Mercy Street is Moving

Well, not really. The street is still exactly where it has always been, right outside my front door. But, the virtual address of our life on Mercy Street as recorded in this blog is about to move. I'm thinking big here, folks. I'm perfectly convinced that the various folders representing my works-in-progress will one day be translated into actual books with hard covers, ISBN numbers, and shelf space at Barnes & Noble.

At that point, I'd like to reach a few people beyond this circle of the faithful few who already know and love me (thank you very much for that. Such friendship is better than a book contract. Really. I'm sure of it...) Anyway, when my books are actually perched upon those lovely bookstore shelves, I want new readers to be able to find their way to Mercy Street without too much trouble. I want them to join our conversations and to glean from the richness of our life experiences - the good, the bad, and the sometimes rather ugly.

In the meantime, I hope you faithful readers won't mind this little detour. Please make yourselves at home at the new address and let me know what you think. My extremely talented and tremendously patient son-in-law is taking time away from his Band to design the site for me, and we'll probably be tweaking for a little while. Just go here: Mercy Street.

Note to my mother: I'll come visit and put a new shortcut on your desktop. No worries.

Beauty for Ashes

September 11th is a sad day in our national memory. A day filled with ashes.

It is also a day of great celebration in our family. A day filled with Beauty.

Happy Birthday, Elena Rochelle.

Unofficial Cousins' Camp

We didn't manage to have a complete cousins' camp this summer. Partly because some of the cousins moved an entire time zone away and partly because some of the cousins played on three different baseball teams all summer and partly because of my own lack of planning.

We did get two sets of cousins together last weekend, though. All their parents needed to be out of town at the same time, and we took advantage of the moment. There were only seven cousins, but they ranged in age from two to ten, so that kept things interesting.

By the time they went home, Grandpa and I were pretty much exhausted. But we made some great memories! (That's what people say when the memory of a thing is much nicer than the thing itself. ) That isn't entirely true. It is probably more accurate to say that in the midst of the activity, we had trouble concentrating on anything except the tasks at hand. Afterwards, we could replay events in a more lesuiely fashion and remember how wonderful it was.

They have only been gone a few hours, and I'm already planning for next year. (I have a brilliant idea for bringing in more grandparents!!!) Felicity wisely pointed out it will become harder to pull off a Cousin's Camp the older they all get. So, I'm not letting a summer slip away again. At least not if I can round them all up and hold them still long enough to get one good group hug. And a picture.

Things I Don't Want to Take for Granted

1. The words "all clear" from Serenity's cancer doctor. (again)

2. Public hugs from middle school grandsons.

3. A job I enjoy.

4. A job, at all.

5. Lunch with my parents.

6. The magical internet that lets me know what my children had for breakfast seconds after it pops up in their toaster.

7. Silence.

8. Safety.

9. Salvation. (not in that order)

10. Someone to share it all.

The Things We Don't Know

Today, I went to the funeral of my dearest childhood friend's father. He was ninety years old and lived a good, honest, faithful life. My memories of him go back as far as memories go, and I could have told you much about him. I could have described his humor and some of his little idiosyncrasies. Like the fact that he started running for his health way back when nobody ran unless someone was chasing them.

I could have told you he was kind. And gentle. My mother reminded me he often came into the house from his farm chores just to sit for a little while and watch us play with our dolls. I could have told you lots of details. But today I learned something I'd never known. He was a hero.

Well, I knew he was a hero the way all fathers are heroes to their little girls (and to their little girls' friends). I didn't know that among other things, he earned seven bronze stars during battles in World War II. Seven. That is a lot of stars for one young man from a small farm in Missouri. When that information was read in the obituary today, I felt a swell of pride. I was proud to have known a man with that kind of valor. Proud to have sat at his kitchen table, to have slept under his roof, and to have played in his yard.

So, tonight, when I heard the latest war reports on the national news and considered the state of our troubled nation. I thought about Kermit Bane. And I wished I could see him one more time just to tell him, "I'm proud I knew you."

Resolution of Respect

A couple of weeks ago, our good friend John died. He was in his fifties and left behind a wonderful wife and two young children. He was a pillar in our community who literally built most of our town. And we are all in mourning for him.

When I was growing up, our church had a wonderful tradition for times like this. Someone in the church was appointed to write a Resolution of Respect about the person who had died. It would be read with great solemnity before the congregation and then put into the official records of the church. Eventually it would be published in the church paper, as well.

The resolution was not a eulogy exactly. It started out with words that went something like this, "Insomuch as it has pleased our gracious Heavenly Father to call home to glory His faithful servant, John Emerson..." And it ended with something like this, "be it resolved that we will bow our knee in humble submission to His will."

And so the resolution was mostly about those of us who stayed behind. It was about us resolving in our hearts to treasure the memory and to honor the legacy of the one who had gone on. It was about bowing our will to God's - even when to do so broke our earthly hearts.

Be it so resolved.

To Dance Without Losing Her Balance

Our granddaughter, Claire, was born three months early. Her teeny, tiny, little spirit fought hard from Day One, and she has excelled in life. Yet, she still struggles with spastic muscles in one arm and leg. This summer, she started working with a new therapist, whom I currently adore. Here is one of his stated goals for Claire's therapy : That she will be able to dance without losing her balance.

Isn't that our prayer for all the children in our lives? That they may be able to accomplish all the intricate steps of this life - in every stage - without losing their footing?

It isn't always easy, of course, for our children or for the adults who love them. Granddaughter Elena started kindergarten this year on crutches. She tried to dance off the top of a bunk bed and didn't quite nail the landing. When we visited her in Wyoming last week, her Grandpa and I worked so hard to teach her how to put the weight on her hands instead of her armpits and how to swing her good leg forward past the hot pink cast on her broken leg.

She was doing so well. Then, in the crowd of parents and fellow students suffering from first-day-of-school-excitement-and-rudeness, she was knocked off balance and fell down! It's good I wasn't there.

Elena had a marvelous first day of school despite that incident. By day three, she had even mastered the playground on crutches. And Claire? Her therapist reports excellent progress toward dancing without losing her balance.

May it always be so.

Who Needs the Hamptons

Here in the middle of the Missouri cornfields, it is hard for me to imagine a family actually spending the entire summer at their beach house or in their vacation cottage with multiple guest rooms. Yet, some of my blogger friends have experienced such treasure all their lives.

As Felicity mentioned in a recent post, it is tempting to feel a twinge of envy toward lives that seem more glamorous than our own. Yet, the point behind summer in the Hamptons or a weekend in the Ozarks is exactly the same. The goal is to connect. To stop the traffic of our busy daily lives and drink in the wonder of the people we love.

So, we have stopped. We stopped in Casper, Wyoming, after a sixteen hour drive with a brief lay-over in Omaha to pick up Charity & Nola. And we have captured moments like this one to carry us all through the long winters months ahead.

Another Happy Day

I'd like to think I've learned not to take life for granted. But, here it is, only three years after Serenity Beth was diagnosed with rare, aggressive cancer, and already I've dismissed the brass band instead of marching it down the street on her birthday.

Seriously, we should be throwing a magnificent party today because Serenity Bohon is 33!!!!!!. I remember celebrating her 30th birthday - after the surgery, the radiation, the horror, and then the glorious birth of little Jake. The celebration was so rapturous that I even told the waitress at Ruby Tuesday's, "It's her birthday. And she almost died. We're a little emotional."

Yet, here we are on a rainy Monday barely paying any attention at all to the event. Fortunately, Serenity is having a great time on vacation with her little clan. But, I'm going to work as usual...

No, that isn't true. I'm going to work with a deep, delicious, tear-jerking sense of gratitude and joy. It isn't the kind of thing that requires a brass band, because I carry the tune of it in my heart every day. It is Gratitude for life, for love, and for the rare privilege of being the mother of such a person.

Happy Birthday, Serenity Beth.

The Best One Ever

I'm on the last few chapters of my current work-in-progress, and the emotions I'm experiencing are strange. It is a little like the way I felt before one of our children got married or before the next grandchild was born. But there is also a tinge of the exhaustion that comes from remodeling a house or returning from long trip. I find myself avoiding the writing desk somedays, because I'm not quite ready to let these characters go. And every hour of writing brings their story closer to an end.

Some of them will reappear, of course, in other books already semi-plotted in my drawer. But others have fulfilled their destiny and will never return again to any of my printed pages. If you aren't a writer, everything I just said will sound irrational and possibly even demented. But, if you are a writer, or a reader, I'm sure I've made perfect sense.

It is always a little hard for me to make transitions in real life, too. I tend to be nostalgic and to look back on other seasons of life, remembering only the good parts, and longing just a little for them to return. My mother has set a grand example, though, of seizing every season of life and calling it The Best. She started with Christmas trees when we were little. No matter how lopsided or scraggly the fir tree might be, she always stood back once the lights were on and declared, "It is the prettiest one we've ever had."

And so I'm determined to face life that way. Today, Thirty Days to Glory is the best book I've ever written. Tomorrow...

My Other Mother

My eighty-nine year old mother-in-law is visiting us for two weeks, and she is such a joy. She is content to spend the day working her jigsaw puzzle but always ready to jump in the car and go out for lunch. Well, she jumps pretty slowly, but she is always interested in whatever we want to do. Earlier in the week, she taught some of the great-grandchildren the wonder of word search puzzles. Even the kindergartner who can't actually read yet mastered the art of the hidden word. Both she and Grandma-Great were excited.

Today, I drove her back to the town where we all once lived, and we attended services at her familiar methodist church. The congregation smothered her with kisses, and we both enjoyed celebrity status. We even won the loaf of homemade bread reserved for visitors!

I know these days are a treasure, and I'm determined not to take them for granted. I want to enjoy every moment and soak up every hour with this lady who gave birth to one of the greatest gifts in my life. Is is a privilege to count her both my mother-in-law and my friend.

Note to Andrea: I know this post will make you homesick for your mother. I'm sending you a hug as I write.

The Real Hero

Forty years ago, a man walked on the moon. It was truly incredible. Families everywhere gathered around their television sets to watch one giant step for mankind. And our dad missed the whole show.

We lived on a farm where television reception was spotty. We could usually watch one of three channels, but to do so meant going outside and twisting the iron pipe connected to the antena anchored on our roof. That night, the antena refused to stay stay put. It kept twisting back just a notch every time our dad let go of the pipe. Then the fuzzy, gray picture evaporated into pure, white snow.

So, while the rest of our family sat in awe watching pictures from the moon, our dad stood outside holding the antena.

When I go back to that evening in my mind, the memory of the moon walk is pretty much as fuzzy as the original picture. But the memory of my dad making it happen? Captured in HD.

The Problem with Numbers

I once read that Albert Einstein didn't know his own phone number. He said it was a waste to crowd his brain by memorizing information that could easily be found in a book. I'm pretty sure that is an urban rumor. But I use it a lot to cover my own ineptitude with numbers. For instance, I never remember the exact ages of our grown children. I mean, I know what year they were born (most of the time) and if I have a calculator handy, I can figure it out.

I realize some people do not suffer with this problem. My friend Barb once had the entire church phone directory memorized - home, work, and cell! Nobody bothered looking anything up; we just asked Barb. I, on the other hand, inevitably transpose two random digits in every phone number I jot down from the answering machine.

This is a great occupational hazard for the part of one's job that entails returning phone calls.

So, after I blogged about Charity's birthday, people kept asking me how old she was, and I'd just mutter, "twenty-something." Finally, in the evening, I decided to figure it out. Fortunately my sister was in the room at the time, and two of her children bookend Charity in age. Unfortunately, she never remembers how old her children are either.

And that is the great thing about sisters. They can always make you believe your wackiness is actually normal. So, here's to sisters. Mine just drove across the country for the birth of her fourth grandchild following the engagement party for her youngest son. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember how old anyone is today, and I doubt she even cares.

The One Who Was Missing

Charity and her family at the beach this summer.

It was a crazy time to have a baby. Wendell was in his second year of medical school, and we were living on student loans that had already exceeded ten years of his previous salary. We had also exceeded the highly recommended 2.5 children by a rambunctious point five. These were the days before Jon & Kate. Large families were not considered chic. Just irresponsible.

I knew all those things. Yet the longing would not go away. Finally, I went upstairs to pray one day, determined to clear my head and focus my heart and basically get over it. I don't remember where the other children were or how I secured my fifteen minutes of silence. But I remember exactly what happened next.

A thought as clear as a spoken word shot through my mind. You are not merely longing for another baby. You are homesick for one of your children who isn't here yet.

And that was it. I am pretty certain the thought originated in Heaven, and my soul exploded with the news. Homesick for one of your children. That is exactly how I felt. The same way I would feel if Felicity, Serenity, or Joseph were far away in another country instead of tucked safely in our own home.

One of the really great things about my husband is that he trusts me when I tell him I've heard something from God. Even something that goes against all conventional wisdom (and would later get us denied a lease from at least three different landlords because we were over the limit of children allowed.)

So, on June 18, 1982, Charity Lynn was born. And it was true. Our family was immediately complete. I believe Wendell and I cooperated with God that year. And I believe we gave a great gift to the world.

Thank you cards may be sent to this blog address.

Hats Off to the Techies

Sometimes I forget how spoiled I am. We live in a community blessed by tremendously talented techie guys. I lean on them daily and obviously take them for granted. This week Wendell and I went to a little gathering of friends who are leaders of several similar churches here in the Midwest. We've known many of these folks for decades, and we love being together. One of the key leaders among this group couldn't come to Omaha, though, so we had the bright idea to bring him in through a video link on the computer.

Problem was, none of us really knew how to do that. We're pretty good at Google Video Chat or Skype conference call. But stretch us to one more cable connection to get Doug on the big screen, and we were stumped. We took turns leaning over the computer screen and talking into the microphone so Doug could be in on conversations.

I was shocked. I'm so accustomed to hitting the "spark" button on my desktop and connecting with one of our guys just about any time of the day or night. Then I say something like, "Can you get my laptop to fly to the moon, bring back some stardust, and dance on my desktop before lunch time today?" And they do.

So, here's to the techie guys. My hat is off. My hands are clapping. And my ipod is reminding me to NEVER travel without one of you!!!!

Standing Ovation

When our granddaughter, Claire Felicity White, was born, we stood around her little bed like this. The first night we crowded twenty-some people into the cubicle and willed our less-than-two-pound-baby to be strong. After her twin sister, Ellery Blythe, slipped through a portal to Glory, we stood around Claire and sang songs. We recited scripture and told her all the things she could be when she grew strong.

Last night we stood around Claire like this, after she strutted across the stage to receive her diploma at Kindergarten graduation. She sang songs, recited scripture, and made us cry when she read her essay about the doctor she wants to be when she grows up.

Standing Ovation, Please

Never Trust the Cup Bearer

I just read one of the saddest lines in the Bible again tonight. "But the cup bearer forgot about Joseph." This is the Joseph who was thrown into a well, sold by his brothers, entrapped by a seductress, and abandoned in an Egyptian prison. Things started looking up a little, though, when he told a fellow prisoner the good news about his dream. (The baker in the other cell didn't get such a great report.) Joseph told the cupbearer, "Your dream means Pharaoh is going to spring you out of jail and promote you back to your old job in three days." Wahoooo! Great things ahead for the cup bearer. While he was dancing a little jig (or whatever) Joseph said, "By the way, when you get the promotion, please drop my name to the CEO." (Wall Street translation.)

Of course, said cup bearer forgot all about Joseph when the time actually came. The point of that story for me right now is this: People are great. We love 'em. We need 'em. We couldn't get along without them. But, only Jesus is our Savior. 

I've been guilty many times of wanting to lean on the cup bearer for my security. Sometimes he was my husband, or my mom, or my boss, or my pastor, or even one of my kids. Sometimes he was an editor or agent I met at a conference. Even though all those people are tremendously valuable to my life, they are just people. And chances are pretty good they won't be able to live up to my lofty expectations.

But Joseph's fate wasn't really in the hands of the forgetful cupbearer. Eventually God nudged Pharaoh, and he remembered Joseph. He promoted the former prisoner to the second highest post in the land.

That is good news for us, too. Despite the lousy economy, the shrinking job market, and the daily threat of annihilation by pandemic and/or terrorist attack, our true fate lies in the hands of God. We don't have to trust in the cup bearer, because the One who bore the cup of suffering will never forget us.

Just be Nice

 I've had a particularly grumpy Monday, for which I'm totally ashamed. Especially since the most important part of my job involves being nice to people when they arrive in our clinic. My mother taught me long ago that one of the most important things you can do in life is just be nice. (whether you feel like it or not.)

The truth of her lesson struck me one day when I was standing in the bread aisle at the grocery store. I was trying to choose between the soft, white sandwich bread or the brown version my husband preferred for digestive health. That was long before the whole-grain craze of our day, so I reached for the white. That is when I noticed the short lady in her dark coat and raggedy head scarf.

She didn't acknowledge me, or even glance my way. Even so, I recognized her as a rather eccentric neighbor of my parents. So, I said, "hello," just as my mother had always taught me to do.

The neighbor looked up in surprise. Then she looked around to see who I was talking to. Then she narrowed her eyes, and nodded. I thought she didn't recognize me as a grown-up, so I mentioned my maiden name. "Oh, I know who you are," she said. "I'm just surprised you spoke to me."

She studied me for a minute and I couldn't think what to say. "I guess you are just like your mother," the neighbor lady said. I wasn't sure how to take that, so I was glad when she kept talking. "People think I don't know what they say about me. But I'm not dumb. I know I don't look like those ladies on the magazine covers. I know I'm not exactly like other people."

This was true, but I didn't want to admit it, so I just waited for her to go on.

"I know people laugh at me," she said. "and talk about me. But, not your mother. She always spoke to me no matter where she saw me. Always. She always spoke. And I guess you're just like her."

She smiled then, and I melted. 

It was the greatest compliment I've received in my whole life, and I strive every day to live up to it. My mother has an amazing ability to see the best in every person and to expect the best response from them. My children say Grandma probably thinks Osama bin Laden just had a rough childhood. That was her explanation for every bully we ever met in school. Come to think of it, she is probably right. 

That day in the grocery store, I was so grateful for a mother knew how to be nice. And I'm determined to do better tomorrow. 

Publishing Praise

I'm thinking today about my goal to "Write for Publication." (the name of a class I took once.) I am pursuing that goal. I'm taking classes, going to conferences, studying my craft, sending out queries, and even having a few things published here and there. But my ultimate goal comes from Psalm 96:3

Publish His glorious deeds among the nations. 

Tell everyone about the amazing things He does.

I want to do that in books, magazines, film, public speaking and anything else that comes my way. But the most important place to publish His deeds is in my life, something I've learned by example from some of the most important men in my life, actually.

It started with my grandfather. He kept a daily journal all his adult life, although he told us he didn't expect his little scratches would ever mean much to anyone. He lived through the depression, lost his first wife in childbirth, and forged his way as a young minister despite the resistance of his own family. I wish he could know how often I've faced a crises and heard his words echo in my heart, "There will be a way provided."

My father would never consider himself a writer. The only thing he ever published are a few letters to people going through really hard times. He sent me one almost thirty years ago, and I could pretty much print it here from memory. We had moved our little family of six half-way across the state for Wendell's internship. I had never been away from home before, and my dad knew I was suffering from homesick and all the other emotions that go with being a young mother with a busy husband. The letter was a masterpiece. Worthy of some kind of golden seal of approval. It was only two or three pages of squiggly writing on narrow, lined paper. But it reminded me to hold on to God and to be grateful for the daily miracles of life. It birthed gratitude in my soul and brought sanity to my mind. 

A few Christmases ago, my husband and I were facing a tough time. Really tough. The kind of tough that makes you think maybe you can't hang on. The gift he gave me was a picture frame with a little wooden drawer in a shelf underneath. It holds a picture of baby Claire, our micro-preemie granddaughter when she was just a few months old. The look on her face seems to dare obstacles to get out of her way. On the card, Wendell said, "look inside the drawer and you will find the gift I really want to give you this year." On a strip of yellow legal pad I found this word: Hope.

In my own writing career, I've only received one letter from someone who read something I published in a magazine. (and that is a story for another day!) But people stop me in the grocery store on a regular basis to comment on my neighborhood news column in the county paper or the three paragraph devotional on the front page of the church bulletin. Those things will never be widely circulated except by the janitors who sweep them up and toss them in the trash bins. But they are publishing His praise. And that's my goal.