Apron Strings

Photo credit:  Inside Nana Bread's Head

My sister Debby recently paid me a sweet compliment about my writing.  She said,  "When I read your words, I have this picture of you wearing an apron surrounded by your kids, with a smile on your face, and an apple pie cooling on the counter. That comes to the surface in your writing. It's old-fashioned goodness. I love it."  Siblings have that way with each other, don't they?  Somehow we can just understand one another so well. Because it's true that when I am at home I almost always have an apron on, a sweet homemade apron lovingly sewed by another of my sisters, Diann, and that looks very much like the colorful ones hanging on the fence in the above picture.

My kids have an annoying habit of using their cell phones to videotape me unawares and when they play the videos back for me, I almost always have an apron on.  Last Christmas, I was happily rolling out the cookie dough on the kitchen table and my daughter Mary was recording me as I was telling her the story of St. Juan Diego and Our Lady of Guadalupe.  As I was sharing this spiritual story, my son Jack kept coming into the kitchen to snitch the raw cookie dough and I dramatically changed from kindly sharing my favorite story to yelling at Jack with a hearty "Get out of the kitchen and stay out!"  And the whole family cracked up.  I don't remember ever laughing so hard at myself before.  The kids like to tease me by saying that when I die they are going to show that video at my funeral because seeing me go from a tender moment to yelling to laughing all within two minutes is how they always want to remember me.

These days, though, the thought of aprons and the attached strings with children hanging onto them often makes me feel a bit melancholy.  With two young adult sons venturing into the real world, I realize how quickly the years pass and I struggle with the difficulty of letting go, trying to trust that they will hold onto the values that Paul and I have worked so hard to instill in them, but understanding that there is a very real possibility that they'll venture into paths that carry them far from home and from God.  I'm not quite ready to cut those apron strings and let them go their own way.  I want them to realize all of the hopes and dreams that I have held deeply in my heart for them.  But, the only hopes and dreams that they need to find are their very own.  It's a hard lesson for this mother to accept.  Sometimes I wish they could stay little forever.

Old St. Mary (photo credit:  Badger Catholic)

On a joyful note along those same lines, my niece Jenny was due to have her sixth baby induced yesterday.  Jack and Mary, my two youngest, and I, attended the 7 AM Mass at our wonderful new parish, Old St. Mary, and just as the lector was reading the story of Abram and Sarai's difficulty in conceiving, (Genesis 16:1-16) Jenny and her husband Dan slid beside us in our pew.  They were on their way to the hospital but wanted to pray at Mass before the delivery of their newest baby, a boy.  Isn't that a beautiful thing to do-go to Mass before the birth of your baby?  As the lector read the words of the angel to Hagar, "You are now pregnant and shall bear a son," Mary and I couldn't help but smile and nudge Jenny at the truth of those words.  I'm always amazed at God's perfect timing!  I was wondering if they might end up naming their baby Ishmael to follow through with the words of the reading, but today, after nearly 24 hours of labor, they joyfully welcomed Joseph Daniel to their family.  Jenny and Dan are still in the blessedly beautiful early apron string years with a houseful of little ones tugging for love and attention. What joy!

Here's a lovely little song from one of my favorite movies, She's Having a Baby, aptly titled  "Apron Strings."

Largo

"Tender and beautiful fronds of my beloved plane tree, let Fate smile upon you.  May thunder, lightning, and storms never bother your dear peace, nor may you by blowing winds be profaned.  A shade there never was, of any plant, dearer and more lovely, or more sweet."  ~from Handel's Largo

Advent can sure be crazy sometimes, can't it?  We're supposed to be quietly waiting for the coming of the Lord; it should be a solemn time of peace and stillness, but in fact, it is often the exact opposite.  We often find ourselves with too much to do, too much to eat and too much to spend.  Nothing quite spells stress like Christmas preparations!

My advent stress levels have been at an all-time high so far this year and I have spent too much time fretting instead of patiently praying for peace.  After an incredibly busy morning at work, I left for my lunch break walk a bit  later than usual and was startled by the snap of cold that met me when I stepped outside!  I wrapped my scarf a little more tightly around my neck and increased the pace of my footsteps.  When I reached Gesu Church, just three blocks from my office, I saw that they had a sign outside advertising a mid-day organ concert and the doors to the magnificent upper church were open, so I snuck inside to warm up and check it out.  I was the only one there! It turns out that I had stumbled upon a private concert just for me!

 I was just finishing my rosary when the organ swelled with sound and I heard the strains of Largo, an old favorite from my childhood.  I could just picture my sister Cindy with her chestnut brown curls sitting at the piano, fingers poised in perfect position, practicing Largo over and over again while my mom oversaw the practice session from her nearby Husqvarna Sewing Machine where she worked on our family mending.  I was awash in the comfort of pleasant, long-forgotten memories.

It's funny how God always seems to find a way to bring peace to our hearts when we are most in need, and He does it in such unexpected ways!  I never would have imagined that listening to Largo in a grand and empty church on a blustery December day would have brought peace to my frazzled heart, but it did!  And at that moment, I understood that God is in complete control of my life, just as He has always been, and I can let go of the worry and let God handle things in His own way and in His own time.  God is always good and I am very grateful!

Maybe you'd enjoy finding a few moments of calm by listening to the peaceful sounds of Largo yourself?  If so, you will find a lovely version here.

And When I Die

"And when I die, and when I'm gone, there'll be one child born in this world to carry on, to carry on." ~Blood, Sweat and Tears

No visit to my hometown would be complete without a visit to my parent's grave site in Evergreen Cemetery. The highlight for my kids is in finding the trees the grow in the middle of the road in the shaded and well-cared for burial grounds. (Who plants a tree in the middle of the road?) The highlight for me is the opportunity to share memories of my parents with my children and to gather around their headstone in family prayer.

Visiting the cemetery always prompts Paul and I to talk about what types of funerals we might like to have when our time comes to pass and how we would like to be remembered. Paul is always sure to make a somber discussion into something joyful by making the family laugh as he talks about his desire for extravagant coffins and huge gravestones with life-size statues beside them. That is so not Paul!

I can never quite understand the need to show off once we're dead; does it really matter that a body without life is surrounded by silk in the finest mahogany casket only to be placed six feet below the ground where it will rapidly decay? I heard about "green" funerals not too long ago and I've decided that I want to be "green" when I'm dead. I tell the kids to bury me in a cardboard box out in the woods somewhere and whenever they miss me, they can just go for a walk in the woods to remember and pray for me.

Paul again, forever the lighthearted one, tells the kids to gather six banana boxes from the Aldi grocery store, line them up side by side, and just put me in there. It sounds strange and makes me laugh to think of it, but actually, it's quite fitting as those sturdy boxes are practically a symbol of my life! You see, my father worked at Weyerhauser Box Factory for many years and he had a fondness for boxes. I swear we had a whole room in our basement that was filled with boxes in which he organized everything from important files to my family's childhood toys. And he always brought his groceries home in a recycled cardboard box instead of a paper or plastic bag. He was "green" long before it was fashionable to be so.

Well, you know the saying, like father, like daughter, or the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, or should I say banana? Banana boxes are my favorite means of carrying home the family groceries from the Aldi Store each week as I always lug four banana boxes from my basement to the store, fill them with nutritious foods and lug them back home. They are useful for so many other carrying jobs as well, that it's not unusual to find me carrying a banana box filled with prayer books, donation baskets and rosaries to a Roses for Our Lady Holy Hour, or setting them out for the Salvation Army Thrift Store Pick Up Truck filled with the families discarded clothing! It makes sense that the boxes that are filled with so many symbols of my life would make a suitable container for my body as it leaves this world.

But as for the funeral Mass on the other hand, that's where my desires do become extravagant. My aunt Monica was the holiest woman I have ever known. She single-handedly and joyfully raised thirteen children and ran a farm by herself after her husband suddenly died when the youngest child was still a baby. She was a lay Carmelite, active in her parish, prayed outside of abortion clinics, and kept a weekly holy hour(her kids would tease her and say "Mom, we think you're just going to a happy hour each week," to which she would reply, "Child, when I'm keeping my holy hour, I am happy!") Monica was a daily Mass attendee and frequent world traveler in her later years. She died while leaving daily Mass on one of her travels. What a beautiful way to go, having just received the Body of Christ in Holy Communion and then immediately enter into eternal communion with the Lord!

At Monica's funeral the church was packed with over 400 people who stayed in the church for nearly three hours to share the stories of her life. There were three priests who officiated and every one of them was crying. It was a beautiful and holy occasion celebrating the life of a beautiful and holy woman.

And that is how I hope to leave this earth as well; lovingly remembered at a large funeral Mass with family, friends and at least three priests who all cry for me, and then bury me in six banana boxes in the woods, preferably near Lake Michigan where my remains will always be near the glistening water and the sparkling sea glass. Then, each time my family misses me, they only need to go for a walk in the woods near the lake and search for sea glass while they pray. My spirit will always be there.



For a Good Death

O most merciful Jesus, I praise and thank Thee for Thy most bitter death, and I beseech Thee, by Thy death and by the breaking of Thy Heart, to grant me a happy death. When my soul leaves my body, may it be immediately delivered from all sin, set free from all debt, and mercifully received into eternal joy. I know, O Lord, that I ask of Thee a very great favour, and a sinner like me ought not to presume to ask it; but it is as easy to Thy goodness to forgive few or many sins. It is not, indeed, our merits, but Thy infinite mercy that procures for us even the least share of heavenly beatitude. In order to be made worthy and fit to receive this favour, grant, O good Lord, that I may now truly and completely die to the world and to myself. From this time forth, may all appear to me worthless that is not Thee. May nothing interest me but Thee alone. For Thy sake may I look on everything with contempt, and may I rejoice when I am despised for Thee. O good Jesus, may I ever be wounded with Thy most pure and fervent love; may all that is not Thee be bitter to me, and may all that is pleasing to Thee become dear to me. Be Thou, my Lord and God, dearer to me than all besides, or rather, be Thou truly all in all to me." ~Dom John of Torralba, Ancient Devotions to the Sacred Heart of Jesus

Otto the Barber

My friend Fr. Don is sporting a snazzy new hair cut and the story he tells is that he visited an old-fashioned barber shop in Indiana. It seems that the barber took a full thirty minutes to cut his hair using a razor and then only charged him $5.00. It's so uplifting to hear that places like this still exist in this day and age of hurry up and pay a lot. Fr. Don's story reminded me of a similar hair-cutting experience that my son John and I had a few years ago...

Otto the Barber

My mom's greatest wish in life was that one of her six daughters would become a beautician so that she would be guaranteed beautiful hairstyles for the rest of her life. Alas, it's rare that our hopes and dreams are achieved through our children and my mother did not receive her wish, although all six of us did our best at styling mom's hair. I have fond memories of giving her many permanent waves and spending Saturday nights rolling her hair into pin-curls with dippity-do and bobby pins.

I suppose all that practice was good preparation for motherhood, if not for a career in hair styling. From the time my boys were babies I cut their hair myself to save money on barber shop visits. I never did a very good job and when they were little, it was a dreaded ritual for my sons. When my oldest son was very small, I set up the high chair in the back yard and set to work trimming his bangs. As soon as I stepped away for a moment, John bolted out of the high chair and ran around the house to escape the hated haircut. George, our balding next door neighbor was outside watching and he laughed and called out to John, "Run, John! Run fast! You don't want to look like me, do you?"

As the children grew they began to accept their home-style haircuts, but every now and then, for a treat, I'd take them to get their hair professionally done.

It was early one summer and John was out of school before the rest of his siblings, so I took him for a visit to Otto the Barber of whom I'd heard good things. The plain brick building bore a simple sign that read "Haircuts." As we entered the shop, we saw an older man sitting in the chair, receiving the final expert snips to finish off his haircut. When he walked out the door, Otto turned to John and I. He was tall, slim and very handsome. His silver hair was neatly cut.

"I don't style hair," he said with a heavy German accent, "I only cut it." We assured him that we were only looking for a basic, clean haircut.

John settled into the chair and Otto slipped the cape around his shoulders and began trimming his hair with an electric clippers. After Otto made a few comments about how he wished he were still in school so that he could have the summers off, the shop fell silent except for the hum of the clippers.

I contemplated the scene in the shop with amusement. The room was old and dirty, with big clumps of gray hair all over the floor, indicating that most of the customers were older men. The two chairs, covered in duct tape, had obviously seen better days. The wall behind them was covered with black and white hairstyle photos that looked like they were from the 1970's. The magazine racks were filled with National Geographic magazines dating back to 1968! I felt as though I had stepped back in time! The shop bore a faint smell that reminded me of a nursing home. It was certainly a man's shop without any sign of a feminine touch.

A few more snips and clips and John was looking neat and presentable. Otto asked where John usually gets his hair cut and I told him that I always cut his hair myself and confessed that I wasn't very good at it. He disagreed with my self-critique and said, "I didn't see any problems with his hair. What are you, a beautician or a barber?" "Neither," I replied, "just a mom." "Well, you're very good," he said, "I'd hire you!" And had he done that, he would have been out of business in no time!

I am so grateful that in this modern world, there are still some places where old-fashioned service and hospitality are more important than being the biggest and the best. How wonderful that little shops like that of Otto the Barber still exist today!

Driver's Seat

"Pick up your feet got to move to the trick of the beat
There is no lead just take your place in the driver's seat"
~Sniff 'n the Tears

It's funny how memories come back like they were yesterday. My son failed his driver's test due to a pretty minor mistake, but the failure was painful for him just the same. Still, we can be sure that he will never fail to slow down and look both ways at an uncontrolled intersection for the remainder of his years behind the wheel, and the next time he takes the test, he will be better prepared.

Sharing the news of Justin's experience on his road test with some friends has brought back a flurry of memories from those who have also failed their first attempts at getting their driver's license, mine included.

Back in the early 80's when I was a teenager, our family car was a beat up old station wagon that had seen better days to be sure. Not only was it an embarrassment to drive, but I was certain that the examiner would take one look at it and fail the car before I ever got a chance to drive it! So, I had asked my brother if I could use his car for the test. Bob had a classic Plymouth Satellite in mint condition. He foolishly agreed to my request.

I had never been behind the wheel of Bob's car before the day of the test. It was raining that morning and the back window was fogged up, but his car didn't have rear-window defoggers. As I was backing out of the parking space to begin the test, I hit the car behind me! The examiner got out to check for damage, but finding none, told me to proceed with the test.

Knowing I had already failed, the tears began to flow. I cried throughout the entire test. Do you think that might have made the examiner a bit uncomfortable, or was he used to the tears of teenage girls?

As we made our way through the city streets of Manitowoc, we came to a four-way stop and just at that time, an ambulance with its siren blaring came from behind. Still fretting over my major mistake in the parking lot, I panicked about the rules of the road for emergency vehicles. I drove through the intersection and pulled over instead of staying put at the stop sign. So, had I not hit a car in the parking lot, I would have failed the test anyway. I'm just grateful that the ambulance wasn't there because of my parking lot accident! :)

Thinking back to that long-ago day, I have a new appreciation and gratitude for those who work at the Department of Motor Vehicles. They put up with a lot of immature and unprepared drivers, kids who are just desperate to reach that milestone and take their place in the driver's seat.

I imagine that God's role in our lives is a lot like that of the Road Test Examiner. God bravely sits right beside us on the journey of life, whether we are well prepared or not. He often has to take the hard stance and stifle our eager ambitions no matter how good our intentions might be, because He knows that our actions can alter so much more than our own puny lives, but that everything we do can have an affect on others as well. Sometimes He has to say "no" to our most ardent desires because He knows that the safety and well-being of others is at stake. Although our vision may be impaired by a foggy window, God clearly sees the way in which we are to go, and He will not allow us to advance without first assuring that we are well-prepared in our driver's seat so as to safely reach our ultimate destination, the glorious kingdom of heaven.

Dear Anonymous

My dear and wonderful friend Katherine, whose idea it was that I should write this blog, has a marvelous blog herself (Inside Out). She is a fabulous photographer and scrap-booker (is that the right term?) and I always enjoy reading her posts as they leave me with a smile on my face. Today her post really tugged at my heart, not so much because of the post, but because of the comment left by Anonymous. I simply must respond!












Dear Anonymous,

you are not alone. My husband had a 1985 Chevy Cavalier(looked just like the car above only blue) that he simply could not part with. The trusty car had 200,000 miles on it, and it ran great, but the body! It was rusty everywhere! The driver's door would no longer close tightly, and sometimes when I was driving and would turn the corner, the door would fly open! Thank God for seat belts or I would have fallen out! To solve that little inconvenience, my husband installed a hook and eye inside the door so it would stay shut while driving. The passenger door would not open or shut. If we wanted to prevent people from stealing the car, we had to lock the hook and eye and crawl out the hatch in back! When the people at my new job saw me doing that in a dress and laughed at me, my pride had enough. The car had to go!

One day, after my husband sold the car, he came home from work terribly excited! He found his car parked about a mile away at a local apartment building! The new owner lived nearby! It was like old times! Every day he would slowly drive past that apartment building parking lot, just so that he could look at the car and reminisce about the good old days!

Please do not feel that your sorrow over the loss of your Honda is unusual or uncalled for. Please know that you have company in your misery. I hope that some day you will find your Honda parked in a nearby lot and you can visit it every day!

Your friends, Anne and Paul

Cortlands, Gingersnaps and Dad

It's that wonderful time of year again when trees burn with oranges, reds and yellows, the air has a brisk feel to it and apples are back in season! Today as I pushed my grocery cart to the produce aisle, I was delighted to find those red jewels, Cortland apples, just waiting for me! I was reminded of a post I wrote last year about that crunchy treat, so as I was munching on my apple on the drive home, I decided to repost it. How funny that when I found last year's post, it was dated October 1st. I must be more of a creature of habit than I realize!

I just returned from the grocery store where I was delighted to find the autumnal treat of crisp, sweet and juicy Cortland apples. To me, Cortland apples are not just a healthy treat, they are a memory of love. They were my dad's favorite apple. Just before he became too ill to go out walking, my children and I took him to an apple farm. There we picked several bushels of Cortland apples. My dad, who was usually very quiet even when he was pleased, thanked me for the outing and wondered how in the world I had ever found that out-of- the-way apple orchard. When he became home-bound, I would bring him bags of those Cortlands from the grocery store and set a shiny apple and a knife in front of him at the table and just watch him delight in peeling and quartering his favorite apple. Tonight, when I found those apples in the store, I was overcome with nostalgia and love for my dad who has passed away over three years ago. I couldn't wait until I got home to eat one, and peel and cut it like he did. Instead, I immediately bit into it and enjoyed memories of my dad with every bite, all the way home. Recalling the memories of those apples led me to remember another food that was a favorite of my dad's, gingersnap cookies, which is also a food that feels like autumn...

Gingersnaps

Crisp
Spicy
Aromatic
Delicious

These are the traditional joys
of gingersnap cookies.
But to me, gingersnaps offer so much more
than these sensory attributes.

Gingersnaps are a memory of love.
They remind me of my Dad
who loved gingersnaps more than any other cookie.

That rich molasses flavor
hooked him
and he was in love.
There was nothing he enjoyed better
than dunking them in his coffee.

When he was feeling generous
he would buy a bag or two
for my family and I to enjoy.

When I was feeling generous
I would spend an afternoon
baking them from scratch
for him to enjoy.

When my children were small,
their favorite job
was rolling the balls of gingersnap dough
in the dish of sugar
and flattening them with the bottom of a glass.

Whenever I see gingersnaps in the store
or even better
smell gingersnaps
baking in the oven
I am immediately
transported back to another time,
a time when I could share love
with my dad
through a gingersnap cookie.

Crown of Thorns

Standing in the hot sun,
plucking the dark, plump
blackberries from the canes
and dreaming of the treats
I might create with the fruit,
I carelessly turn
and catch my bare arm on the thorns.

I call out in pain
and pull a thorn from my skin.
I watch the blood
gush out in a bright, red drop.

Didn’t he tell me
to wear long sleeves
while picking berries, as
he dug the heirloom canes
from the ground
for me to transplant
into my garden?
I rarely listened to him
when I was young,
and now that I am
not so young
I still fail to listen
to the sound of his memory
in my mind.

But now, my thoughts wander back
to a garden long ago,
a garden rich and lush
with berries in abundance.
There he stood;
my father,
long sleeves regardless
of the heat,
picking those berries
day in
day out,
until the canes were picked clean,
and gently carrying his
purple treasures to the kitchen
where they would be quickly eaten.

But another man
didn’t enjoy sweet berries
after enduring the pain of thorns.
He wore those thorns tightly
wrapped against his head
with no one to pull them out
when he cried in pain,
and only a stranger,
a lovely, gentle woman,
who offered her veil
to dry his blood.

He carried those thorns with him
to his death
and was only offered
the bitter taste of gall
to quench his deep thirst;
a taste He refused
as the taste of our sin
that filled his mouth
was bitter enough for Him.






Oh sweet Jesus,
how I wish you could know
the flavor of fresh summer-picked
blackberries.
And how I wish I would refrain
from complaining when the thorns
grab hold of my skin.
I want so much to be brave and strong
like You,
to wear my crown of thorns
without complaint.
For I know that when I do
you will be holding out my reward,
a treasure sweeter than any berry,
a life of eternal joy with you
in your heavenly garden.

Recalling the Mysteries

I came across my daughter, kneeling at the sofa, rosary in hand, trying to remember the names of the mysteries that spoke His story. My heart softened at the sight of her, and suddenly I was transported back in time, to my own youth. I could see my third grade classroom prayer corner, designed by my friend, Tammy and I, where we would kneel while our classmates were being drilled in math facts. Our reward for advancing in our studies was a bit of free time to quietly do as we pleased, and it pleased us to build this corner in honor of our Mother, and then quietly kneel and whisper prayers of love to His heart, the prayers that would forever be embedded in our minds, unraveling those very mysteries that told us of His journey on earth. And now, I knelt beside my own third grade daughter and spoke His mysteries with her, as we molded our hearts together, united in love with the heart of our Mother.

Silent Man

"A man of knowledge uses words with restraint." Proverbs 17:27













I remember his wrinkled hands,
fingertips calloused from glucose testing,
nails yellowed with age,
hint of dirt beneath them from working in the garden.

Forty-three years old the day I was born
an old man, and yet a new father
ninth time around for him, an expert father by now.

I suppose he expected me to be like all the rest,
wild and naughty;
and I was-
I made sure to cause him to lose his hair,
lose his sleep, possibly lose some sanity, too.

Like all my siblings before me
he raised me the same-
quietly, with few words.

A pat on the head each morning
while eating my lumpy oatmeal
was the love he gave me
on his way to work;
"bye now" and he was gone-

-until he was too sick to work in the factory,
too sick to drive a cab,
too sick to spend much time outside of the hospital.

Months passed in diabetic comas
my quiet father, now silent;
wild daughter, now invisible;
shaken by the threat that dad won't live long.

Returning home with a brain damaged by his illness
his tolerance wore thin,
wild daughter was now "damn kid!"
and those hands came at me with swats
instead of pats.

The threat of near-death that hung over my head
never arrived and he lived to be eighty-three.
In his old age, I silently sat with him;
watched those weathered hands
finger the rosary, often losing track of his place
as he would doze off to sleep.

Finally the day came when those hands could do no more-
no more finger pokes for glucose tests,
no more gardening,
no more cooking oatmeal,
no more love pats,
no more swats,
no more fingering the rosary.

I held his worn and wrinkled hand,
feeling the bones beneath the dry skin
noticed him squeeze my hand as I whispered
"I love you, Dad."

I watched as the silent man
whose hands were now silent, too,
held a rosary without praying,
as the lid was the closed
and the silent man, was no more.

(Missing my dad, and noticing how sometimes, my Heavenly Father can be as silent as my earthly father had been.)

Lost and Carried Away!

I am absolutely and completely in love with the month of October. I praise God for giving us this beautiful month of frosty mornings, breath carried away in puffs of smoke from our steamy mouths, and fiery leaves setting the trees ablaze against a bright blue sky, then silently falling to the ground in a sweet, musky-smelling pile that crackles under our feet.

Quite a few years ago when my children were very small, my sons and I were on our way to our neighborhood school where my oldest son, John, attended kindergarten. We were pleasantly surprised by a huge leaf pile, taller than my son's heads, piled up in the street, waiting for the city workers to come take it away in their truck to some far off destination for burning. Who could resist taking a few minutes out of a hectic schedule to jump and play in that glorious pile? We all rejoiced in the fun of that moment until a quick glance at my watch told me that we if we didn't cut the leaf-jumping short, John would be late for school. As the boys regretfully climbed out of the leaves, and brushed the remaining golden fragments from their jackets, Justin began to cry, for he had lost one of his shoes in the pile! We all quickly began to hunt for it, pushing and digging through the leaves, but to no avail.

We decided to let four-year-old Justin hop on one foot for the last two blocks to school, and after John went into class, we could look for the shoe once more. After kissing John farewell, Justin, Joe, Jack and I made our way back to the leaf-pile, poor Justin still hopping along. As we turned the corner to where the leaf-pile had been, here was the city truck, all of the leaves in the back, driving away with Justin's shoe! His shoe was lost and carried away!

It was bad luck for us that day, but thinking back to that moment, I realize that it is exactly how I want to be. I want to be lost and carried away like Justin's shoe. Only I don't want to be taken away to the city limits for burning. I want to be lost in Jesus' love, in his sweet and tender arms and carried away to eternal joy in heaven. I know I can get there, but it won't be from jumping head over heels into a leaf pile. Instead, I can get there by jumping head over heels into prayer, covering myself with words of love, burying myself under kind actions for my neighbors and losing myself in the joy of God's love.

Oh Jesus, let me get carried away in the wonder of your Love! Take me away to everlasting happiness. Amen.

Cortlands, Gingersnaps and Dad

I just returned from the grocery store where I was delighted to find the autumnal treat of crisp, sweet and juicy Cortland apples. To me, Cortland apples are not just a healthy treat, they are a memory of love. They were my dad's favorite apple. Just before he became too ill to go out walking, my children and I took him to an apple farm. There we picked several bushels of Cortland apples. My dad, who was usually very quiet even when he was pleased, thanked me for the outing and wondered how in the world I had ever found that out of the way apple orchard. When he became homebound, I would bring him bags of those Cortlands from the grocery store and set a shiny apple and a knife in front of him at the table and just watch him delight in peeling and quartering his favorite apple. Tonite, when I found those apples in the store, I was overcome with nostalgia and love for my dad who has passed away over three years ago. I couldn't wait until I got home to eat one, and peel and cut it like he did. Instead, I immediately bit into it and enjoyed memories of my dad with every bite, all the way home. Recalling the memories of those apples led me to remember another food that was a favorite of my dad's, gingersnap cookies, which is also a food that feels like autumn...

Gingersnaps

Crisp
Spicy
Aromatic
Delicious

These are the traditional joys
of gingersnap cookies.
But to me, gingersnaps offer so much more
than these sensory attributes.

Gingersnaps are a memory of love.
They remind me of my Dad
who loved gingersnaps more than any other cookie.

That rich molasses flavor
hooked him
and he was in love.
There was nothing he loved better
than dunking them in his coffee.

When he was feeling generous
he would buy a bag or two
for my family and I to enjoy.

When I was feeling generous
I would spend an afternoon
baking them from scratch
for him to enjoy.

When my children were small,
their favorite job
was rolling the balls of gingersnap dough
in the dish of sugar
and flattening them with the bottom of a glass.

Whenever I see gingersnaps in the store
or even better
smell gingersnaps
baking in the oven
I am immediately
transported back to another time,
a time when I could share love
with my dad
Through a gingersnap cookie.