A Matter of Words

For what it's worth (get it?) I am embarrassed by the fact that it has been over a year since I posted anything here. Why have a blog if one does not use it as a platform for expressing one's views? Have I not had anything to say in the course of a full year?

Of course I have. And I have said it, in bits and pieces, on social media, during speeches at Toastmasters, in articles or poems I have written, in a manuscript, in writing homework or exercises at the writers' group I enjoy monthly. I had quite a lot to say at my father's funeral. I've been in a few plays, which doesn't really count since what I had to say then was written by others. I have said even more during countless phone conversations. I have emailed. Texted. Written ACTUAL LETTERS AND CARDS -- I know, a dying art, but one I still think is important.

My point is ... we all have something to say. Not just the pundits. Not just the talking heads. Not just the celebrities and politicians. Currently I am teaching high school sophomores for a teacher on maternity leave. Most of them do not like the grammar portion of the curriculum. Why is this important? Because they have a story to tell. Their thoughts and views matter, so the way in which they express themselves both verbally and on paper matters.

Your story matters. Everyone's does. It has been my privilege to help others with their personal stories -- some factual memoirs, others the products of their imaginations -- and tidy things up a bit to the point that they were published. It is always challenging to get inside someone else's head and write (correctly) what he or she wanted to express. More on that in a bit.

One day in the mid-1980s I was standing in my kitchen -- a young mother of four who scarcely had time to eat some days, let alone write --  when my parents walked in with an IBM Selectric typewriter. My mother worked for a CPA firm that was upgrading its equipment; she had bought one of the old ones at a great price. I started crying. I had had, at that point and several years earlier, two or three things printed. I wrote something for the church bulletin. I kept a journal. But this incredible gift spoke volumes: We believe in you.

Some years later, but many, many years ago -- 1988, to be exact -- I attended a writers' conference in Arizona. I'd never been to one. I'd never been away from my family for that long, practically a week! I hesitate to say it was a life-changing experience, because the phrase raises  high expectations, but when I look back at that time, and what it eventually meant, I think the words are accurate. My life did indeed change because of the words of two men, Jamie Buckingham and David Manuel.

As a teenager, I had the privilege of hearing Jamie preach at his church in Melbourne, and when he would visit Fort Pierce, but his is a legacy that reaches many times around the globe -- he helped Corrie ten Boom write her story (Tramp for the Lord) and Kathryn Kuhlman's. He penned many humorous and insightful Christian books such as The Truth Will Set You Free, But First It Will Make You Miserable. At the conference, one of the things that stuck with me was spoken to the entire group: "If I preach a good sermon on Sunday morning, I may impact a few hundred people. If I write a book, I can reach so many more." In his case, he reached millions more.

Jamie wrote 22 books of his own, and another 24 for others, among them Nicky Cruz's Run, Baby, Run was a cult classic of the Jesus Movement; Bill Nelson's Mission; and Jeannie C. Riley's From Harper Valley to the Mountaintop. He wrote other people's stories because they had something to say, but may not have been as gifted with the time, talent, or energy to put the words down on paper in a cohesive form. The world would have been poorer had he not been willing to not only put his own thoughts down, but those of others.

What the men said about ghostwriting, or as-told-to writing struck a chord: Everyone has a story to tell, but not everyone can write it. There aren't enough writers willing to share other people's stories.

I didn't know David Manuel prior to the conference, nor had I read any of his books (most notably The Light and the Glory which he wrote with Peter Marshall). But I was in his "group" at the conference. and I've never forgotten his encouragement.

The deal was this: conference attendees were asked to write a short story based on a few verses of scripture, intentionally narrow. They wanted to see what we would come up with, given very few parameters. Frankly, they didn't expect much, but the exercise would give them an idea of what they had to work with.

Somewhere around the beginning of the conference, they asked us why we were there. When it was my turn to answer, I said something along the lines of, "I love to write, but I'm not sure what I should do with it. Maybe I should write letters to the editor, or words of encouragement to others. Maybe I should try to be published. I'm here to find out." 

At the end of the conference, during one of the small group session, David Manuel remembered what I had said. "You wanted to know what to do, and now you do." He'd been surprised and pleased at my short story because it had taken a narrow verse or two and expanded into a real narrative with characters and layers, intrigue and romance. David Manuel, published author, liked what I had written!

That encouragement gave me the confidence to try harder, write more, take more chances, weather the inevitable rejections. A few years later, I was writing weekly newspaper columns for an editor who was equally as encouraging and instructive. More than once I was called into his office to discuss why something hadn't worked, but he was always constructive rather than dismissive. He was my first editor but also the first person to relate to me as a writer, period. He didn't know me, but he knew writing, he knew newspapers, and he knew how to manage people.

After a few years, other editors coming and going (not all as helpful as that first!), I was no longer writing regularly. Without a deadline, it's easy to let things slide. I started this blog. I wrote a book that did not, I'm afraid, make any bestseller lists (available as an e-book at smashwords.com though!). I wrote and illustrated a children's book (She-Bear in the Beautiful Garden). Guest columns. Started writing for a local group of magazines. Have a poetry blog, in addition to this one. Working on a fiction manuscript, guided by solid input from fellow writers. And now, occasionally editing other writers' books, telling someone else's story the way Jamie and David had encouraged.

Back to my point ... way up there, I know ... we all have something to say. If you write it down, the audience may grow. That's both a positive and a negative, as some politicians have found out -- there's real staying power to words. Negative writing can come back and bite you! But I have wonderful emails that I've kept for ten years, because they meant so much to me, and still do. I have cards and letters. Words matter.

Your words matter. It's a new year, writers (that would be, hopefully, everyone reading this). Write a comment on that report when you hand it back. Post something meaningful on Facebook. Tuck a note inside your child's lunchbox. Send a distant relative a card. Write to that inmate. Rant about something in a letter to the editor or (better still) publicly thank someone for a job well done. Write a poem. Jot down that story of something funny that happened in the service. Pour out your heart in anguish, retelling a time of grief or trauma (it will help, I promise you).

Maybe your writing will not be for a major publisher. Maybe your books won't reach the kind of audience Jamie Buckingham's did, but maybe they will! Your writing can impact someone. It can even, and perhaps especially, impact you in ways you might not imagine: changing you, growing you, softening you, honing your thoughts and ideas and dreams.

My sister sent me a card one time that had printed across the top: (don't forget     TO WRITE). Under it, in her own lovely handwriting, she'd added Please don't forget to write! There was more, but not a lot more. Her brief encouragement now has eight tiny holes from where it has been moved around the corkboard in my office and skewered with multiple pushpins years after it was given. Her words mattered then, and they matter now.

Words matter. Your words matter. So..... don't forget to write!

Hope in the Flames

I came across an article today entitled "Find Your Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin, in Issue One of Simplify magazine. Rubin writes," My college roommate was a dedicated journal keeper. She once told me, 'Every once in a while I have a big insight into myself or have a major epiphany about life. The thing is, when I look back in my journals, I realize that I had exactly the same idea a few years ago—but I forgot it.'"

I had, in fact, a similar revelation, but with dramatically different results.

Our family spent a year in India working with Youth With A Mission, a Christian organization with bases throughout the world. After training at the Lindale, Texas base, we'd gone on an outreach to Mexico City after their earthquake in 1985. We'd been housed in an unfinished hospital building with water so cold in the bathroom's overhead shower, that I got a headache the one time I tried to use it.

After that, we walked, my husband and our four young children, to the banyo once a week for hot showers. On the way, we'd buy pastries. I homeschooled the older children, my husband was on a construction team, I helped with meals. It was a great experience.

The following January, we embarked on an even bigger adventure. It is amazing now, post-911, to remember the bags of sharp tools we took on board the airplane that would take us to the other side of the planet! Four children, age two to eight, living in a foreign country, far from everything familiar.

For almost a year, we lived in one village, then another. We went on an outreach to northern India, where we visited the foothills of the Himalayas. We took rickshaw rides, bus rides, train rides. Our oldest, who turned nine, remembers the most about that year, but we gained so much, even as we slept on a concrete floor, had no running water, ate simply. 

All along that incredible journey, I kept journals. Many journals. By kerosene lamplight if the power had gone out during a brown-out, or sitting by the pond watching the kids swim, I journaled. In detail, whether writing about making love on the mat when we knew the children were sound asleep, or a visiting teacher's insight, or an argument that stung to the core.

Our year was supposed to be the first of a lifteime as overseas missionaries, but that was not what happened. Back in the States, we learned that our oldest daughter's medical condition warranted Western medical treatment. We took it as a sign that we should remain here. 

During the following three decades, we went through experiences much harder than that concrete floor, more challenging than adapting to a meager diet. It wasn't just the trials and tribulations every family faces as their children grow up. It wasn't just the challenges every marriage faces, or the way life meanders away from expectations and dreams. Issues. Death. Sorrow. Debt. Disease. Aging parents. Job upheavals. All of the above. 

Of course, there was also happiness, and growth, and abiding joy. And faith, which kept everything in perspective, that assured me all would be well, that there was purpose, a plan.

Then when our youngest son Adam died in 2000 following a car accident, I sensed -- deep, deep inside -- that as sad as I was, one day joy would return. I didn't know it would be 10 years. Faith was not shaken, but joy was. Moments of joy at graduations or babies or personal triumphs or holidays kept me going, but the overwhelming reacquaintance with joy as a constant companion, beneath whatever else life threw my way ... that was, and is, amazing.

At a writer's group I began attending, we read Writing Down the Soul by Janet Conner, and I found myself thinking about journaling again. I didn't, and don't, journal often, but I was reminded of the old India journals stored in a cedar chest.

One evening, I took out the journals alone and began reading. I skipped pages, skipped months, smiled as I saw thoses faces again, heard the lovely cadence of dialects and the ever-present beeping of horns in the city. I was also appalled at what I saw threaded throughout that wonderful year in India. Many of the same issues I might journal about today, I mentioned then. Some of the same negative aspects of my life. The same heartbreaks and questions. I could have written some of this yesterday, I thought.

I wept against the day my children might find the journals after my death. True, they might understand me better, but I would've already passed on, so what would that accomplish? I didn't want them to see, there in black and white, the undercurrents I had struggled with as they grew up, not without knowing all of the sides of all the stories. And that would be impossible.

And too, I remembered the ruthless room cleaning I had done just before my husband proposed. I had thrown away things other guys had given me, starting new, starting fresh, turning a corner. Within days, we were engaged.

I needed to turn a corner again, if only in my heart. I made a decision.

By then, it was dark. I took the journals to a small fire pit outside behind our house, along with lighter fluid and a lighter, and I burned them to ash. I sat there, poking the flames with a stick, until nothing remained that was readable.

When I told my writing group what I had done, some of them were aghast. Your writing! It's gone!

For me, though, it was cathartic, a symbolic act that the ways in which I had settled, the ways in which I had cheated myself out of happiness, the lessons it had taken me so long to learn but finally had...it was a dramatic gesture, but a grand one. 

We talk about "burning bridges behind you" as if it's always a bad thing, but we forget that some bridges shouldn't be built. Some bridges should only go one way. At the time, none of that was in my thinking, and I don't even care if the analogy fits my actions. I didn't try to analyze why I needed to burn the journals, I just knew it would be a good thing. 

I wept a little at the loss, yes, but there was hope in the flames.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

Ullage

I attend, for the most part faithfully, a writers' group called Use Your Words. The Inner Truth Project, an outreach to victims of sexual abuse and violence, hosts us, but we are a group of women and man (occasionally more than one) who share about current projects, do homework, respond to writing prompts, and eat chocolate. Sometimes a guest facilitator or speaker runs the show, but most of the time, sweet Wendy Dwyer keeps us on track, or at least sort of. Writers, nay, women, often get sidetracked.

The homework assignment for the last session was this: Write about an area where you'd like to do better. I left it until the day of, which happened to also be the day I got a Dictionary Word of the Day: ullage. Could be the amount by which contents fall short of filling a container, could be the quantity remaining in the container that has lost part of its contents by evaporation, leakage, or use.

How appropriate for the assignment, I thought. The ullage of our lives could be said to be that which needs more work to fill us completely up, round out our character, etc. And at the same time it could also refer to a measure of what has been used up between our birth until this point.

The irony of one word meaning both things is that we are containers. As babies, we are mostly full. Fill us with joy and love during our infant years. Think of all the nurturing we receive when people hold us as if we are worth all the gold in the world. In that moment, we are precious. Fragile. Complete strangers will sniff at us, as if faced with expensive ambrosia. Our skin is stroked gently. We are bounced up and down rhythmically and immediately when grandmothers (not necessarily our own) get to hold us.

Early on, then, many of us are full. Over time, however, we leak, the holes and cracks we get in our containers the result of stress and strain or outright damage. We give of ourselves, using our storehouse of joy and love and patience on others because it feels good to us, or it's the right thing to do, or to get something in return. Sometimes we do, sometimes it's from a different source than the one we expected or thought we needed. We are neglected and the good, the love, the feeling of being in sync with ourselves and with the universe begins to evaporate.

How to make up the ullage? Where we actually lack – in knowledge, needed skills, hobbies to embrace – we can learn. We can increase the contents of our vessel. But we can never stop giving out, either. There will always be the ullage, because we will have always lost part of the contents. The trick is how we lose it. As with so many things, the choice is ours.

I don't want to evaporate. I don't want my love or joy or peace to respond to the heat of stress or anger by vanishing, little molecules of me breaking off and being swallowed by the negative force coming against me. I would say this even more strongly: I refuse to evaporate. There are people who ignore me, or neglect me, or act as if what I want or what I say is not important. Whatever. I refuse to go up in their puffs of prideful smoke. I'm here, and until God calls me home, I'm here to stay. Ignore me at your peril – or at your preference. I'm still here.

I also don't want to leak through rifts of unforgiveness and bitterness I've allowed to develop and widen. When you ignore a crack too long, there will be a break eventually. A shattering. Spillage that is difficult, if not impossible, to sop up. Never does it all get put back together as it was before. Not to say we can't heal, we can and do. But the fault lines remain, even if we find ways to hide them. They say it is easier to build men than to repair them, which is true. When a tiny crack appears, I want to address it. Forgive the one who hurt me, or ask the one I hurt to forgive me. Keep short accounts, in other words. When we don't forgive, we give our offender power over us, a power that he or she doesn't deserve.

The best way to have ullage, I am thinking, is to use what we have, and find a reliable source for replenishment. Spiritually, the source will be God, not a religious thing but one of relationship with someone who has proven to be trustworthy and faithful. We only scratch the surface, any one of us, in true understanding of how unfathomable the depths of his love for us are. Fortunately, we don't have to understand his love to accept it.

Back to the writers' group assignment, though. What area would I like to improve? Beauty. Not physical beauty, although I definitely need to stay on top of things like my weight and health, the message I communicate to others through my appearance – do I value myself in this moment? Am I confident? Do I feel beautiful, and if so, why? Does it depend too much on this or the other, or another person, or can I hearken back to that moment in my infancy when all I knew, from everyone I encountered, was acceptance and love and affirmation? That all-encompassing awareness of love was the first awareness we experienced. Life has a way of throwing up roadblocks, but knowing we are loved is still important.

As a pre-teen, I remember reading something in a book titled Calico Palace. It was about the gold rush days in California, but what I remember was a man telling a woman that "every woman is as beautiful as one man thinks she is." That's always stuck with me. You could pick that apart and analyze the psychology of it, the political incorrectness, but it is part of who I am today.

Physical beauty – or knowing that we are confident and attractive and enough for whatever comes our way – that's one thing. But where I want to grow is another. Creating an atmosphere of beauty around me. Beautiful words. Beautiful artwork. Beautiful smells and tastes. Recently, I had the privilege of attending an artist's private showing in her home. Everywhere I turned, there was something clever and creative, something that said "A clever and creative woman resides here." It was invigorating. I felt like a little sponge, soaking up the artistic atmosphere.

My world is too silent. Too drab. Often I am a quiet English countryside when there is a touch of morning fog and a lone whippoorwill sings out now and then. There is a time for that. But I also want to be a raucous Calcutta marketplace full of overpowering color and spice and heat, a tabla and sitar speeding up their beat and melody in the background as my heart is beating faster and faster, exhilarated by life.

In what area of life would I like to do better? In living, really living, every moment. There is beauty inherent in life, all around us. I want to do better at sensing life, enjoying life, and celebrating its beauty.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

A Temporary Separation

My mother, Laura Jane Rogers Pendergraft, born on October 17, 1933, was named for her grandmother Laura Ellen Whitley -- I was named for her as well. She passed away January 12 a little over a year after being diagnosed with lung cancer. I was so surprised when we got the report. Mama hadn't smoked heavily ever, and hadn't smoked at all in half a century. She was a heart patient with Parkinson's, so those conditions were more expected to be the cause of her eventual end, but Mama didn't always follow expectations.

She went by Jane, but I only called her Mama. As my sister Rebecca (whom I only call Becky) shared at her memorial service, Mother sounds formal and distant. There are grown children who still call their mothers Mommy. Both our sets of kids refer to us as Mom. But in true Southern tradition, Mama was Mama.

When she was born at home, it was not an easy delivery. Growing up, we heard ... many times ... how the doctor used forceps to literally pull her out. which supposedly accounted for her long neck. Our grandfather said she screamed for three months. It's a wonder we wanted to have babies! This reminds me of something else - "Twilight Zone" was considered too dark for children in our household, and probably came on after our bedtimes. But the next morning at breakfast, Mama would tell us in great detail of the previous evening's episode, so vivid that we could relive every dark and scary moment.

Mama was a bit of a tom boy, but early on, she showed exceptional musical talent. At only 14, she marched into the local radio station and asked for her own show. She was given a spot in conjunction with a local minister, a Rev. Koestline, and she played the organ, specially trained by the organ company for three months. She played for school functions and the Rotary Club. She was also smart as a whip, valedictorian for the class of 1951 and voted as Most Likely to Succeed and Most Talented by her classmates at Albemarle High School. Later, I remember her sighing that she had more common sense than the psychologists she was secretary to at Western Carolina College when we were little, and we never doubted the truth of her statement.

Mama had entered nurses' training, after high school but left before graduating. Then, you couldn't be married in the program and she was discouraged from the long, hard hours taking care of lots of old men, she said, who tried to embarrass the young innocent students. Working at Starnes' Jewelers back home in Albemarle, she met a handsome red-headed teacher who came into the store. He was chaperoning a dance at her old high school, and asked her to be his date. At the dance, everyone parted just like in the movies she loved to watch every Saturday as a child, so that Herb and Jane could take the floor.

They married on December 26, 1953, and stayed married 64 years. They were not always easy years, especially when they lost their third baby, but the two of them taught us a lot about commitment, sacrifice, and carrying on.

Mama was a worker. At some point, she had three part-time jobs, or was it four? When we moved to Florida, Mama continued to work, in addition to being church organist or pianist. Her fingers were nimble, whether winning a typing contest or finishing a tax return, whether accompanying a cantata, or adding to the contemporary worship.

One of my most peaceful, early memories is lying in a church pew at the Methodist church in Cullowhee, North Carolina. The church was empty except for Mama and me as she practiced for the coming Sunday. Her music was flawless, and lying there, listening to her, I felt close to heaven. I think it was an accurate sensation.

Mama's nimble fingers helped her playing cards too. That era's version of gaming involved sitting tother around a table, talking and laughing while Canasta or Shanghai was played. She never, ever "let us" win, not so much a sign of her competitiveness as, I think, wanting us to be prepared for the realities of life: Whatever you receive, you have to earn.

When we were growing up, we watched one channel together, took road trips on the weekends together, went to see the relatives at Christmas together - her parents, Daddy's family, her sister "Susie Q," all the nieces and nephews. We read books together, went to church together. Rarely, to a movie or out to eat, two very big deals. 

If I were to boil my childhood down to its core, I'd say that the two main things Mama and Daddy taught Becky and me were that there was nothing we couldn't accomplish, and that no matter what, they'd always love us. The first was perhaps a form of child abuse - who can live up to that?! - but the second always caught us when we failed.

One of my favorite Mama stories is the night we sat down to supper, David and I, our oldest daughter Terri and her toddler Jasmine. Before we said grace, Jasmine piped up. "I think we need to pray for GG." GG was Mama's nickname celebrating her role as great-grandmother. The grandchildren had called her Grambo or Grandma Graft.

It's important to understand that GG had babysat for Jasmine that day. The WHOLE day. When I asked Jasmine why, she said, "All day long GG kept saying 'Help me, Lord.'" Mama was famous for those mutters, simultaneously quick prayers for grace as well as pointed acknowledgment that things weren't going as she wished.

Mama was capable and strong, and a little, shall we say, controlling? She knew the best way to do some things, and felt a responsibility to share it, because she loved us and wanted us to ALSO know the best way to do it! I have, many times, heard her correct nurses or hospital staff about cleanliness. Because she and Daddy lost their son to a staph infection at a hospital, she was obsessive about germs. To her dying day, she would not let her bare feet touch the floor, at least by choice. That was Mama - refusing treatment to kill cancer, but worried that she might pick up something from eating cheese that might have gone bad in the refrigerator. A complicated woman, in other words.

Even in her last days, Mama would rally for a few seconds to tell us that they were out of paper towels, or remind us of an upcoming appointment. She didn't give up control easily. She was a caregiver who sometimes wished someone would take care of HER. God seemed to grant that request at the end of her life. Treasure Coast Hospice and Lake Forest Park Senior Living staff provided consistent and compassion care for her, for which the family is very grateful. That last week, though, when Ashley, one of the hospice nurses asked her about something, Mama didn't even open her eyes. She was too weak to shrug, but she simply said "Whatever." THAT was as significant a change to the nurse as her not wanting to eat, or her falling blood pressure. Mama was not a "whatever" kind of gal most of the time.

It was a relatively long and slow decline, going from getting tired on the way to the dining room, to needing someone to push her there in a wheelchair, to not leaving her room, to not leaving her bed. It's hard to watch someone so vital, become so weak. It was hard especially, I think, on the grandchildren, who had known her as the silly Grambo making scary faces or giving piggy-back rides. She stopped caring about wearing her wig or make-up, or was (more likely) unwilling to inconvenience anyone by asking for help. My son told her one time that she was the consummate Southern lady, make-up always perfect. That pleased her greatly, and to let that go was just another indication of how determined she was to be done with all this nonsense and get on to glory.

Mama was resolute in her decision to donate her body to science. A heart patient, she also had Parkinson's and cancer. When her grandson, my youngest son Adam, died following a car accident, he saved five lives by being an organ donor. She decided she could help too. We don't know at this time how her donation to a group called Science Care was used, but we're at peace knowing she did exactly what she wanted. Eventually, her body will be cremated, and Science Care will send us the remains. Honestly, we're not sure what we'll do with them then, but Mama did say NO WATER. She can still get us to do what she wants, even from heaven.

One of Mama's greatest regrets was not finishing nursing school. She was so proud when "little" Becky, our youngest daughter, became an RN. But she was proud of all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She was what Joyce Landorf Heatherley called "balcony people" in her delightful little book with the same title. Had geography and then her health allowed it, she would have been at every soccer match, every football game, every school program, every celebration. She was thrilled to attend her grandchildren's graduations, promotions, weddings, to be at the hospital for births. She loved playing with kids herself, making faces, dressing up, having them sit by her at the piano. She saved every picture, every card. She treasured us, her daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. She prayed for us. At her memorial service, I asked those in attendance to really think about that. She prayed for both family and friends, so virtually everything each of us encountered or endured or triumphed over, in the midst of every good decision or horrible mistake, Mama's prayers were right there in the midst. 

In her obituary, it was stated that she encouraged everyone she met. She once said she had a "kissing ministry," the perpetual loving mother finding new children to support each day. She called CNAs by name and blew kisses to ladies across the dining room at the assisted living facility. She kept photographs of children whose names elude us. She loved. We didn't always appreciate that, because it motivated her to correct and instruct when we didn't necessarily want correction or instruction, but that's what mamas do.

In her final weeks, Mama said she wished she had something profound to say. There were family situations she always thought that if she'd just said this, or just said that, maybe she could fix it. She was a fixer. I'd remind her that some things may not get fixed, this side of heaven, but we could trust God with the details. She hoped that at the very least, the unity of family and friends at her life's end, would start a move in the right direction. Several things happened that seem to indicate that she, once again, got what she wanted -- good decisions, a softening of hearts, rekindling of friendships and other relationships as we stood around after her service talking of old times, looking at photographs, hugging one another in shared emotion.

Mama was raised in a church-going family, and rededicated her life to Christ as an adult, always faithful in attendance and service until her health prevented it. But even then, a pastor who held services at the facility where she lived said that she would challenge and bless him when he visited. She'd ask deep questions, quote verses of scripture that were especially meaningful to her. She trusted her heavenly Father with her life, as well as her death, although she was getting increasingly surprised, even disappointed, every morning she woke up here. She was so ready to be reunited with friends and loved ones. To see her baby, to see our son again, and her father (George Adam Rogers), for whom both boys were named. Her mother Polly (Pauline Whitley) and sister Marie Tucker. Friends from Lake Forest Park who went before her -- Julius, Howard -- friends from the Lunch Bunch who'd gone to school with her in Albemarle.

When she was diagnosed with cancer, she put in her order with the Lord to go in her sleep. Doctors had explained some of the possible scenarios, and she said no thank you. Like almost always, she got her way. We will miss her, every day. Some will regret not having visited more, or telling her they loved her one more time. When you think about it, no one ever says, "I wish I hadn't gone over as much as I did. I wish I hadn't spent so much time with someone who has passed." I encourage those people to stop.  Life is much too short, no matter how long it lasts, to live with regrets. Instead, let that wistful and wishful thinking motivate us to visit more, love more, share our lives more. 

As people of faith, we believe that this is only a temporary separation. We believe in eternity, in heaven. And if we believe that, then the transition to the "other side" is a promotion, a graduation, a healing to beat all healings. C.S. Lewis wrote that when people die, infants continue to grow until they reach their prime age, and the elderly get younger until they do also. If that is true, then Mama is now slender and beautiful with a full head of dark hair, unfettered by age and infirmity and devices to help her walk.

In Mama's senior year book, each graduate picked a phrase to go with their list of accomplishments at school. Mama's choice was a paraphrase from poet Bessie Anderson Stanley: She has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often, and loved much.

I think that sums up Mama's life nicely.

A link to Mama's obituary and a guest book may be seen here: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/tcpalm/obituary.aspx?n=laura-jane-pendergraft-rogers&pid=187883633

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

A Different Kind of Christmas Eve Story

It is, perhaps, a different kind of Christmas Eve story, but one with a definite link to what we celebrate...on the wrong date, at the wrong time of year. Jesus, son of Mary, Son of God, son (supposed) of the carpenter Joseph, who was engaged to Mary at the time of her conception -- even for an unbeliever, it's fascinating reading.

There are two genealogies given in the gospels. The familiar Christmas story, read in Christian schools, in churches, by firelight in countless homes each year...this appears in the gospel of Luke. Scholars believe that the genealogy it contains is that of Mary, while Matthew's traces the lineage of Joseph.

Why does it matter? The Messiah's birth was foretold in the Old Testament. Micah 5:2 says “But you, O Bethlehem Ephrathah, who are too little to be among the clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel, whose coming forth is from of old, from ancient days.” Scholars (again) connect this prophecy to Jesus.

Luke tells us that there was a census. Joseph had already decided not to divorce Mary after an angel told him not to (smart man) and had to go to his family's home of Bethlehem, under Roman law. Mary's lineage was also from the house of David the king, but women weren't regarded as all that important at the time. The head of the household was what mattered, and so Joseph and Mary traveled to Bethlehem where, the story goes, the time came for her to give birth to a very special baby, conceived of the Holy Spirit.

For the prophecy to be fulfilled, Mary had to be betrothed to a man of the house of David, even though his bloodline wasn't, technically, the highest priority. Mary is venerated, even worshipped by some, and by all accounts a remarkable young woman...but she also couldn't be betrothed to just anyone. Had to be form the house of David, so that he'd have to take her to Bethlehem. Well, you get the idea.

Matthew's lineage, written to Jewish readers, includes -- amazingly --- four women, and not the ones you might expect. No mention of Eve, the mother of us all, or Sarah, the mother of the Jewish race. No Rebekah, the mother of Jacob, whose twelve sons became the Twelve Tribes of Israel. Matthew included the names of Tamar, a Jewish daughter-in-law who posed as a prostitute to get pregnant by her father-in-law; Rahab, an ACTUAL prostitute who saved Jewish spies in Jericho; Ruth, whose "Whither thou goest" speech is often quoted at weddings but was spoken to the mother of her dead husband; and then...there's Bathsheba, who isn't even named.

She gets credited as the "wife of Uriah." Whaaaat?

The story is not a sweet one. In a nutshell, King David sent the army out but stayed behind, saw Bathsheba bathing on the rooftop, sent for her and got her pregnant, invited her husband (and one of his esteemed Mighty Men) Uriah home for R&R to cover his actions. Uriah wouldn't sleep with his wife while his men were embattled, so David sent him back to war with instructions to place good ole Uriah on the front lines, hoping for his imminent death. Uriah did indeed die; David married Bathsheba, the baby died and David repented. David and Bathsheba lived, if not happily ever after, long enough to have Solomon, who became king, was regarded as the wisest man on earth at the time, and who built the Temple.

That's a lot of history, but at the very least it shows that the Bible is not dull. Why bring this up now? Because when Bathsheba's story is mentioned, it is always (in my experience) slanted. David, hero of the Goliath incident, writer of Psalms, husband of many...he is shown to be the lustful, powerful man who wrongly sends Uriah to his death to cover his adultery. That's fair.

Bathsheba doesn't get a lot of mention at all, other than as sort of a victim of circumstances. Uriah is praised as a man of honor.

That's not the way I see it.

Uriah was one of David's Mighty Men. Respected by his soldiers. Respected by his king (up to a point). But, really? He refused to sleep with his wife because his men were in the field? What did that communicate to his wife, and was it a pattern she had been living with for years?

No wonder she went to the palace when David called her.

I'm not saying she was justified, or that David wasn't wrong. I'm just pointing out that back when Joshua was preparing the Israelites for war, God told him to send home anyone who'd just been married, so he could enjoy his wife. A man is supposed to be intimate with his wife. A wife is supposed to be intimate with her husband. If one of them refuses, no one should be surprised when things  take a different direction.

Uriah would have been better off to have slept with his wife and returned to battle happier and more refreshed. Would he have died anyway? No doubt -- otherwise, Solomon wouldn't have been born. Had David not called for Bathsheba after the rooftop bathing...had he not gotten her pregnant...had nothing wrong transpired...I'll go out on a limb and say I think Uriah would have still died in battle, David would have still married Bathsheba, and they would have still had Solomon. Without all the condemnation and conviction and grief. 

Maybe Bathsheba had had all the neglect she could handle. Maybe she heard that David was in the habit of strolling on his rooftop at a certain hour. Maybe she planned the whole thing. Maybe she hoped that something would jolt her brave, strong husband out of his self-imposed, single-minded focus on Duty and remind him of his responsibility to her. We don't know.

But I like the fact that Bathsheba, even if she isn't called by her own name, gets a little press in the gospel of Matthew. She was a black mark on the beloved King David's reputation, but she didn't put it there all by herself. David was a participant. And so was Uriah.

Fort Pierce artist
Helen Terry's
beautiful "This I Do For You."

I especially like the fact that Matthew lets the world know this: even the worst of the worst, according to polite society, are included in the family of Jesus. There are those who give the world the impression they have to clean up their acts, their faces, and their vocabulary before they are welcome at church, but Jesus came for the world. Warts and all. Sinful, weak, helpless, hopeless, labeled as unfit and unloved. He was born for them, to make a way for them back to the Father who never stopped loving them. For you. For me.

Red Letter Challenge

I found this photo on a Bible commentary site
(gracethrufaith.com)
but liked it because Jesus looks a little
like Liam Neeson, doesn't he?

Maybe you've never read the Bible, not cover to cover, not even the shortest verse ("Jesus wept."John 11:35). Maybe you had one of those evangelical check-the-box mornings and are patting yourself on the back for Quiet Time spent in prayer and the Word. Maybe you're a Bible scholar, maybe you think the Bible is one big collection of myths and fairy tales.

I want to challenge you to read something, whether it's for the first time ever or for the umpteenth time since you got saved at a youth meeting in high school. Commonly known as The Sermon on the Mount, it's three chapters in the book of Matthew. Matthew was one of the disciples of Jesus of Nazareth, a Jew who lived roughly 2000 years ago, who was hated by the religious leaders of his day because he hung out with the outcasts of society and rocked their neat little black-and-white, good-and-evil, heaven-and-hell worlds.

The book of Matthew has 27 chapters. I'm just asking you to read three of them. If you pick up a copy of the Bible somewhere, most of those three chapters may be printed in red ink. Some Bibles print the actual words of Jesus, what he said inside quotation marks, in red. Why? Maybe you assume it is to add significance, as if they needed more. Or so they'd be easier to spot on a page.

Actually, it was a magazine editor's idea. According to Wikipedia, the editor of The Christian Herald in 1899, Louis Klopsch, asked his mentor what he thought of a New Testament with Jesus's words printed in red and his mentor, the Rev. Talmadge, said (I paraphrase) "Well, it couldn't hurt, and it might just help." The Red Letter Bible was born, popular since 1901.

Keep Reading

I challenged you to read Matthew 5-7, and you may be thinking...why doesn't she shut up so I can go do it? Go ahead - what you'll find in those chapters is imminently more important and more beautiful than anything here. But if you want a bit of background before you accept the challenge, here it is.

Today, there's something called the Red Letter Christian Movement that focuses, radically, on just the red parts, because in their way of thinking, what Jesus said is more important than what anyone else said. I have to agree. Not that you throw the rest out, but everything else should be taken in context, as commentary on Truth. Yes, yes -- I can hear pages rattling in the background while you look up the favorite rebuttal verse: Paul's reminder found in 2 Timothy 3:15-17:

 16All Scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for training in righteousness; 17so that the man of God may be adequate, equipped for every good work.

Remember, though, if you have your ecumenical knickers in a twist, Paul was talking only about the Old Testament at the time he wrote those words. The New one hadn't come along yet. It wasn't even being finished writing, much less canonized (circa 305, there-abouts). Even so, Paul also wrote to the Colossian believers that:

 15 He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.16 For by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things have been created through Him and for Him. 17 He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together.

Paul, in other words, gave Jesus's words every bit as much emphasis as the folks who printed them in red.

A Quick Overview

The Sermon on the Mount is called that for a very good reason: Jesus sat down on a mountain to teach the crowd that had followed him and his disciples that day. He started out by blessing them, specifically reminding them that God wanted to bless them. They were, for the most part, living under harsh Roman rule, with an occupying army to deal with on top of everything else. That first "blessing" part is why it's sometimes called the Beattitudes, meaning "blessedness." In Sunday school they like to say it's the BE Attitudes: Be humble, be good, be....  But it's cool just the way it is. Why do we have to try and cute-sy the Truth up?

Jesus spoke simply to them about practical matters of their faith (the crowd was mostly Jewish, as he was), but not just "obey the rules." Instead, he consistently went beyond, explaining that although they'd always heard one thing, he wanted them to understand the principle, not just give lip-service or white knuckle compliance.

It is the principles of Matthew 5-7 I want you to consider, at least once in your life if you've never read the passage. It is the principles of Matthew 5-7 I want to jolt you out of spiritual lethargy if you're thinking "Sure, sure, heard it a thousand times. Yada, yada, house built on solid rock. Got it."

You don't.

How can I say that? Because every time I read the Sermon on the Mount, I see something new, and I think you just might too. And because, looking around (and in the mirror) I don't see a Church (or a Christian) that is necessarily behaving and speaking as if Jesus's words had registered. Really and truly registered, sinking down into the deepest consciousness that is able to affect lasting change.

I Dare You

Don't take my word for it, though. Read it for yourself. I dare you. I double-dog-dare you to read Matthew 5-7 straight through, silently or out loud, and NOT hear its simple, yet powerful, eloquence. I'm not asking you to join the Red Letter Movement, or join a church, or believe in Jesus. I'm just asking you to read three chapters in a book. And if you don't have the book, you can read online:

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/

I think you'll be pleased with the words. Comforted. Instructed. Maybe a few "ouches" here and there, but mostly, the refreshing sound of Truth. Oh, and by the way, the passage includes what is commonly known as the Beattitudes

As the Rev. Talmadge said, "It can't hurt. Might help."


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible^® (NASB),
Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973,
1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation
Used by permission. www.Lockman.org

Out of a Job

My granddaughter is 17, and her little brother just turned 13. They both live with me, so it's a different dynamic than many grandparents experience. When they were younger, their mother was often ill, and so a good deal of the parenting was mine. Now that she is able to parent them herself, it's sometimes a challenge for me to, well, not. Sure, I've got more experience. Sure, I actually know a better, easier way of getting something done or seeing a certain outcome, but I'm learning (slowly) to keep my mouth closed. Back off. Stay out of it. Keep a healthy distance.

I wonder if other women nearing 60 suddenly face the fact that after spending most of our lives with huge responsibilities -- the daily rearing, cleaning, wiping bottoms and noses, preparing meals, fixing problems and affixing band-aids to boo-boos, sewing clothes and hanging out the wash, giving advice and wiping away tears, teaching children how to make beds and tie shoes and (in my case, as a 12-year homeschooler) read and write and add -- we are now out of a job. That one, anyway.

My children are grown. We raised them, like the Boy Scouts, to be trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. Some of the training took better than other parts; of the four, some are better in specific areas than their siblings. Each one, however, is of age. Each one is responsible for his or her own decisions, choices, and behavior.

No longer do I need to be vigilant on their behalf, or instruct them on what is Right. With one daughter and two grandchildren in the home, I still have a responsibility for the house itself, and make reasonable requests (in my opinion) as to their care of rooms or help with chores.

But I'm clearly out of a job. Or maybe the job description has merely changed, because it's not like I've retired. Theoretically I get to enjoy the fruits of my labors, enjoying the company and affection of my adult children, enjoying the company and affection of their children and significant others (and in one case, the children of a significant other). Now and then, my advice is asked. I get occasional texts and calls and emails and Facebook messages. Sometimes, my help is needed, and if able, I'm happy to provide it.

The adjustment hasn't been a smooth road, however. I've clung too long to being needed. My

expectations have been unreasonable. I've wanted my children to make decisions according to my own wisdom (which is unfair, because some wisdom must be attained over time). I've longed to see them walk in complete happiness, free from pain or issues or struggles, because as a mother of four young children, I tried to create that bubble of happiness. Somewhere along the way, the bubble burst. I've blamed this on myself (not true). I've blamed this on others (also not true). Bubbles are simply nice while they last, but they never last that long.

I've decided ... or maybe I should say that I am deciding, because it seems to be a daily process ... that working myself out of a job isn't a bad thing. It may mean that one phase of my life, my womanhood, is not exactly over -- I'll always be my children's mother, no matter how old they are -- but the lines have blurred. The edges of relationships have softened. My role in the play is being rewritten.

Mothers are called upon for so much: we have to be tender, we have to be strong, we have to sacrifice, we have to put the needs of our children first. As we reach this point in our lives, however, even though it sometimes feels harder, it's actually the opposite. We can relax. Take a deep breath. Do what we want. Go where we want. Not selfishly, but taking care of ourselves in ways we may have overlooked.

Many women learn this at a far younger age than I have. Women with different personalities may have less trouble letting go than I have had. Life has a way of knocking us around in different ways, and we learn the lessons we need at different rates. We get the same tests until we pass, and maybe we pass with an A+ and maybe we pass with a D- but that test is done, and it's on to another. This awareness of the job thing is, perhaps, just one more test for me.

I used to have a dream in my head: an Old World compound, filled with grown-ups and children, living and working together, relationships entwined with love and shared responsibilities. Bonanza and The Waltons and The Big Valley all merged into one big happy family. The problem with this is that it was my dream alone. No one else wanted it. My efforts to build it failed, and my disappointment in that failure was in danger of turning me into someone I didn't like. 

My children were raised to be independent and capable, which meant that they didn't need or want a compound. They wanted wings. As they've flown away, they've learned to soar. And I have loved watching their majestic beauty, even from afar.

What do you do when you realize that one dream will never, ever, not-in-a-million-years, come true? Another dream replaces it, hopefully, because everyone needs a dream. King Solomon wrote that "a desire fulfilled is a tree of life" (Proverbs 13:12) but every tree begins with a seed. 

During these last few years of adjusting to my new role in life, I've planted a seed. When there isn't enough rain, I have a watering can. If there's a chill in the air, I'm out there with newspaper to ward off frost. And I'm waiting, praying that this tree will grow quickly, knowing that the roots are deep. The soil is good. 


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016