Fathers Day, Part 1 of 2

Posted on June 19, 2011 by Margaret

Today’s faithful fathers are fewer then ever before in our country’s history, and many children suffer intensely without one. Dedicated dads have a tough job, having to buck cultural trends by not just sticking with their role but pouring steady effort into their children every day. The energy and time for that has to be taken from someplace else in their lives, and those who commit and follow through deserve to be honored not just annually but once a month, or weekly, or better yet every day.

Although I shared in my brother-in-law’s Fathers Day celebration today, only one of my kids could attend (Lars), and I worried about the other 6, all in faraway places and all without a dad. Birgitta and I talked it through yesterday, and Linnea posted a beautiful blog-tribute to her father. (www.LinneaCurington.com) But how many of them have suffered pain today?

I remember the great joy I felt in watching Nate become a father for the first time in 1973. Baby Nelson gave him that title, and although Nate hadn’t been around babies (ever), the love he felt for his little guy was immediate and powerful. To me, as a young mama, watching him study the new baby on his lap was fulfilling and even sexy. (Go figure.)

He was committed to parenting for the long haul and was always mystified when another father would walk out on his children. “I can’t understand it,” he’d say, shaking his head. “That guy had a part in bringing them into this world. How could he leave them?” It was the farthest thing from his intention.

I know that scenario was heavy on his mind when he learned he would soon die. It was unthinkable that cancer or anything else would force him to leave his children, a picture too closely related to those fathers he vilified. He was silent on the issue while he was sick, but as he talked to the seven offspring he loved so intensely, his face confirmed the ache in his heart, knowing he would soon go.

Nate needn’t have worried, though. The Lord had immediate plans to step in for him. In Scripture God refers to himself as a Father, offering to treat believers as his own children. And Jesus refers to him as a Heavenly Father to those who accept him.

All of us need the guidance and protection of a wise father, and God is not just a substitute for an earthly father but a superior one. Although he places human fathers over children and uses them as the channel of his wisdom to, and care of them, in the absence of that important man, he steps in and does it himself.

I’m sure Nate’s children all missed him greatly today. I’m not sure how many of them suffered, but I do know God the Father was and is available to soothe their grief and fill their emptiness.

“His name is the Lord—rejoice in his presence! Father to the fatherless, this is God.” (Psalm 68:4,5)

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.