Don’t get left behind.

Posted on June 19, 2011 by Margaret

Nobody wants to get left behind, not in a race, not when friends leave, not when the rapture occurs. But many in my generation are finding themselves left behind by technology.

The first personal computers were a challenge with their MS-DOS soft disks called hard, and their hard ones called floppy. Just turning it on was a problem, and it took me a decade to learn what the initials “PC” meant.

Then came mobile phones. Nate had a car phone back when they operated on a you-talk-I-talk system much like walkie-talkies. But that was kindergarten compared to cell phones.

My children, who found each new tech toy a joy to “play with” told me, “Mom, it’s just like speaking a new language. Learn the vocabulary, and you’ll be able to communicate with all this stuff.”

I love words, at least those of real languages, but tech-talk comes from outer space. Even so, I don’t want to be left behind with an unwillingness to learn, so recently I stood in front of a wall of gleaming, new-fangled cell phones at an AT&T store.

“My old phone doesn’t work,” I told the clerk, a darling sales-child who looked like a middle schooler. She frowned as I handed over my battered red slide-phone, the one I labored to love 3 years ago and had no intention of surrendering.

“I like my phone,” I told her, reading her face like a sentence that said, “Poor old lady, can’t keep up.”

“If you could just duplicate this,” I said, “I’ll leave happy.”

“Well,” she began, trying to talk slow enough for me to comprehend, “we don’t have that exact phone anymore, but let’s look at your account, shall we?”

Ushering me to the counter, she leaned into her computer for a minute, then broke into a broad grin. “I have some fantastic news! You’re eligible for a $400 phone completely free of charge!”

One mentally-taxing hour later, she’d demonstrated three different “smart phones” to a dumb listener, finishing with a flourish: “A smart phone can be your GPS, your ipod, your calendar, your calculator, your…” at which point she lost me. My mind was occupied with a picture of a waste basket overflowing with my red phone, my new GPS, my perfectly good ipod, my calendar, my calculator, my…

“Do you offer tutoring?” I said, looking for an excuse to turn her down.

“Come in anytime, and we’ll help you.” She paused and studied my crinkled expression then said, “How would you like my cell number? You can call me personally, although not after 10:00 pm.”

That did it.

While she readied the paper work, I thought of how simple and timeless it is to communicate with the God of the Universe. No buttons, screens or prompts. No learning curve. Just a prayer breathed or a thought directed toward him. It’s always been that way and will never require repair. Talking with God is free of charge and upgrading doesn’t apply. Best of all, he will see to it we never get left behind.

So I signed for a smart phone that’s smarter than I am, probably not a smart thing to do.

“Morning, noon, and night I cry out in my distress, and the Lord hears my voice.” (Psalm 55:17)

Stories in Stone

Posted on June 17, 2011 by Margaret

Today I got to do something I’d always wanted to do. While visiting Nate’s only sibling, Ken, in western Illinois, I got to visit two small, country cemeteries. My mother-in-law’s life began in a small farm town less than 100 miles from where Nate and his brother were raised, and we went on a mission to trace family history. Ken’s last visit had been 15 years ago, but he remembered where his relatives were buried, so we started there.

The first cemetery was easy to find, just a quick jog off the main road. The other one, more important because it was located next to the family farm we were also hunting for, eluded us. After a discouraging hour, we spotted an elderly man on his porch. It had been 72 years since Ken’s mother had lived in this farm town. Might he know their family name?

I approached him in as non-threatening a way as I could. “We’re looking for a small cemetery and the Kline farm, close enough to town for little kids to ride ponies to school. It’s an impossible question, but we thought you might know.”

He laughed and invited me into his home to meet his wife who said, “Let’s go next door. Wanda is older than us and has lived here all her life. She’ll know.”

And Wanda did. “The Kline farm is one mile over there,” she said, pointing in a direction we thought we’d already traveled. “But the house was recently torn down. It’s mega-farms around here now,” she said, “one farm gobbling up another.” (We learned this rich soil was currently going for $8500 per acre.)

Ken and I thanked them and drove in the direction of Wanda’s finger-point. Sure enough, there was the cemetery where Ken’s great-great grandfather was buried, a Baptist preacher born in 1793. His ancient headstone had been replaced with a new pink granite one, a mystery to us.

While there, I got my wish to read other headstone stories, finding his children and many grandchildren. Nearly half the cemetery markers were for young children, their few years, months and days carved in stone.

My mother-in-law had ridden her pony past this graveyard every school day in the 1920’s, along with her 4 pony-riding siblings. As Ken and I stood there, we had countless questions, but the answers are now buried, along with his relatives.

God knows them, though, and he keeps accurate books. A baby buried only 1 year, 5 months and 3 days after being born was just as important to him as the rare person who lived to old age. But more significant was the magnitude of his love for each one, none loved more or less than another.

When those buried there stepped into eternity, it wasn’t the length-of-days that mattered but the divine love that brought them to God.

“This is the everlasting covenant: I will always be your God and the God of your
descendants after you.” (Genesis 17:7)

Peep Peep

Posted on June 16, 2011 by Margaret

When our family moved from Chicago-proper to the countrified suburb of Wilmette in the late 1940s, we had an acre yard. A fruit orchard, vegetable garden, outdoor bar-b-q patio and grape arbor came with the property, and to our delight, it also had a miniature barn.

One Easter morning when I was 9, Mary, Tom and I came downstairs to the music of peeping baby chicks. Mom had bought a dozen of them from the local five-and-dime, each dyed a pastel color for the holiday. We bonded immediately.

Our chickens quickly outgrew their box and took up residence in the barn, and we hoped for eggs. We never got any, probably due to the abuse these poor birds suffered between pecking out of their own eggs and arriving at our barn, but they were a neighborhood sensation, and we loved each one.

One day a new chicken joined the group, a russet brown bird given to Dad by a friend. When the other chickens pecked us, the brown one wanted to be petted and held. Dad became especially attached, and when it came time to turn the chickens into Sunday dinners, he struggled to include his brown buddy. In the end, all 13 got their heads lopped off with a neighbor’s ax, and chicken was frequently on the menu that winter.

When Nelson was 10, his school science class hatched several chickens from eggs. Afterwards, Nelson and his cousin Julia volunteered to each take one home, and a new generation was in the chicken business. Nelson kept Snowball in his room, and one of his regular chores was to clean up the endless white poo-poo.

We did our best to keep the cats away, but the risk of pet-violence became real, so Snowball eventually joined Julia’s chicken, Charlie, in a pen behind their house. Charlie was more docile than Snowball, who literally ruled the roost, pecking at poor Charlie until Snowball also met with an ax.

Now Julia and her sister Jo are encouraging chicken-generation #3 as their 5 children are back in business. Each bird gets a name, an outfit and an abundance of love. Julia’s best egg-layers were named Mary and Marni, quite an honor for us 60-something mamas.

* * * * *

Scripture includes a very serious reference to a chicken, spoken by an anguished Jesus as he overlooked his beloved Jerusalem. He used the example of a mother hen protecting her brood as a picture of what he’d hoped to do for the Jews: “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!… How often I have wanted to gather your children together as a hen protects her chicks beneath her wings, but you wouldn’t let me.” (Luke 13:34) His heart ached for the Jews who’d made their choice not to gather round him as their Messiah but to crucify him instead.

Amazingly, he’s never withdrawn his mother-hen-offer. He’s still willing and eager to gather as many as will come, Jew and Gentile alike, to himself.

“He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection.” (Psalm 91:4)