Papaw's First Christmas

I’m a new Papaw. It’s been three months now and I’m still not over it! It’s taken me this long to corral all these new feelings enough to write them down. Audrey Faye is the newborn, but there is a newborn place in my heart that was awakened the moment I first saw and held her…sidebar note: she smelled like cookies! In the same way that Audrey is beautiful, warm, tender, vibrant, fresh, and utterly lovable, so is this feeling I have in this new part of my heart. It gets reborn every time I see her, or see the latest photo of her, or hear her coo on the phone. I’m not sure if it was even there before she arrived, or perhaps it was always there without my knowledge… until she touched it. I tell everybody that “she touched me in a place I didn’t know I had!”

She makes everything else in my life seem new and fresh and brighter and broader and more important and more profound and loved more intensely. It’s like the “Shift” key on the old typewriters…the whole mechanism of our lives moved up to a whole new level when Audrey arrived. I love Linda (Gran) in a whole new way as I watch her eyes dance and marvel at Audrey’s every movement and emotion. I love Stephanie not only as our beautiful daughter but also now with such pride in her as an incredibly strong, devoted, and focused mother…another whole new level. I see and hear the pure joy in Aunt Liza’s eyes, voice, and writings and I revel in the unbridled overflow. I love how Jason is hopelessly lost in complete fascination and delight, and I see the resolve in his eyes…locked onto the joys and responsibilities of fatherhood. I love Uncle Jonathan’s quiet and profound strength as he endures the pain of separation from all (but one, for now) of his loved ones.

But mostly I love you, Audrey! Did you know you made all these things happen? That’s a lot of heavy lifting little one! And you make it look so easy. Do you know how much you are loved? Your arrival truly changed our family’s world. I’ve often thought that our hearts, created by God, are somehow each unique but still hold the shape of His hand. He knows perfectly who we are, how we are made, and for what purpose. When He chooses to bless us, He knows exactly when and where to touch our hearts to bring about our joy in the good times, peace in the tough times, and the ability and desire to worship Him and breathe thanks to Him for so many things too wonderful for words. Audrey, I believe that you came straight from His hand to us thereby touching off this celebration of praise and avalanche of photographs! God loves you and He has such wonderful plans for you. Listen closely, little one, to whatever He says and follow Him all the days of your life.

Christ’s arrival on that first Christmas changed everything and our hearts will never be the same. Now, you have come to us and so, from now on, none of our Christmases will ever be the same. This will be my first Christmas as a Papaw. Therefore, I no longer have any fear of Santa’s naughty or nice list. It doesn’t matter to me any more if I only get a bag of switches because this Christmas I already have the best gift any Papaw could hope for…you, Audrey!

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.               

They call me Daddy

It’s the greatest thing in my life, to hear that word from Liza and Stephanie and to know the depth of meaning and the source from which it emanates.  All through the years there have been so many different expressions of that word from them.   There were little girl  “Pick me up, Daddy”s , teenage daughters’ being teased and the roll of the eyes “Daa-dee-hhh”, the  mature and stunning “Thank you, Daddy” that came from each one while dressed in a wedding gown, and all the way back to the two very best ones from Linda, “You’re going to be a Daddy”!  Each and every time, even today on this my 29^th Father’s day, a special and unique thrill goes through me…a tugging at my heart…a moving of my spirit…a surge of joy in my soul…a simple moment of love… oh so cherished …oh so familiar yet oh so fresh…every time.  One day I’m going to research the biochemistry and spiritual miracle that happens inside a man’s chest in those moments.  What a marvelous Creator we have!  What a perfect gift He gave us…to know love like that, to actually feel it, inside.  “Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and all that is within me!” 

I could now lay out for you page after page of moments like that from all these years of being a Daddy but since today is Father’s Day I have the prerogative of something new.  You see, I’ve become a Daddy twice over in these last years.  Now, I have two sons as well.  Ready -made, “full-growed”, in love with our daughters, strapping, strong, real men, sons-in-law!  I didn’t get to raise them(wouldn’t know how) but in my heart and in my and Linda’s prayers, we knew that God was using their parents and His guidance to raise them up for His purposes.   Now, it’s a beautiful thing to see…these “sons” of mine… loving, taking care of, providing for, and husbanding our girls.  And…they’re doing it with such passion!  It’s obvious.  They’re not kidding around.  They really love those girls ladies.  They work hard, excel at their jobs, garner praise from their peers and superiors, devote themselves to their homes, and in so doing show the world what’s really in their hearts.  This week Linda and I have seen both our “sons” show unusual courage and leadership in their respective careers that made us very proud.  So…There ya go…’m just sayin’…not to brag, but...really, though,we’re truly just thankful.

Now, our prayer is that God, in His sovereign grace, will grant to each of them the greatest gift He ever gave to me…in His own time, in His own place, in His own way…the joy of hearing the sound of my favorite word… “Daddy.”

Sometimes, you just gotta go.

“Ten!”

Should I go?  I’ve always wanted to see a shuttle launch.  It’s the last one, ever.  Take off work?  Go by myself?  It’s a 1760 mile drive roundtrip.  Yes, why not?  Linda says go.  Can’t think of a single good reason not to!

“Nine!”

Hurried home from work Wednesday, changed out of my scrubs into my best shorts and Hawaiian shirt, threw some clothes and my toothbrush into a bag, kissed Linda, “Yes, I’ll be careful; No, I won’t drive too fast; Love you too,” and out the door with a plate of Fant’s fried shrimp and pickles for my supper that Linda fixed for me.

“Eight!”

After six and a half hours of slipping through all the traffic Interstate 10 could dish out, the setting sun in my rearview, my favorite playlist –good and loud, my road supper, a really good cigar, and a great big-ol’ diet Coke, the lights of Pensacola looked good.  A night without Linda in an empty hotel room is creepy.

“Seven!”

5:30 AM-Woke from a restless sleep, too excited I guess.  Quick shower, brush and floss, swig of orange juice in the lobby, out the door by 6:00.  It was a pretty blue-sky morning; cool, perfect for a couple hours’ top-down drive.  There’s an interesting symphony that occurs between the hum of the road and the rush of the wind and good music at just the right volume balance.  You can feel the marriage of all three squarely in your chest.

“Six!”

A man alone with his thoughts, prayers, praise, and “virtuoso” solo concerts to an audience of pine trees rushing by is a beautiful thing!

“Five!”

My GPS says my route goes to Jacksonville, FL then south on I-95 to my Thursday night hotel.  The news says nearly a million people will be on hand.  The closest room was 40 miles away from Kennedy Space Center and Titusville, my viewing destination.  The car says I’ll be there by 1:00 PM.  Hmmm, what to do all afternoon?  Wait!  What’s that in the back seat?  My golf clubs…beautiful.  Do I dare?  TPC Sawgrass, Golf Digest’s #41 ranked golf course in the world, home of the Players’ Championship, is on my route!  “Hello, I’m a single player passing through town hoping you have a tee time this afternoon…You do?!!  Perfect, I’m on my way.”

“Four!”

Hardest course I’ve ever played.  Made par on the first hole and most importantly, hit the island green, #17, and two-putted for par.  Once in a lifetime moment...unbelievable.  Met Calvin Peete in the parking lot.  Can’t believe my luck.  There was a light drizzle all day and all the way to my hotel but my hopes for the launch are not dampened.  Interstate 95 took me south through St. Augustine.  As I passed the exit, a precious memory flooded over me.  I couldn’t have been more than four years old when we came to St. Augustine for a family vacation.  I have vivid memories of hopping on my Daddy’s back to “jump the waves” at the beach there.  I miss him.    Fell into bed exhausted but not before setting my alarm for 4:00 AM and a quick prayer for good launch weather tomorrow.

“Three!”

The pre-dawn drive to Titusville was rain free, a good sign.  No traffic, another good sign.  My spirits are rising along with the pounding in my heart as the “Welcome to Titusville” sign comes into view.  Aha!  Here in downtown are the crowds and traffic.  Cars parked everywhere, most illegally but no one cares.  Sidewalks full of people, a line out the door at the Burger King.  Kids in groups and couples holding hands, all carrying picnic supplies and all heading east, toward the faint light beginning to show in the sky, the shoreline and Kennedy Space Center in the distance.

“Two!”

There it is.  Rising just above the tree line in the distance, highlighted by those powerful flood lights about 7 miles away...the singular object of everyone’s attention.  By 6:00 AM I’m settled in my spot.  Am I really here?  Is this really happening?  The next five and a half hours went by quickly.  With a wary eye on the high overcast clouds, we all watched the sun climb and peek through the occasional patch of blue sky.  We watched the NASA and Coast Guard helicopters pass overhead making their security checks.  A huge hovercraft made passes back and forth kicking spray high in the air in the brisk wind.  A small flotilla of yachts kept me entertained and piqued my fascination for sailing all over again.  As the hours passed they were joined by many boats of all sizes anchored before us in eager anticipation.

“One!”

Now it’s serious.  The several hundred people around me begin to settle into positions of alert focus.  The group of kids near me cease play and chatter and their chalk drawing on the asphalt and gather at their parents’ feet.  Everyone readies their cameras and binoculars. Somewhere in the distance is the muffled sound of a loudspeaker on someone’s car with the familiar voice of NASA launch control, “T minus 5 minutes and counting.” Solemn, controlled, unemotional, comforting.   “T minus 2 minutes and counting.”  This is really going to happen!  Look, the weather is fine.  It’s too late for any rain to cause a delay, right?  OK.  Get ready.  Hold the camera steady!  Zoom in as close as you can.  Oops, too much, too shaky.  Back out, good.  That’s better.  Steady now.  What did he say?  “T minus 31 seconds and holding.”   WHAT?!  NO!  Why?  No one knows.  There’s a murmur in the crowd.  What did they say?  Are they counting down?  Then I hear it.  They are counting!  The chant rises from the crowd louder and more clear with each digit, “Eight… seven… six… five… four… (the kids’ voices rise with the most gusto now) THREE… TWO… ONE”…

Then, the silence.  One lone boy sings out, “BLAST-OFF!”

“Zero!”

The breath I forgot to take came suddenly in one great gasp when I saw the white clouds of smoke billow out on both sides, rising above the trees one split-second before the orange fireball appeared.  I had to force my eyes to blink and focus to believe what I was seeing.  The crowd erupted in one great cheer that grew simultaneously with the length of the fire trail.    The shuttle Atlantis rose slowly at first on its ever-lengthening bright white-orange tail.  Then the whole spectacle climbed into the sky above the trees and the horizon.  Faster now, the fire trail many times longer than the vehicle itself.  Faster and faster in a gentle, ever upward curve.  Forty seconds it was...from liftoff to out of sight in the cloud cover.  Forty seconds that will never be erased from my mind and heart.  There was a collective moan of disappointment as the shuttle passed from view and everyone was left looking at the tower of white smoke that now extended from the ground up to the clouds.  But just then, the disappointment was replaced by another cheer from us all.  That’s when it hit us…the wall of sound.  The roar of the engines plowed over us drawing another gasp from my chest.  I hadn’t realized in the passion of the moment that everything had taken place without the sound having reached us yet!  I also now realized I was crying!  I called Linda but couldn’t speak.  All I could do was blubber out how much I loved her and how I couldn’t believe what I had just experienced.

Epilogue

We all slowly made our way back to our vehicles quietly savoring our corporate encounter.  Back in the car I lit up my last Cuban cigar that I had been saving for a special occasion.  This qualifies.  Finally back on the open road, crossing the Florida countryside, I’m still trying to process everything, trying to make sure I didn’t forget a single detail, rehearsing what I might write here.  Deep in my thoughts I almost missed it.  There, off the road a bit, was a ramshackle building beside a waterway with a parking lot full of cars.  Then, in a blink, I realized what the sign I had just passed said, “Jolly Gator Fish Camp, Bar, & Grill.”  I realized I was starving!  I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since yesterday and here it was after 1:00 PM.  I made a quick, “legal”, U-turn and joined the other patrons who obviously knew that this was the kind of place often missed by passers-by to their great misfortune.  Built in the 50’s by a Mom and Pop, the place had not changed in all those years…a testament to the quality of the food and “twice weekly entertainment.”   I devoured the best fried grouper po-boy and onions rings I’ve ever tasted and was back on the road deeply satisfied in both body and soul.  Pensacola greeted me once again for the night and then back home by noon on Saturday.

It’s too soon to fully process all the memories and philosophical ramblings that this once-in-a-lifetime trip has created.  For now, it’s enough to just remember.       

Sunday Mornings Are the Worst

I love Sunday mornings.  Or at least I did when, as a child, they seemed simple and clean.  They’ve always been about family and church…inseparably.   There was never a Sunday that didn’t mean church, Sunday school, and all the accompanying traditions… dressing up, memorizing verses, finding my Bible (Sword Drill, of course) and Sunday School book, attendance envelope containing a quarter and hurrying out the door to church.  Why we hurried I’m not sure…we were always among the first to arrive.  Never late, unlike now!  Hmmm, what happened?   Familiar hymns and preaching that touched the truth deep inside my 8 year old soul seem more beautiful and dear to me now more than ever.   Sunday dinner at home or at Grandma’s house brought aromas and flavors that no restaurant has ever come close to. Then came the mandatory and despised nap, followed by Sunday night church and an invitation to somebody’s house afterwards for cake, ice cream, or coffee.  We kids would run and play in the backyards of those dusky summer nights.  There would often be a warm, peaceful moment when, in the distance, inside the house, almost subconsciously, you could hear the grownups, talk, laugh, and bond.  It made me feel safe and glad I belonged to my parents.  (More on that in future blogs!)

Then Sundays changed.  They got tougher and not so simple.  I was the grownup.  I was the husband.  The beautiful example of spiritual leadership set by Lloyd and Myra was now mine to uphold…or ignore.  Gone were the familiar, comfortable ways of childhood.  Here now was my and Linda’s new life, our new marriage, our own new path.  Now came the sobering realization that it was up to me and Linda to build that solid foundation of faith into our new life.  Pretty scary.  But one of the first lessons I learned as a grownup about the Lord’s church and Sundays…He’s the same, yesterday, today, and forever!  We found that very same loving warmth, fellowship, joy, encouragement and precious new, life-long friends in our church families in Monroe and Chalmette.  (At least 4 or 5 blogs to come on those topics)

Then the “fun” really started!  God said, “Liza! Stephanie!…Go be the greatest blessings of Linda and Steve’s life! “   You guessed it…the following twenty years or so of Sunday mornings were unbelievable.  A thousand Sunday mornings of excitement: finding Bibles, new dresses, curling irons – plugged?  unplugged?  curlers - plugged, unplugged?  iron - plugged, unplugged?  pictures taken of sprayed curls and freshly brushed smiles…then the tears over fallen curls…”we’re gonna be late!”  Easter Sundays, Mothers’ Day cards and gifts, Christmas pageants, children’s choir programs, “Is the video camera charged?  Where’s the tripod?”   Their mother was unbelievable through it all... Linda taught them everything…how Christian girls dress, act, pray, walk, talk, laugh, cry, love.  By her example she taught them how Christian ladies respect their grandparents, grow to understand Christian heritage, family tradition, how to handle boys, men, and mean people.  She taught them how to love a husband.  She taught them about Jesus.  She taught them her love of life, music, humor, self-confidence, mischief (no, wait… they knew that on their own) the basic tenets every “Church Lady” has memorized, and how to throw a birthday party, slumber party, engagement party, bridal, wedding, or baby shower without  breaking a sweat.  I love her! She’s awesome and now her daughters are awesome.  I’m the most blessed husband and father on the planet.  I think my favorite time on Sunday mornings was that early moment of calm and peace when Linda would be the first one up and get us started by putting some music on the intercom.  Something selected with thoughtful care to wake everyone up and set a sweet, reverent or playful mood for the day.  She always seemed to know what we needed to hear.  She still does that.  It still makes Sundays special. 

Now, Liza and Stephanie have lives, husbands, careers and Sunday mornings of their own.  Now, here at home, it’s back to just us.  Sunday mornings are back to being simple and clean.  But there is a painful difference; although painful is not the right word, really.  It’s more like a deep, tender emotion.  Now, I swear the Sunday morning music I hear on the intercom and in my heart echoes with the sound of girlish laughter from upstairs.  The praise songs during worship service make me think of our daughters, their lives then and now, and God’s blessings poured out so richly.  From my vantage point in the choir loft I notice the seats that were once occupied by them, their friends, and my Daddy.  I start to miss them all and then my heart breaks for Linda and what she must be feeling.  Then I think of Papa and Granny and how much we miss them.  But, then in that moment just before despair can take hold, I’m overwhelmed once again by God’s grace and goodness and His tender care and love for us.  My pain is swallowed up in praise as all those memories and blessings come flooding into my heart and mind.  God is so good!  Quick, get that tear off your cheek before anybody notices and sing the second verse.  Yeah, like I always say, “Sunday mornings are the best!”