Somewhere in the Middle
I’ve totally plagiarized
this title from one of my favorite authors but I think she’ll forgive me by the
time she’s finished reading this. Like her poem about the awkward and
bittersweet transition of teenagers from childhood to adulthood, this theme is about
change from one phase of life to another. In an earlier blog I shared some
thoughts on my spiritual journey through childhood, young marriage, raising our
two girls, and our empty nest. Now, I feel a bit suspended between that past
and the unknown future, between my youth and my “old age”, somewhere in the
middle of my roles as husband, father,
and beyond. So, in keeping with the stated premise of this blog, now comes a
time to pause, take a philosophical breath, and look back and forward.
One of my favorite memories
of childhood still fuels the joy in my heart…holiday meals. Not so much the meal itself but what usually came
afterward. They were wonderful of course
but what I enjoyed most was not among all the usual things that make holidays
special. Don’t get me wrong! I loved the food, the fun of running around
playing with my cousins, gifts at Christmas, hunting eggs at Easter, turkey and
dressing at Thanksgiving, all the smells and sounds from the kitchen, and even
the awkward hugs and kisses from little known and seldom seen aunts. It seems my ear was always tuned for a moment
when the grown-ups would begin to talk. I’ve
always been drawn to that. I loved it so
much I would pause from all other activities and make my way to the table where
they were and just listen. In the
grown-up vs. kid culture of the day I would never dare speak…just listen. Sometimes the conversations were serious. There might be talk of work, jobs lost and
gained, politics, or illness. But most
often the house would echo with laughter and there would be storytelling of the
highest order…hunting stories, romances relived, practical jokes pulled,
self-confessed blunders, and holiday moments of old… relived once again…some
retold year after year to greater delight each time. Everyone seemed to know his place and moment
to share his particular story or when to goad someone into a confession of
wisdom gained. I especially remember
those times when I would be noticed and granted a seat at the table. I remember the delight in the eyes of my
mother or aunt or grandpa as they would bring up a chair just for me, then stack
hymn books, Sears catalogues, or encyclopedias in the seat until I could sit
high enough to see everyone. I remember having
the feeling that sitting before the grand expanse of that table, now littered
with crumbs on dessert plates and steaming cups of coffee, seemed to be the
very center of life itself. I was too
young then to understand all that my heart was feeling, but I did feel the most
special when, to my great joy, I was offered my own cup of coffee! “Boy, that
stuff will put hair on your chest!” was
the common tease. I didn’t mind. It was all part of growing up, part of taking
my place in the family…a token of belonging and being loved. The holiday afternoons at those tables of
nearly 60 years now have blended together their sweet and bitter tales like the
sugar in that strong coffee, to shape my love for my family and my vision of
the kingdom of heaven.
I sometimes think the
kingdom works this way:
I have a list…a list of
names that plays through my mind like the credits of a movie. They roll across the screen of my life quite
often, especially in times of crisis and sorrow or triumph and joy. Mostly married couples, they are the names of
my heroes, my role models, my mentors.
They are on the list because they are the ones who taught me about life,
about God and His love, about Jesus and the life that we have now and forever
in Him. They taught me not only with their
voices but most importantly with their lives…long, steadfast, and faithful
lives, steadily in love with each other and steadily in love with Jesus. They are my family. Two families really. One, related to me by birth and marriage, and
the other by spiritual birth, my church family.
They made sure I was invited to the meal. They made sure that words of wisdom and love
and forgiveness would fall on my ears even while I was running around playing
with my friends and seemingly not paying any attention to the things of
God. They took special delight in noticing
me and finding me a chair when I was drawn to the table, His Table, by what I
now realize was the urging of the Holy Spirit.
They raised me up high enough to see and hear by stacking under me
memory verses, Vacation Bible Schools, cookies and Kool-Aid served with big
helpings of songs and stories about Jesus, well deserved spankings, RA camps,
Sword Drill sessions, Sunday School lessons, daily Bible readings, sermons,
underserved spankings(maybe), nightly Bible readings, prayer meetings, nickels in
tithe envelopes, lives lived sent and lived out before a young boy so that in
that moment… when he was at the table, The Table, His Table…he could see and
hear the Master’s voice. The voice I
heard was the same one that I had heard before so many times and from so many
different directions and from so many different people but always the same
still, small voice. “I love you and I
want you to believe in Me.” So I did.
Now, I understand the
delight in their eyes. Now, it’s my turn
to serve at the table. The years have
rolled on and the faces around our family and spiritual tables have
changed. I’ve begun to realize that more
and more it falls to me to make sure, first of all, that there is a table. Then I must be sure that the table provides
life, physically and spiritually for my family and for anyone I can help. My heroes are almost all gone but I’ve been
shaped by them and I must not stop here in the middle. It’s too much fun. Will God let me be the Grandpa at the
table? Will my table be big enough? Strong enough? Will my children and grandchildren cherish my
table? His Table? I pray He grants me the joy of knowing
so.
