What makes a man a Grandpa?

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My daughters “Shadow” and “Giggles” with their beloved Grandpa

I remember his big hands.  They were very large, yet always gentle.

I remember the love and care he gave my daughters after their father was killed in an accident.

I remember the nick names he gave to both of them.  My oldest daughter was “Giggles” and my youngest was “Shadow.”

I remember how he understood my deep grief and sorrow after my husband’s death in a way no one else in the family did because he had also lost his first wife in death.

I remember how he just stood by my side in silence with his big hand on my shoulder in the days following my husband’s death while others in the family would be sharing their opinion on why God had allowed Lonnie to be taken from me and my little daughters.   Or, how he would give me a hug at family gatherings when my heart ached for the empty spot at the table where my husband would have sat and no one else in the family even mentioned his name.  It seemed at times as if they had never seen him as a part of our family.  But I knew that Grandpa Gerling missed him along with me and my girls.  He never had to say a word.  His hand on my shoulder, his hug, his whisper to me “It will get better in time” said it all.

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My mother and step-father — Grandpa Gerling

He was not biologically a grandfather to my girls but if love counts for anything, he was their grandfather.  My husband’s family seemed too lost in their own grief after his death to offer any love or comfort to my daughters.  My own father had deserted me and my mother when I was 13 and although he came back into my life later he was always very negative when we were around him and critical of me.  My hair was too short.  My slacks were too tight.  So the only love they were shown by a grandfather was my step-dad, Grandpa Gerling.

He has been gone now for many years, but I still miss him.  I often think how much he would have enjoyed seeing my daughters’ children, how much he would have showered them with love.

This time of year I always think of him.  In the fall he would always fix us his goulash.  My girls and I now make that dish – and remember his kindness and love to us.

He was not their “real’ grandfather.  They shared no DNA.  But he was the only “real” grandfather they knew.  Because what makes a man a grandfather is more than sharing his DNA, it is sharing his love.

So as fall comes and I think about the trips at this time of year to Mom and Cliff’s house for goulash, I thank God for giving my daughters a “real” grandpa.

 

 

Say Yes or Say No

Say yes

A few years ago my husband and I took our youngest granddaughter for a walk by the Mississippi River.  She loved watching the boats go by and feeding the ducks.  As we finished our walk and headed to the car, she realized that we were very close to the John Deere Pavilion.  She loves going there to see all the big tractors and combines and to play “farmer.”  So, holding on to my hand she looked up at me and asked, “Can we go see the tractors?”

Not being sure of what my husband’s plans were for the afternoon, I told her she would have to ask Poppa.  She quickly let go of my hand and hurried her steps to walk beside him.  “Poppa, can we go see the tractors?”

Not expecting that request (he was surprised that she recognized we were close to the John Deere Pavilion since she was only three years old and had never gone there from the river road), he hesitated only a few seconds before he was ready to answer.  But it was not fast enough for her.  Looking at him impatiently, she said

Say yes or say no!

After we stopped laughing, her Poppa said, “Of course, we can go see the tractors.”  I mean, whatever granddaughter wants, Poppa does.

Thinking on that today as I listened to the news (if you can call what is on the news channels as news), I thought how great it would be if our government officials would actually follow that rule.  If our news media would just say the facts as they are.  And maybe if we would be more honest with one another.

As Jesus said

All you need to say is simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything beyond this comes from the evil one.

 

 

 

 

Between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday – Sad, Somber Saturday!

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First, the cross

We talk a lot about the cross and how terrible the death of Jesus was.  The story of Peter’s denial of Jesus and the rest of the disciples fleeing from the garden where he was arrested are familiar to us.  It is good that we take time to reflect on the agony, the pain, the shame that Jesus suffered for us on that Friday.

The Resurrection

Then we jump to Sunday morning and the wonderful fact of the resurrection!  The surprise, the doubt, the joy as they realized that Jesus was alive.  Again, it is good that we celebrate this tremendous event, this foundation stone of our faith.

But, what was that Saturday like?

Have you ever wondered what that Saturday was like for the followers of Jesus as they hid behind locked doors?  After the shock, the horror of his death, can you imagine the range of emotions they felt on Saturday?  Sad, somber Saturday!

Of course, there was the sorrow they experienced at the loss of their friend.  I cannot really begin to understand the pain his mother must have felt as she reflected on the suffering he had experienced.  Perhaps she could not even sleep, or fell asleep only to wake up from a nightmare seeing him once again being viciously beaten.

There must have been great confusion.  Questions as they remembered all the miracles he performed, all the parables he had told.  Wondering how he could have come to this end.  Had he not made tremendous promises?  Had he not proclaimed that he was the only way to God?  Had he not even raised a dead man after four days in the tomb?

There must have been great disappointment.  What were they to do now?  They had left their homes, their employment to follow him.  They had been so excited about the kingdom he would set up, even arguing over who would sit on his left and his right hand in that kingdom.

There must have been great fear.  Would the Romans come after them now?  How could they get out of Jerusalem and back to their villages and their old life safely?

Had they really heard Him?

We have the advantage of looking back on history, on knowing how the story turned out.  So it is easy for us to say, “Did they not really hear him?”  After all he had told them that he would be killed and would rise again on the third day.  Did any of them think about that and wonder if it could be true?

We have our Saturdays too

But before we berate them for not really hearing Jesus, not really understanding, not really believing what he said about his death and coming back to life, are we any different today?

When our Fridays of suffering and difficulty come and we face a sad, somber Saturday dealing with the problems we face, do we forget his promises?  He said he would never leave us.  He said we would have tribulation in this world, but to be of good cheer because in him we could overcome.  He said he gave us his peace, not the peace of the world, but that peace that comes from knowing who is in control.

Today, before I rejoice at the resurrection, I ask God to help me in my times of sorrow, confusion, disappointment and fear.  I ask him to remind me that Fridays come and we have sad, somber Saturdays dealing with the problems of Friday, but for the child of God, Sunday is always on the way!

 

I Don’t Do Cookies!

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It’s that time of year!

All over the country mothers and grandmothers are busy in the kitchen baking cookies with their kids and grandkids.  On Facebook I see post after post of beautifully decorated cookies and smiling faces of children with their mother as they happily put their special touch on the cookies made to look like snowmen and angels and reindeer.  So many creative women out there making wonderful memories with their children.

Then there’s me.  Mother of the year – NOT!

When my girls were little I wanted to be that mother who makes such memories for her children by following that tradition of making cookies for Christmas.  I got out my cookbooks and looked for recipes that said “easy to make.”  All excited, I brought my little girls into the kitchen, sat them up at the counter and explained how we would start our own tradition and have these wonderful bonding moments making memories to last a lifetime.

We followed the recipe and put the cookies in the oven.  When the timer went off, we eagerly opened the door expecting to have these wonderful cookies to decorate.  The cookies were a disaster.  They looked burned to a crisp.

Not one to give up easily, we made a new batch and tried again this time taking them out earlier.  The cookies were still a disaster.  This time they were gluey and clearly not done completely in the middle.

We pressed on!

I tried valiantly several times to make Christmas cookies before I finally accepted the fact that I don’t do cookies.  No matter what recipe I used, no matter how hard I tried, my cookies were always too hard, too soft, overdone, under-cooked.  In other words, I don’t do cookies.

I make a mean apple pie.  At family gatherings, my kids and grandkids always ask for my banana pudding or peach cobbler.  My husband requests my black forest cake and it is always a hit at potlucks or parties.  But cookies?  I don’t do cookies!

Hopefully my daughters were not scarred by being the only kids in the family who did not make Christmas cookies with their mother.  Hopefully my grandchildren have not felt disappointed that Grandma never had plates of delicious, beautiful decorated cookies to eat at Christmas time.

Papa to the rescue!

This year my husband has come to my rescue.  He makes wonderful jumbo raisin cookies using his mother’s recipe.  When my youngest granddaughter came over today he took her into the kitchen and patiently helped her crack eggs, toast walnuts and showed her how to make cookies.

Papa makes the best cookies in the world!

Sampling the cookies when they came out of the oven looking just right, my granddaughter declared, “Papa makes the best cookies in the world!”  She was right.  They are delicious!

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We made other memories!

Despite my total lack of cookie-baking ability, I know my girls and I made other good memories at Christmas time.

  • Wooden Christmas decorations we painted one year that they still have on their tree
  • Watching the movie, “Popeye”
  • Snuggling in bed and reading the “Ugly Joke Book”
  • Decorating the tree

So as I look at all the Facebook posts of beautiful Christmas cookies, I thank God for all those mothers out there making memories.  But I want to encourage those mothers whose house does not look like it was decorated by Good Housekeeping, whose cookies are a flop, and whose Christmas presents are not elegantly wrapped.

Just love your children and laugh with them.  Cookies or not, they will love you too and treasure their Christmas memories.

First Day at School

Memories!

Every year when fall comes and I see the kids going off to school, my mind goes back to the day my first born went to kindergarten – and I have to smile!

thCATUTTIFIt was a bittersweet moment years ago, but I still remember as if it were yesterday – the day my first born left the security of our home and ventured into the big world outside, going to kindergarten. How happy I was that she was growing and developing, learning to read, count and color inside the lines. But I knew I would always miss the joy of those few precious years when her world revolved around me.

Although we lived just a few blocks from the school, all the streets in our subdivision were dead end streets and the only way to school was to walk along a busy highway. For safety purposes, a school bus picked up all the kids in the subdivision. I was terrified of my little angel riding the bus and had nightmares that she would get off at the wrong street and be lost.

To ensure that did not happen, I spent several days driving her to school and back to our house, pointing out houses, trees and other landmarks that appeared just before our street. Day after day we drove the bus route and I would point out the signs that would indicate she was approaching our street. Finally, I had her point out the landmarks, and only after she had correctly recognized our street a dozen times was I satisfied that it would be safe to let her ride the bus.

The Day Arrives!

The big day arrived and I walked with her to the bus stop and made sure she was safely on the bus. The morning seemed to drag, but finally it was noon and time for my little girl to return. I sat on the front porch where I could see the bus when it stopped and waited anxiously to hear all about her first day of school. The bus pulled up to our street; the door opened and one by one I watched as the kids stepped off the bus. About a dozen kids exited the bus, but there was no sign of my daughter. The door closed and the bus driver drove off.

Panic!

Panic set in! Where was my daughter? Had she already got off the bus and was she now wandering lost down another street in the subdivision? Was she still on the bus and, if so, would she exit on another street and be lost? What if someone kidnapped her? I grabbed my purse, jumped in my car and started to drive after the bus. By the time I pulled out on the highway, there was no sign of the bus.

Not knowing what route the bus took after it passed our house, I raced to the school. Running into the office, I frantically told them my daughter had not gotten off the bus at our street. They instructed me to go home because the bus driver would probably take her there when she discovered the little girl was still on the bus at the end of the route. Still frantic, I hurried back home to find my little girl sitting on the porch

Disappointed that all our practicing the last few weeks had obviously not worked, I suggested we get in the car and drive the bus route again so that she would know where our street was. “But Mommy,” she said, “I knew where our street was.” When I asked her why she had stayed on the bus if she recognized our street, she gave me a big smile and said, “I wanted to see where the other kids lived.”

This was the beginning of my daughter’s interest in the world outside our home; and her interest in the other kids, where they lived, what their lives were like only increased as she grew. Even today when school starts, she still is curious about where the other kids live. That interest in other kids led her to a career as a kindergarten and first grade teacher.

She has grown far beyond me and my little world, but every year when I see school children waiting at the bus stop, I think of that morning long ago and I smile.