Celebrities get right in.

Posted on August 28, 2009 by Margaret

There were no suburban shopping malls when I was a kid. Young teens rode cheap, safe elevated trains to downtown Chicago, where they found big department stores and double feature movies. Best of all for me was knowing that Dad was downtown, too, officing at 111 W. Washington Street. His architectural and engineering firm, employing more than 200 draftsmen, occupied half of the 8^th floor.

Dad was a successful businessman with many demands on his time, but none of that impressed me at 14. Instead, I loved the thick glass double doors with his name on them, his polished oak desk and his wall of windows overlooking the city.

After a day of shopping, I’d inevitably end up in Dad’s office, hoping for a hand-out. Scruffy-looking that I might be, once the receptionist recognized me, she’d quickly usher me through the secretarial pool and right into his office, even if he was conducting a meeting. Dad always smiled when he saw me. Walking through his door, I felt like somebody special.

Many girls grow up without this kind of father-love. God knew that would happen and made a special effort to fill the gap. The Bible often refers to him as our Father and even as our Daddy, inviting us into this parent-child relationship. All are welcome, and the best part is that his skills as a father supercede those of even the best earthly dad.

My father was committed to many people. His time was spread thin, and he didn’t always know the best way to solve every problem, especially when I became a big one at 17. Dad was also a worrier, and he often met with exhaustion. Though he smiled when I came to his office, he wasn’t always glad to be disturbed, for example, during the night.

Father-God, on the other hand, runs the whole world without becoming worn out or spread thin. He knows the answer to every question and is never confused. Best of all, the heavenly Father is always glad to see me coming, even during the night. Maybe especially during the night. I’ve never gotten the vibe, “Oh no, not you again.”

When my dad died, he left me. He couldn’t help it. Since then, my longing to talk to him and get his counsel has sometimes made me cry, because I know I can’t get to him. No amount of wishing will make it so.

But Father-God says he’ll never step away from me. He is always available and repeatedly says, “I love you with an everlasting love. If you’re fatherless, I’ll be your Father, welcoming you, comforting you, advising you.” He says that to me and also to you. He has said it to all of his children, throughout the ages, and what he says he’ll do, he always does.

Let’s play “Cut the Cake!”

Posted on August 25, 2009 by Margaret

My family spent a great deal of time at the beach when I was growing up, a sandy, dunes-style beach on Lake Michigan’s eastern shore. Mom was untiring in her efforts to make sure we had fun there. “The more the merrier” was a motto she embraced, which meant we could invite all the friends we wanted, whether for a day or a week. She never complained about youthful crowds. To the contrary, she was energized by them.

After we arrived at the beach with our big, black, truck inner-tubes (the kind that rubbed black onto our bathing suits), Mom was always first into the water, teaching visitors to stand on their heads by going under without holding their noses. She made her shoulders available for kids nearly as big as she was to jump from. She raced us all to the anchored raft “out deep” where no one could touch bottom.

Mom never brought a magazine or a book to the beach. Her first choice was to play with children. One of the beach games Mom loved was “Cut the Cake.” Using a bucket for a mold, she turned out a cake of wet sand that was perfectly round. “Go find stones to decorate it,” she directed, “and bring something for the middle, a feather, a stick, whatever you want to make it pretty.”

We “sugared it” with the soft, dry sand and then stood back to admire our work. “Now,” she said, “we’re going to cut the cake.” With a thin stick found in the dunes nearby, she demonstrated what she meant by slicing a piece of sand-cake thin enough not to disturb the rest of it.

Handing the stick-knife to the nearest child, she said, “Your turn. If the cake falls when you slice it, you have to run up and down the dunes five times (or run into the water and stay under 30 seconds, or carry someone on your back anywhere they want to go, etc).

Each person took turns slicing a tiny bit more of the cake while the sun slowly dried the wet sand, increasing the threat of “a fall.” At long last, someone’s slice caused the remaining cake to crumble, causing hoots and hollers from those who hadn’t lost the game. Mom always laughed the hardest.

The sands of time ran out for Mom, but she left behind her spirit of fun for our grandkids to enjoy. Last week I taught a child how to make a bucket cake. (Use only wet sand, pack it tight at the bottom, pile sand slightly above the rim, flip it fast). As I watched him struggle to master this “baking” task, I thought of Mom. She left a lofty heritage in many categories, and surely one of them was how to experience joy among children by playing “Cut the Cake.”

He brings me bouquets.

Posted on August 14, 2009 by Margaret

I am blessed vase of with a mate who believes in the power of flowers. From the days of our earliest relationship, Nate often walked through the front door with a bouquet. He realized, early-on, how flowers lifted me. “I don’t get it,” he’d say, “but I can do it.” That’s a wise husband.

When disappointments have come, he’s helped mitigate their impact by buying a bouquet on his way home from work. I picture other women on the train noticing the wrapped bouquet on Nate’s lap. “Lucky someone,” they think. “She’s getting flowers.”

There have been seasons when our finances were so tight, a store-bought bouquet would break our bank. At those times I’ve said to Nate, “No flowers for a while, Dear. Really.” How many wives have to ask their husbands to stop bringing flowers to them?

Last spring we were at the financial bottom. After enduring an excruciatingly long wait to sell our house without any prospective buyers even still, I said, “The yard will be full of perennial flowers this summer. How ‘bout we enjoy those rather than the fancy bouquets you usually bring?”

He balked, having grown to love the process of choosing which flowers to buy, pondering what colors to put together and thinking forward to my delight in receiving them. Once he came home with peach colored roses edged in dark orange. “Remember?” he quizzed. “I got you this kind for our 20^th anniversary.” I did remember and was hugely flattered that he did, too.

Last summer, though, he finally agreed to pass by the flower shop without stopping, and I made a fresh effort to make yard-flower bouquets: golden daffodils, white crabapple blossoms, lavender lilacs, yellow iris, pink plum branches, burgundy peonies, even the tall stalks of tiny purple “blossomettes” that grew from the hosta plants.

By August, when our gardens were flagging, I went on walks to gather weed-flowers for our vases. Dad always admired the staying power of weed-flowers and even thought about planting a garden of his favorites. “They have roots a yard long that can withstand any drought,” he’d say. If you’ve ever tried to uproot a dandelion, you know that.

Today I went walking (with my scissors), looking for a bouquet of weed-flowers. If Dad was still alive, he’d smile with affirmation at the gorgeous arrangement now on my table. Spectacular Queen Anne’s Lace, growing rampantly in every empty lot in our area, is fit for a bridal bouquet. (See picture above.) As Dad always mused, “Who labeled some weeds and some not?”

One day Nate may again bring me frequent bouquets of florist-bought flowers. But til then, the woods and empty lots can be my suppliers.