Fire-builder

Posted on January 30, 2011 by Margaret

Nelson has always loved fire. I remember catching him lighting matches in his upstairs bedroom when he was about eight. “What on earth are you doing?” I said, alarmed at the prospect of a fire in our very old, all-wooden house.

“I’m testing stuff,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Seeing what burns and what doesn’t.”

He proceeded to tell me he’d cut a tuft of his hair, which burned “real good” in a bowl and had tried to melt a plastic truck, which was “no good.” When I saw a black smudge on the closet door, I asked if he’d tried to burn that, too.

“Yup,” he said, without emotion. “I couldn’t get it to go.”

My heart was pounding, but I tried to stay calm, suggesting his experiments might be better performed outdoors. Over the years he did a great deal of that, learning valuable lessons: fire crackers can explode before you’re ready, and all burns hurt.

Now, in his thirties, Nelson is a master fire-builder, and our old stone fireplace has had inviting fires in it every evening. He loves everything about fire-building, starting with finding dead wood in the forest and hauling it home. Sawing it into log-lengths then hand-splitting it with an ax is rewarding for him, and when the fire is aglow, it’s satisfying for the rest of us, too.

Tonight the fireplace is dark, because Nelson is five time zones away at the University of the Nations in Kona, Hawaii. He’s on his way to New Zealand where he’ll start with another group of YWAM students for 12 weeks of spiritual training followed by a three-month mission outreach.

Although Nelson made sure I had a big pile of ready-to-burn wood before he left, I haven’t made a fire. I don’t get the same kick he does out of arranging, lighting and coaxing a fire into full flame, but the real reason is that he’s not here to sit in front of it with me.

On a cold winter evening, a wood-burning fire invites people to gather for conversation. Sometimes a fire’s attraction is so strong, chairs get pulled into a semi-circle around the hearth, close enough to see firelight dancing on each face.

This winter we’ve shared many meals and scores of meaningful talks in front of Nelson’s fires, beginning last September. When the house was full of family, we’d look forward to baby bedtimes, then congregate in front of the fire with ice cream or brownies, enjoying loving camaraderie at the end of busy days.

But all 14 of them are gone now, and my quiet cottage has only me in it, which is OK. Tonight I’m especially missing Nelson, who was the last to leave, just yesterday. When I got home from the airport and found his touching thank you note on the kitchen counter, I bawled like a baby.

But he’s doing exactly what God called him to do, which brings me deep satisfaction. As a matter of fact, each of my kids and kids-in-law are right where the Lord wants them. Their determination to follow his direction “lights my fire.”

And I don’t even have to go to a cold woodpile to feel its glow.

“Love is as strong as death… Love flashes like fire, the brightest kind of flame.” (Song of Solomon 8:6)

The Best Kind of Love

Posted on January 29, 2011 by Margaret

Yesterday at Walmart I was drawn to the glitter and glitz of a Valentine card display. Fantasizing about which one I might have chosen for Nate, I picked up several that said, “For my husband.” Although he didn’t particularly relate to the preprinted messages in greeting cards, he loved the words I wrote at the end and saved every one. Some he took to the office and taped to his door.

As I smiled remembering his unabashed devotion, my attention was drawn to a couple at the other end of the card rack. They had ten years on me and were nothing special to look at with his high-water pants and her 1970’s “Stretch ‘n Sew” slacks. What made me notice them, however, was their behavior toward each other. For a couple in their seventies, probably married 50 years, it was exceptional.

While I pretended to look at the cards, the two of them gradually made their way down the row, taking samples out of the rack, reading them, putting them back. She’d say, “Oh honey, look at this one. Would that be good for Sara? It’s funny.”

He’d read it and chuckle. “You’re right. That’s funny! Let’s look some more.”

As they moved closer to me, I could hear they were hunting for grandchildren-Valentines, searching for the perfect message in each one. Most impressive, though, was the good time they were having with each other.

“Aw, look at this one. It’s so sweet, just like Anna.” The wife would agree, yet they’d keep hunting, savoring their task.

“How ‘bout this, dear? Eight cards for $4! Should we get that instead?” he’d say.

“Maybe we should buy one expensive card for each family and include the kids in those. What do you think?”

“They’d think we took the easy way out,” and he’d laugh.

These two captivated me, and I watched until my periphery vision got sore. God meant marriage to be just like them, give-and-take interest in each other’s opinion. Whether choosing a greeting card or buying a home, their M.O. would work well.

I once heard Howard Dayton, head of a financial ministry, tell the story of how listening to his wife’s point if view on an investment saved him tens of thousands of dollars. He urged husbands to seek their spouse’s opinions on money matters, even if their women had no investment savvy.

James Dobson, head of a ministry to families, agreed, counseling wives to consider their husband’s ideas whether or not it made sense at the time, because God uses husbands to funnel wisdom to wives.

Despite my not having a husband anymore, watching this older couple was delightful. They modeled exactly what the experts described. But from my vantage point, having lost my partner, I wondered how they’ll handle the grief that one day will come to one or the other when death arrives. Shared shopping trips will end, along with every other togetherness-event.

But that’s the cost of a good marriage… and it’s worth every emotional cent.

“People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7)

Sister-Advantage

Posted on January 28, 2011 by Margaret

My sister Mary and I were born 20 months apart. She’s older… and much wiser. Mary’s been my leader and defender since I was born, and I don’t deserve her.

For example, she’s given her last two Fridays to me as a painting partner at the cottage, priming and then semi-glossing the woodwork around all my new windows. In the process she also accomplished the thankless job of painting our “Harry Potter Closet,” the hard-to-reach cubbyhole under the stairs. But painting the underside of steps while lying on her stomach and twisting her neck upward was no problem for Mary. “I’d love to do it,” she said.

And that’s her, always saying, “I’d love to do it.”

Years ago one of my friends gave me a coffee mug that says, “No, I can’t bring 4 dozen cookies. Next question?” I love my mug and quickly related to its sentiment. Mary, however, probably wouldn’t be able to drink from it. She’d rather bake the cookies.

Mom once told me, “Next to your father, Mary is the most Christ-like person I know.” She was right. Mary’s always thinking one step ahead of the rest of us. For instance, she keeps my calendar commitments in her head along with her own, hoping she can help. She’ll say, “Do you have a ride to the airport on the 5th? If not, I’ll take you.” I’m thinking, “Where am I going on the 5th?” and she’s already arranging transportation. But that’s Mary, the biblical poster child for putting the interests of another ahead of her own.

As little girls we were polar opposites. She was quiet; I was boisterous. She was careful; I was sloppy. She obeyed the rules; I tested them. Yet somehow our relationship grew into a strong friendship that’s only gotten stronger with the decades. I’m continually learning from her sterling example and will never catch up.

When Nate had his cancer, she and I often left the house briefly to have prayer times in her car. When I held back tears at the cottage to spare children and grandchildren, beach walks with Mary were my safe times to open the flood gates. When Nate died, Mary was there, as she had been for days leading up to that. And in the 15 months since I’ve become a widow, she’s driven from Chicago to Michigan every Thursday to spend several days cheering and fortifying her grieving sister.

Best of all, though, is our relationship as sisters-in-the-Lord. Mary knows her Bible (because she reads it through each year), and I often ask, “Where is that one verse about…?” She knows. As a Bible study leader she studies Scripture intently and has, in the process, become more and more like its Author. As Mom said, Christ-like.

Today after cleaning her paint brush and pulling on her boots she said, “What are you planning to blog about tonight?”

I said, “You.”

“Oh no. You shouldn’t.”