thing. He wired us to know we desperately need do-overs. No matter who we are or how we've been living, we need clean slates and fresh starts.

It's exactly why He sent Jesus. 

It's exactly what He wants to do in our lives.

Renew. Refresh. Redeem. Rebirth. Restart. 

And it's not just a January gig, it's for eternity. Forever.

He washes away all of the old, the ugly, the offensive and He makes us clean. All clear. White as freshly fallen snow.

“though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool." Isaiah 1:18

We are so willing to try so much—New gyms and diets and classes. I read that the United States alone publishes over 15,000 self-help books each year. 

Except we can’t really help our selves. Not really. Sure we can learn to do things better. We can set goals and make resolutions, but that’s only going to take us to next January. Maybe, to just March. I know. I’ve been there. I’ve written the list and set the goals and tried all the tries. It’s so tiring. So tiresome.

But it isn’t January which gives us a clean slate, it’s Jesus. 

It isn’t the new year that gives us new life. 

It’s a new life which gives us a new year. 

Without that kind of new, it’s just the same old, same old. Again and again and again. You know. I know.

A month. A year. A calendar. A book. A list. A program. 

None of that is going to cut it. None can cut deep enough into our staunch-selves and stony-hearts. It simply cannot. If you’ve tried everything else, perhaps it’s time to try Jesus. He works from the inside out.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh." Ezekiel 36:26

There’s nothing we need to do, but seek Him. We don’t have to come all cleaned up and cleared out. That’s what He will do for us. Just come. As you are. Nothing else is needed. No paperwork, no pre-requisites, no dotted line, no nothing. Just come. What do we have to lose? Even that program or self-help book that we buy (and probably won't finish) will cost us more money. But life without Jesus will cost us everything.

Our hope is not found in the passing month of January, but in the Perfect Man of Jesus.

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a NEW creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new."  2 Corinthians 5:17