What Bank Statements, Garbage Day and Bookshelves Have in Common

I have often said that there are at least three ways you can know someone without really knowing them. I came upon the first one when I worked at The Bank of Perry back in the summer of 1978. I found out a lot about people by how they spent their money; more specifically, to whom and for how much they wrote their checks each week. I don’t know how the banking system works now, but back then, that job was an eye opener — but then again, I was only 19 years old. But I am somewhat surprised we bank employees didn’t have to sign some kind of gag order to protect the integrity of some of the customers.

Another revelation came when I began walking the neighborhood. Especially on trash pick up and recycle day. I could surmise who lived in that home based on the garbage left on the street: if there were babies, toddlers, teenagers, adults, or an elderly couple inside. I knew what they ate, when they ordered pizza, what they drank (and how much), what scent they used to wash their laundry, and often what gadget or electronic they had recently purchased. I could even tell where they shopped for most of this. All from a little healthy exercise around the block on trash day. (And mind you, I did NOT have to go digging.)

The third thing that exposes a person is their bookshelf, realizing you have to be privy to the inside of the house in order to entertain this one. My friends will tell you that when I am invited to their home for the first time, I am intrigued by their bookshelves. Not just the books but the relics on the shelves as well. Of course, the first thing I notice is if they are a reader or not. Are there more artifacts and decor than books? And if there are, I’m often going to point to or stroke an item or two and ask them for the story behind it. Should there even be one, and most of the time there is, it always provides a most engaging time with the host or hostess … and I leave knowing more about them.

But the books can also be a huge telltale sign of a person’s inner workings; what they enjoy, their points of interest and often their own personal journeys. First of all, I am a self-diagnosed book addict so I can say nothing unfavorable about anybody’s personal library. I would be embarrassed to count and share the number of pages on my shelves. No doubt, you could tell a lot about me by standing in front of them. First and foremost that I hoard books.

I am not a fan of estate sales; they make me uncomfortable and sad for a number of reasons. But if I have known the person through my lifetime, I will make an attempt to go for one reason only: to find a small “something” that will live in my home as a remembrance of them. And a couple of weeks ago, I had just that opportunity. The husband had died a number of years ago and the wife has now gone to an assisted facility. Knowing these two individuals, I knew exactly where I wanted to go: the kitchen/dining room and the library. 

Grace exemplifies her name. One of the most genteel, soft spoken and gracious women you could ever meet. To remember her, I selected a small but beautifully etched crystal bowl with a dome lid. I will use it when I have ladies around my own dining room table … and I will tell them of her graciousness. 

But the library is where I spent most of my time. The organizers of the sale told me that the family had kept a large portion of their parents’ books, so I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like because there were still so many treasures left to be found. If I had had the time, I would have taken each one in my hand and thumbed through it; and many I did. After all, there are often trinkets to be found stuck within pages and I have been known to purchase that book for just that novelty.

In 1975, Steve Pace was appointed District Attorney for Houston County and served for many years before a freak accident occurred while he and Grace were out walking the neighborhood one evening. A dog clipped him, he fell and sustained a debilitating brain injury. In his library, I held each book carefully, sacredly, and with respect. How could I not? These volumes spoke of a brilliant man, a learned man, a military man, a prayerful man, a holy man. A kind of man that even a physical injury could not erase. 

Of course, I brought home several for my own shelf, but two were particularly favorites: one being a 1946 Enlarged Edition (with illustrations) entitled “Life’s Extras” by Archibald Rutledge. Favorite passages were marked with a pencil. Indeed, a man after my own heart. I followed the landscape Steve had marked out for me:

“There are very few sounds in the natural world that are harsh. Even the massive rolling thunder has about it something of solemn beauty. In anthems, the sea rolls on the beach; and in the sunny shallows there are water-harps forever making melodies. The wind is a chorister. Many a wild bird can warble like an aerial rivulet. The world is really a melodious place, full of soft sounds and harmony. … I went one day into the forest to try to escape from a grief that had come to me — the loss of one dearly beloved. A little way within the borders of that fragrant, dewy forest … I heard a warble singing. He was in the crest of a bald cypress, high over the dreamy waters of a little woodland lake. The bird’s song sounded like a delicate astral flute, sounded softly and sweetly, to lure me out of my trouble. … Like a voice of a spirit was this music; it came to me calmly yet thrillingly. Like a quieting hand was that beautiful song, to cool the fever of care, to still the pulse’s leap. … And what did the music and the beauty, those extras, bring me? Passing from a state of keenest grief I came to one of quiet reconcilement — to the profound conviction that, living or dying, God will take care of us.”

Another shorter passage underlined on a dog-eared page: “Stars fill me with a sense of God; and the heart cannot help being grateful when it remembers that the beauty and the wonder of them may be accounted things not to enable us to excite, but gifts of love to make us joyous.”

Another treasure was an 1895 copy of “The Story of the Other Wise Man” by Henry Van Dyke. The story tells of another wise man that had seen the star, but in his journey, he gave his gifts to those in need and never made it to the Child. No doubt, a most appropriate one by which to remember Steve Pace, for on the final page we read, “‘Verily I say unto thee, inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, thou hast done it unto Me.’ A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like the first ray of dawn on a snowy mountain-peak. One long, last breath of relief exhaled gently from his lips. His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.” 

Bookshelves can reveal who we are. Good or bad.

So I have to wonder: what will these things reveal about me? What will my bank statements and the books and artifacts on my shelves say about my life and what I took interest in? Will they speak to the evidence of a life lived for Christ and His Kingdom? Or will it all just need to be thrown to the street on garbage day to be looked upon by those passing by?

I think those are valid questions to ask. 

Just an ordinary moment.

Grandma Gatewood I Am Not

Emma Rowena Caldwell Gatewood. Maybe you have heard of her. Maybe you haven’t. I was introduced to her a number of years ago through a book written of her life: “Grandma Gatewood’s Walk.” And what a walk it was. After a very difficult life as a farm wife, a mother to eleven children and a survivor of domestic abuse, in 1955 at the age of 67, she hung up her apron and told her children she was going for a walk — and that she did, setting her feet on the Appalachian Trail, becoming the first solo woman to hike the entire 2,168 miles. And she didn’t do it just once, but three times. Her story is a fascinating one and worth the read. 

But Grandma Gatewood I am not. In fact, there’s nothing about our lives that intertwine. For starters, I have never even set my foot on the Appalachian Trail — though I would like to one day.

However, I did take a couple of hikes last week as my husband and I spent a few days in the north Georgia mountains. The first was a 2.65 mile trek around a lake. It was listed as “easy” as far as trails go. And it was. Just the normal roots and slippery terrain that might be conducive to a path after a rain. But both beautiful and peaceful.

The next day we upped our game and took the “moderate” 2.93 mile hike on Bottom Loop Trail. My first clue should have been the deep descent toward the beginning of our adventure. Though I had already figured it out, my husband turned around and said, “This is what makes it ‘moderate,’ because the only way out is back up.” But down we went; and the further in, the further down. 

As a good wife should, I let my husband take the lead. Not because I’m naturally submissive or anything, but because as a man of the woods himself, he knows how to look for snakes and where to place his feet and that was important to me. He also knocked the cobwebs out of the way which was a plus. My job, however, was self imposed. While watching where I placed my feet, I also looked for bears. After all, prior to checking into our lodge, I had to sign a bear waiver. Yes, you read that correctly. A BEAR WAIVER. Why else would I have to sign a bear waiver if there weren’t any bears to waiver? So I kept my eyes open and quietly rehearsed bear protocol in my mind, from everything to remaining calm and moving away quietly in the opposite direction to just running faster than my husband. I also wished I had read up on the “natural” bug spray I had doused myself with before heading out. Did it repel, attract, or aggravate the bears I had waivered? Hmm.

As a forester’s wife, I have been deep in the woods many times, but always in a truck or at least a near proximity to it. Never in a place such as this … on foot with no “service” should I need it. In all seriousness though, it was a beautiful hike, taking us deep into the forest floor where the most brilliant orange mushrooms grew out of trees, where the birds called to one another in lyrical song, and the sound and sight of flowing water tumbling over rocks was a constant. To be in the bowels of God’s creation was just as breathtaking and exhilarating as being in the heights. 

But there was one thing of which I was constantly aware (other than the bears, of course), and that was the wind. Both its presence and the lack of. At times my husband and I both would stretch out our arms and feel it whipping all around us. How could it even find us down there? At other times, we couldn’t feel it, but we could hear its effects high in the trees above us with both the leaves rustling or branches breaking. And then there were moments of intense stillness. Knowing it was there, because we were still breathing, but hearing or feeling nothing.

How could I not think of Jesus’ encounter with Nicodemus when He told him, “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” The Spirit as wind. The “Ruach”. The Breath of God. I was also reminded of the ways I have experienced that “Wind” in my own life. There are times that I stretch out my arms and can feel His presence, dancing and twirling, both spiritually and physically, to His refreshment. There are other times when I can listen and know that He is moving about me by what I hear or see. Music. Art. Creation. Faces. Voices. But there are also times when I am bereft of any feeling or awareness except to know that I am still breathing. But even in those moments, I can be assured of His presence because I have the story of Elijah in I Kings 19:11-13 that speaks of the Lord in the stillness. In the silence. In the “bereftness.”

Whether Grandma Gatewood put her faith in the Creator of creation, we are not told. But what I do know is that He walked every step of the way with her whether she acknowledged Him or not … because that is what He does and who He is. Surely she felt the wind, she heard its sounds, and she breathed its air. She walked in its mystery just as we all do. Oh, that we would not miss Him, but that we would have ears, eyes and hearts to know Him, to experience Him, as He reveals Himself to us in such profoundly mysterious ways.

As for the bears, except for the two large, dark logs that I momentarily misinterpreted, the only ones I saw were ones that had been preserved at the hands of a taxidermist and now stand rampant in an exhibit at the top of the world, or at least Georgia’s highest summit: Brasstown Bald. Turns out I didn’t have to try to outrun my husband after all. For as the saying goes, when chased by a wild animal, you don’t have to be the fastest; you just don’t want to be the slowest.

Just an ordinary moment…

The Art of Grieving

Love cannot help but remember; remembrance cannot help but weep. Unfortunately our culture sees weeping as a weakness; therefore we feel embarrassed or ashamed when we do shed tears, especially in public. Yet grief springs from the deepest part of our soul because the root of that grief is great love. So why should we apologize when our expressions of grief should be the most natural of things to occur? The most natural expressions of one who has loved?

No doubt we live in a culture that exalts life and averts its eyes to death. Everything we see, every commercial on TV, is about prolonging life, not letting go of it. And when death or loss does come, we do everything in our ability to “move forward” in a quick manner. To pull up our boot straps and say, “I’m okay.” But if we are honest with ourselves, the hole in us is larger than ever. In fact, the experts tell us that not to grieve well, appropriately and timely, to move forward too fast, may lead to mental health issues like depression and anxiety. It can cause physical problems like trouble sleeping, digestive issues, and a low immune system. Compulsive behaviors. Relationship issues. Work performance. Who wants any of that on top of loss? Yet it is what we choose or are thrust into in place of appropriate grieving.

It hasn’t always been this way. Culture used to allow us time to weep, to grieve, and, yes, to even celebrate. But it seems that more and more we are rushing right to the celebration part. In fact, many funerals are being labeled just that: “Celebrations of Life.” And I get that. But we don’t need to pretend there is nothing to be consoled about. We don’t need to play act that everything is good … when it is not. Something sad and irrevocable HAS happened, regardless of the circumstances. We don’t need quick fixes. We need time and opportunity to grieve those people whom we have loved and lost in whatever manner that loss has occurred.

I recall a dear friend who lost her husband some thirty years ago. Glenda Anderson Leonard was and still is one of the finest, strongest and most sincere women of faith I know. After Paul died, his widow dressed in black for an entire year. She gave place to her grief, wearing it as a badge of honor to her husband and their marriage and as a statement of her immense loss. And no doubt she was healthier for it. It was also a reminder to the rest of us to treat her kindly, gently, and with respect knowing that where she looked alive, together and beautiful on the outside there was a broken heart and grieving soul within. She also helped us not to forget Paul too quickly, himself a giant in this world. She knew the art of grieving and she taught us well.

Another one who taught me well was a caregiver that sat with Daddy in the evenings and on weekends. When she learned of his passing that morning, she rushed over and while my brothers and I were being reverent yet stoic, she threw her entire self over my daddy’s body and wept loudly. It almost shamed me that I didn’t respond so passionately to this man who had birthed, raised and loved me so dynamically. This woman, this woman’s culture, knows how to grieve. I needed to see that.

Grief is natural, if we let it be. It’s also a journey. We’ve all heard the well laid out model: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. But seriously, who has ever moved easily through those stages without backing up two steps before moving ahead three? Unfortunately, I have not been able to maneuver those waters well myself. Circumstances thrust me forward and left me little if any time to properly grieve my losses. When my brother died after an heroic battle with brain cancer, seeing to my parents, specifically my daddy, became the most pressing need. It was a long goodbye of dementia with the last fifteen months spent in a Hospice bed in the den of his home. Not given much time to grieve, ten days after his passing, Mom went into the hospital with pneumonia, only to recover and have a stroke six weeks later that resulted in full time care. It, too, has become a long goodbye. Just this week, after one of my daily visits, showing her videos of birds at my feeder and then working a jigsaw puzzle with her, she asked the caregiver after my departure, “Why did she keep calling me Mom? I don’t think I’m her mom.” Long goodbyes. Losses. Grief. Even when the loved one is still alive.

And so this is where I find myself: with mounted grief. Much of it unexpressed. Maybe you do as well. What do we do with that?

First and foremost, we turn to Christ; the One who was Himself acquainted with grief. The One who came and pitched His tent with humanity. The One who shares this journey with us. The One who sees us, knows us, and Who alone can fill those holes left by those whom we have loved and lost.

We can be encouraged that death does not have the final say. That there is a glorious Resurrection where all things will be set right. Where there will be joy and a true Celebration of Life.

We can also give way to the life-giving creative forces within us which is a natural expression of grief. For me, it’s my music. My writing. My journaling. I have a friend who began painting after the death of her husband. Another who cooks … an artistic expression after the loss of her mother. Another who threw herself into gardening.

We can also be thankful. Is it not true that to love at all opens the door to both loss and grief? But surely we can agree with Alfred, Lord Tennyson when he wrote, “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Master Eckhart, a 16th Century mystically aware theologian, adds, “To have much is to have much to lose; we ought to remember this when we face a loss, so that this might become our place to be thankful.” A hard word; but never a more true one: gratitude.

And finally, we can let go. Malcom Guite, chaplain, poet, teacher, musician and author writes, “It is not a letting go of love, or a letting go of memory or even of grief. We need to let go in order to receive. In spite of the first shock and emptiness, the sense of unjust deprivation, our long experience of grief can eventually open us up to receiving real gifts: wisdom, empathy and compassion, which might have been received in no other way.”

O Lord, may it be.

Just an ordinary moment…

Nursing Home Ministry

When my mother had a stroke some fourteen months ago, not only was her life thrown into a new season, but so was ours as a family. Whereas we were able to keep Daddy at home during his years of decline, it became impossible to do so with Mom, and my brothers and I made the difficult decision of having her placed in a nursing home … with the caregiver that had been by hers and Daddy’s side while at home still giving her assistance and company at her new residence. 

But it has also meant an almost daily visit on my part to check in on her and to visit. Over the past year, I have been her school mate; her sister; her mother; and yesterday, I was indeed her daughter. I have to admit that at times there has been a great sadness that has pricked my heart when she doesn’t remember me as one she birthed, but at the same time, whoever I am to her that day, she is always glad to see me. She knows me as somebody important in her life, and whoever that is, I play the part on that particular day.

Another aspect of my visits is getting to know other residents there. Unless I already know them, I never enter their rooms, but often their chair or bed has been pushed into the hall. My first encounter was Mom’s next door neighbor, Mrs. Peggy. She was bed ridden, in a fetal position, and wore a stocking cap. On one particular day, I stopped to chat with her a moment and told her it was a good day for staying inside because it was raining cats and dogs outside. And then that sweet little lady began singing in the most lovely of voices, “April showers bring May flowers.” Two full verses. I just about came undone. Only a few weeks later, I turned the corner and I saw the paramedics rolling Mrs. Peggy out; her daughter instructing them, “She has a DNR.” I blessed Mrs. Peggy as she rolled by. It was the last time I saw either of them.

On the other side of Mom’s room was a man whose name now escapes me. What began as both him and his wife sitting outside his room became just her while he lay in his bed. His form took the shape of my own Daddy’s who had died just weeks prior: the way he held his hands; the way he reached. I was still so raw and it was so hard to watch. But I would stop and talk to his wife, learning that her husband had once been a researcher of sorts and had written several books. In her eyes, he was a brilliant man. She was going to bring me one his publishings; but he passed away before she had the opportunity.

Then there was Mrs. Jane across the hall who had lain in that bed longer than anyone should have to. I had known her since I was a young girl so I felt comfortable and welcomed by the family to enter and talk with her. She was never able to communicate except for the slight movement she made when she heard my voice telling her how beautiful she was. Gratefully, she, too, has entered her Rest.

If Mr. Emery’s door was open when I passed, I would speak to him as well. He was a man well-loved by my daddy. One day there was a note on his door that read, “I’m not feeling well today. Please come back another time.” A day or two later the note was gone and I was glad he was feeling better; only to read his obituary a few days later. 

Amber was different. She wasn’t old but very young and discarded by family. I had met her when my sister-in-law would go get her and bring her to church. She liked me, I think, because she liked Tesa and Louis. They were so kind to her. And so I would share a few minutes with her often as she sat under the watchful eye of the nurses desk. Fortunately, her social worker from Atlanta took an interest in Amber and took her to a residence near her; but not before she was baptized in holy water. Amber was so excited to show me the video of that moment. There was such joy in that for both of us.

It was a delight when I rolled Mom into her room that very first day to see Mr. Herbert there. He was a good friend to my parents and the one that drove my daddy to Fort McPherson that last time before heading oversees. Daddy had asked him to go so he could drive my mother home. Mr. Herbert admitted that she cried all the way, just as Daddy had suspected. It’s always good to visit with Mr. Herbert, but it’s even more fun to watch him and Mom visit. They always hold hands while doing so.

Miriam is my sister-in-law’s mother and has been there since 2018 when she, too, had a stroke. Communication is not easy, but she always smiles and, like the others, is glad for company. I have to do all the talking, but as anyone who is reading this knows, I do not lack for words.

More recently I have come to know Mr. Terry, a man not much older than myself. And no family. I would always speak when I walked by, and whereas he would look at me, I never got a response. Then he began to give me a nod; and finally, one day, he actually spoke. From there we have gone to conversations about him; about me. And he even sold me a Wilson’s bakery chocolate donut with sprinkles this past week for a quarter. He was trying to make a little money to play bingo, even though I tried to explain to him he didn’t need money. They gave HIM a quarter when he won. I like that he remembers and calls me by name; a man that once only looked at me.

A beautiful woman named Gloria has moved in next door to Mom. She seemed so happy that I stopped by and spoke to her as she sat outside her door last week. She has asked me to please come again … that it can get lonely.

On occasion, Mrs. Angie sports a nightgown that has campfires and s’mores on it. But even more than that, she always wears the biggest smile you have ever seen in your life. It’s a true joy to be on the recipient end of that. Of course, like many of these residents, she is quite hard of hearing and a lot of very loud talking goes on. She pulled me close last week, pointed her finger at my face and said, “It’s not what you know, but who you know.” I’m glad I know her. There was a “Precaution” sign on her closed door today. I’m concerned.

Mrs. Sara sits in her reclining chair in the hall … hugging her stuffed puppy. She smiles and jabbers to me, telling me all about him. I can’t make out a word she says, but it’s obviously something really good because of the excitement on her face. I just not nod and agree with the same joy she’s expressing.

And most recently I have met Mr. John, though he quickly told me to drop the “Mr.” I heard him call to me as I be-bopped down the hall last week to see Mom. He yelled, “Hey, can you help me?” I backed up and said, “What I can do for you?” He asked me to turn on his overhead lights for him, which I did. Then he surprised me by saying, “I’ve been trying to hem you up for a long time.” I took a quick look at the name on his door, and said, “Mr. John, you couldn’t handle me.” He responded, “I don’t know. I had a lot of training,” to which I just laughed. Oh, my goodness, one never knows what to expect. I’ve learned that as people age, they also lose some of their filtering. But I’m grateful for this new connection … and the joy it provided.

I would never want my readers to think I write this to exalt myself in any way. It’s just a testimony about where I am these days, literally and figuratively. I know for so many that nursing homes are not easy places to visit. I get that. And quite frankly, I have been thrown into it these days with little choice. However, I was fortunate to be a part of a church youth group that saw the importance of taking us regularly to sing and visit the elderly, ironically, at this very Home. I learned the “art” of being comfortable in such places. And I am so grateful.

And, yes, the residents do seem genuinely happy to see me, but the title “Nursing Home Ministry” is not about what I do for them. It’s what they have done and do for me. It is my heart and my step that is lighter when I leave that place. Each one of these named, and there will be more due to the reciprocal nature of a nursing home, gives me something different of themselves. I am so blessed to be on such a profound receiving end of God’s love offered by a group of people that many think have nothing left to give.

Theirs is truly a nursing home ministry.

Just an ordinary moment…

My Grandmother’s Apron

Unfortunately, my maternal grandmother, whom we called “Muh,” passed away when I was eight years old, being ill a number of years even before that. But there are still a few things I can recall about her when she was healthy. Like how she would say, “Much obliged,” when she would get out of the car after we had taken her to her hair appointment. Or the way she would swing with me on the large front porch of her home. Or the way she cared for my older brother and me when the twins were born. Or the way she gathered eggs from the hen houses. Or the way she fed anyone who showed up at her door … whether they be home folks who would stay awhile or drifters moving through via Highway 341. And to be considered what many would call poor, there was always plenty of food on that large oval table (the table that now sits in my own breakfast room); food that had come from her and my granddaddy’s land and the labor of their hands and backs. Ah, yes. I can still feel the sweat running down my back and the smell of corn as she and the other women “put up” vegetables from the garden. 

But the one thing that was distinct about my grandmother is that she always had an apron tied around her waist. It was not anything fancy by any means. Just a homemade piece of cloth she donned in the morning and took off before she went to bed. 

For most people, aprons are a thing of the past. Some might still wear them to protect their clothing in the kitchen while cooking, but a quick look in stores or online reveals a more decorative type wear. But for my grandmother and those of her generation, an apron was a tool. I imagine first and foremost it was to prevent soiling the dress, keeping the clothing from the wear and tear of washing. But she also used it to remove hot items from an oven or to pick up a warm pot or plate from the stove. She used it to dry her hands, dishes … as well as tears. Hers and others. And when gathering those eggs, she made it into a basket to tote them back to the house; or to gather the fallen apples or pears from the fruit trees in the yard. I have read that Susanna Wesley, mother to 18 children including Charles and John, would throw her apron over her head for a moment of silence and to pray. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that my grandmother did the same thing — though she only had two children.

In the New Revised Standard Version, 1 Peter 5:5 reads, “Clothe yourselves with humility.” The New Living Translation says, “Serve each other with humility.” But it’s The Passion Translation that brings it home, opens it up and gives it new light. “Wrap around yourself the APRON of a humble servant.” Ah, I had a perfect picture in that of my Muh.

In all the years that passed after she died, I never heard anyone who knew my grandmother speak an unkind word about her. In fact, it has been just the opposite. They haven’t been able to praise her enough. Maybe it all goes back to when she wrapped around herself that apron; the apron of a humble servant. For indeed she was. 

I kept one of Muh’s aprons. It is safely preserved in a drawer in my buffet in the dining room. Maybe I should go pull it out and tie it around my own waist.

Just an ordinary moment…