Tag: Moments

Memories

My youngest turned five this week. It’s an odd feeling to realize my last baby is now officially school-age. I thought about trying to throw a big bash to mark such a momentous occasion, but with all the fullness of life we have going on right now that just wasn’t gong to happen. Fortunately she had other ideas.

Birthday traditions in our family are pretty simple. At first it was a matter of being newly married and poor, then having small children and poor. But then it became something so powerful and precious that we could not change it. At first it was a box mix cake decorated the best this unartistic mama could manage in the birthday kid’s favorite theme of the year. Five dollars worth of tablecloth and paper plates to match the cake. Family only. As the kids got older they started wanting to help with the cake, and the tradition evolved into me doing the baking and providing materials for a cake topper while they decorated the way they wanted. However the cakes might have looked to outsiders, to the kids they were birthday masterpieces.

This past December our tradition underwent a new evolution, one that is proving to be the most precious of all. My oldest learned to bake, and with that knowledge begged to make her younger sister’s cake from scratch. She baked, the birthday girl decorated. Today we had the third birthday since this new development. Our days of boxed cakes are over for good. My days of creating the magic are over; I’ve been relegated to the rank of supplier. Instead, I watch my children excitedly creating their own magic, working together to produce a vision of their own imagination. I get to watch them make unforgettable memories.

The Chapel

“Boris, dorogoy, please come away from the window! The hall will not come to you, no matter how hard you stare. We must go to it, and soon or we will be late and the Chinovnik will mark against us.”

Boris sighed and twisted his cap in gnarled fingers, his eyes not leaving the hall. “Remember the day we wed there, Anushka? It was still the village chapel then, and as lovely as any cathedral that morning!”

She leaned her wrinkled cheek against his arm and smiled at the memory. “I can still smell the flowers the children picked to cover the floor. The chapel was full; no one in the village would miss a wedding!”

“Nor a christening,” he chuckled. “Who would turn down a half day’s holiday from the fields, especially when feast was involved? I remember on Sergei’s day all the women baked for a full day before, and we still ran out of food!”

“Ah, the greedy boys!” Anushka exclaimed with a laugh. “They would have eaten themselves sick if there had been any more syrniki! Ah well.” Her smile faded. “To speak of such memories in the village now is dangerous. We will earn a mark from the Chinovnik if overheard, or worse.”

“Let him mark,” Boris sniffed. “Love may be out of fashion with these oh-so-serious youngsters, but we will walk to the chapel like newlyweds.” He gently took her arm in his and they left the house, shuffling feet leaving two flattened paths side by side through the grassy commons.

The Mercy Seat

On the Day of Atonement the High Priest carried the blood of the sacrificial bull and goat behind the veil and sprinkle it on the mercy seat. This was a symbol of God’s cleansing and sealing the people for His own holy purpose. It was also a solemn moment, as on the Day of Atonement the Lord Himself hovered behind the veil in the form of the cloud by which He guided His people to their promised home.

For the Israelites this was something to be longed for, a connection that only the divinely chosen representative was allowed to make with God. It was a moment for which the entire nation made solemn preparation, a moment of purification for every individual within the nation. It was the day that the death of sin was covered, overwhelmed, with the life of blood.

The word that is translated “mercy seat” literally means atonement, or reconciliation. This ceremony of blood, the solemn entrance to the separated presence, symbolized the restoration of a broken relationship. Because death brought by sin had broken the relationship between God and His children, only life offered could restore it.

The blood of the bull and the goat only symbolized the life, however. In order to offer the blood, the life of the bull and goat had to be ended. Only one could truly offer an unendable life, and that was God Himself.

Because He is Life, Christ is not only the blood spattered on the mercy seat, but the atonement the blood represented. Without the blood, even the High Priest could not approach God or make connection with Him. Without God’s gift of His own unendable life, none of us could approach Him either. The Israelites could not earn reconciliation by perfect law-keeping; in fact, keeping the law was an act of love for a protective father rather than an act of appeal to a vengeful lord. We cannot earn atonement either; our faith is not in our own goodness, but in His loving grace, His offered life. Our obedience is not an attempt to win an argument with a prosecuting lawyer; it is the adoration of a child with his arms around the father’s neck as he is held on the mercy seat itself.

Black and White Summer

This flash fiction was inspired by a photo prompt that I unfortunately don’t have the right to share. You the reader get to imagine the scene for yourself this week! Enjoy! *********************************************

Gramps kept the old black and white postcard in his wallet, folded up neatly to fit in a card slot. Sometimes he would take it out and gently unfold it, smooth it with a caress of his fingertips the way he touched Gram’s hair. I asked him once what was so important about a gray picture of a boat and trees. He gave me a long look and then handed me the creased and worn card.

“My brother was eighteen that summer,” he said. “I was ten. Wasn’t much we did together anymore, but we did like fishing.” Gramps put his hand on my head and ruffled my hair, staring into the distance with a half smile. “That summer he told me to pack my camping gear, we were headed upriver for a week. We threw sleeping bags, fishing poles, and a frying pan in an old boat he’d scrounged up and caulked and set off for a boy’s heaven.”

“Did you catch lots of fish?” I wondered.

“Enough to fry every day,” he chuckled, “but mostly we swam, chased each other up and down the bank, and slept in the sun. It’s a wonder the snakes didn’t carry us off; mosquitoes sure tried. Once, the boat sprung a leak. Not a bad one, but we were taking on water. Jack showed me how to stuff moss in the crack and caulk it with mud.”

“Did it work?”

“Well… not too well,” Gramps admitted. “But we were having too much fun to care. I’d never spent so much time with Jack, just the two of us.”

He sighed. “He enlisted the next day, headed to the Pacific. We were dirt poor and there were no photos, but I found this in a drugstore a week after Pearl Harbor. It may look like a boat to you, but to me that’ll always be Jack.”

The Christmas Gnome

Ellen switched on the light in the cluttered garage and sighed. She had put this off as long as possible but with the house being listed in a week there was no more time. Maybe she could just load all the boxes and junk without opening them, haul them to the dump, be done.

She ran her hand over the dusty top of the nearest flimsy carton, lifting the well-wrinkled flap in spite of herself. A flash of shiny red caught her attention, and carefully she unwrapped the tiny gnome from his torn tissue. A ragged smile played across her face as she rubbed the little fellow’s flowing beard.

The gnome had perched on the thick oak branch over the front walk every Christmas for as long as Ellen could remember. Once, when Ellen was about four, she had asked why, and Mom had told her he was the Christmas guardian. Nothing could steal the spirit of Christmas love as long as he watched over them.

Only when Ellen and her brothers had grown and gone did she ask Mom why the gnome still guarded the house. It wasn’t as if any children remained to believe in magic. Her eyes filled with tears remembering the gnome’s real story. Dad had given him to Mom their first Christmas, just days after they became engaged. The tiny presents held something that real packages could not; his vow to never leave her.

Dad had died when Ellen was two, a stupid construction accident. Mom set the gnome in the tree at Christmas, when her grief was deepest, to honor the promise. If she hadn’t died, he would be perched on that branch now, holding Dad’s love for her where she could see it. Ellen carefully closed the box and carried the gnome to the front walk. Dad would have wanted it this way, she thought. When she walked away, the gnome perched cheerfully in the stiff snow on that same old branch.

A Beautiful Mess

Last night I made pumpkin sweet rolls to surprise my kids for Thanksgiving breakfast. I only do things like this for one reason – the reaction. The truth is that I hate cooking, especially baking. It’s tons of work, takes a ridiculous amount of time, and overheats the house. Often ingredients must be mixed just so or the recipe will fail. Cooking for a big family uses soooo many dishes! And we’re not talking about a few small bowls, we’re talking giant mixing bowls, pots, and baking dishes. I’ve never had a dishwasher worth having, and handwashing all those dishes takes forever. Ingredients get everywhere, like the flour all over the counter in my picture, even under countertop appliances which then must be moved for cleaning.

But despite being such a huge part of cooking, none of that is really what it is all about. Something about good food reaches all the way to the soul with power to change, create, and connect. The look on my kids’ faces and their excited squeals, the joyful conversation as they stuff their faces with sticky goodness, the gooey hugs and kisses, all outweigh the things I hate about cooking. The mess becomes as beautiful as those sweet rolls, filled and drizzled all over with delicious joy.

The Assignment

“Today’s writing assignment is to write a one page short story using this picture.”

“It’s a rowboat!”

“I don’t know how to write about a rowboat!”

“That’s a wooden framework, y’all.”

Now, kids, there are many elements in the picture. There’s a sunset, and water, and a boat, and you’re right, some kind of wooden building in the background. So many things to be creative with.”

“But I don’t know how to write about any of that!”

“I can’t think of anything to write!”

“Well, what does a boat on the water make you think about?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“THE LAKE!”

“Oooh, I can write about what I did at the lake!”

“That’s right, you can! That sounds exciting!”

“Look, I wrote raptor three times! I did it, see?”

“I wrote my name!”

“Yes, you did, except that you skipped two letters that one time. And that is the most beautiful collection of M’s, H’s, and scribbles that I have ever seen. Great job.”

“Hey, I’m done! I wrote my whole story, I’m done.”

“No, sorry, you have to fill up the whole page. One paragraph is not near enough.”

“I have writer’s block.”

“Is this a whole paragraph?”

“Since I wrote my words can I go?”

“Sure, go play Legos.”

“I’m finished now! Look how much I wrote, a whole page! SO MUCH WRITING!”

“Great job, when everyone has finished you can read it out loud.”

“I only have two paragraphs. I’m no good at this!”

“You’re doing fine, just keep writing. Why are you moving to sit behind me?”

“I just wanted to lie down over here to write.”

“Sigh. Fine.”

“Is this enough sentences?”

“You can’t think of anything to tell me about going swimming except that it was hot and you were cold?”

“I said I was WET and cold!”

“…”

“Oh, I know, I can write about Daddy was there!”

“Sure, sounds great. Is everyone finished now? Who wants to read their story out loud? What? No, I didn’t get to write my own story for this assignment. Yes, you want to go first? Excellent, let’s hear it.”

The Test

Su Lin stood on the steps of the brick building, hands twisting the tail of her shirt into a tight knot. Today was the day. In a moment she would step through that door into the Naturalization Office. Mr. Munro would be waiting for her in his stuffy little office, a jar of pens and a bundle of handheld flags on one edge of his desk.

He would peer over the top of his reading glasses as she came through his office door, his hair sticking up in front where he had run his hand through it absently during his previous appointment. He would beckon her to a seat, tap a few keys on his laptop, and jerk a brand new test booklet from the top drawer of the filing cabinet near his shoulder. There were never pleasantries with Mr. Munro; no preliminaries, just business.

First, he would slap a sheet of written questions on the desk in front of her. He would look bored while she read them aloud, bored because after all the forms she had filled out for him he knew she could read anything he put in front of her. He would tap a few more keys and flip the page over, then shove one of the pens from the jar in her direction. She would carefully write every word he dictated to her in his squirrely voice, sure she was misspelling every other word but knowing it probably wouldn’t matter.

It was the next part of the test that knotted her shirt. Six questions that she prayed she would answer correctly, six questions that would determine where she spent the rest of her life. It was Mr. Munro’s favorite part, the only thing he seemed to get excited about.

Su Lin untwisted her shirt and took a deep breath. In half an hour, she told herself, she would walk back out that door with a brand new flag and a brand new nationality. And tomorrow, she would light a special Independence Day sparkler in celebration.

The Cafe

The Cafe was still there, tucked away in its remote little corner. The structures surrounding it had grown even older and more drably brown with time, a stark contrast to its bright colors and neat facade. In the afternoon light it almost seemed a sun unto itself.

The evening rush had not begun, and the sidewalk tables and chairs stood against the wall as if starched and ironed into perfection. The walk itself gleamed, so freshly scrubbed that dust had not had time to mar its brilliance. I smiled. Old Lydia would probably frighten the dust away anyway.

The cafe door opened and Lydia herself emerged from its dark interior, white linen towel and scrub bucket in hand. “Wouldn’t do for the tables not to gleam as brightly as the sidewalk!” I called, a wide grin spreading across my face.

The old lady nearly dropped her scrub bucket, the strongest testimony of her surprise I could ever ask for. She would have died of mortification if it had fallen or splashed onto her precious walk. “Nico!” She carefully set her cleaning implements onto the nearest table and opened her arms wide to welcome me. “How long has it been?”

“Too long, Lydia,” I admitted as I returned her embrace. Beneath my arms her shoulders, though as broad as ever, felt frail somehow. “Too long to be away from home. But with Sofia gone…” I pulled away and looked down at her. “Where else could I go but here to remember her? This place was her soul.”

The old woman’s eyes filled, and she patted my arm. “Come inside, Nico, we’ll make a cup. Sofia’s blend. She will be here with us.”

Book Review: One Morning in Maine

Robert McCloskey has always been one of my favorite storytellers. I love his gift of capturing the all-important little moments of childhood. One Morning in Maine chronicles one such rite of passage.

Little Sal has a loose tooth, her first, and can think of nothing else. Losing a tooth means she’s a big girl and is growing up! While helping her daddy dig for clams, she wonders what else loses teeth. Maybe gulls or clams, or the seal she played with on the shore?

An accident threatens to spoil her excitement and stop her tooth wish from coming true. But a handy feather (lost just like her tooth) gives Sal a solution to her problem. Before long, with a few other hiccups along the way, Sal is enjoying a cool treat with her family and showing off her gap-toothed smile to the whole town.

It’s a timeless story with which every child can identify. The beautiful hand drawn illustrations only add to the charm, and as you can see, my own little one is entranced.