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.

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.

My Posse

We are blessed with a passel of grandchildren. Until recently, they all lived within an hour of our house, which was a miracle we held as lightly as a soap bubble in summertime. Now three of the granddaughters live in different states and we are learning the art of distance relationships. We aren't very good at it yet, but we will get better.

One of our goals as the children grow is to host Cousin's Camp every year. I have been planning it since the summer we added two grandsons in three weeks. I had a glimpse of what our clan might become, and I wanted to make the most of it. Last summer we gave it our first shot. The oldest camper was eight, and the youngest was still in diapers. Day One was all about the boys. They are pictured here in the attire they wore for most of their stay. The hats once belonged to their great-grandfather, and I'm pretty sure he never expected to see them used this way.

The Camp coincided with the olympics that year, and we let the big boys spread their sleeping bags in the living room. They all stayed up late and held their breath with Grandpa until Michael Phelps' fingertips made that amazing brush against the pool and set a world record.

I hope I'll remember forever the sight of those gangly arms and legs in our living room as they leaped and shouted and high-fived one another. And I hope the posse will keep coming to Cousin's Camp at least until they are old enough to break some world records of their own.

Our Easter Tradition

One of my favorite traditions involves otherwise sensible grown-ups clawing through the tall grass of my father's sheep pasture looking for little plastic ovals filled with chocolate eggs and marshmallow chickens. We've followed this particular tradition for at least three decades. Before that, Easter Sunday was marked by a picnic somewhere in my great-grandparent's woods. I think we had a brief lull in the fun back when my siblings and I were too teenage-cool for such things.

We are over that now. In fact, we are so over it that a few years ago both my brothers climbed to the top of a tall tree in search of an egg peeking from the top of a squirrel's nest. It was sleeting at the time. But, the hunt has two rules: If you find someone else's egg, you are sworn to silence and cannot tell where it is. Rule Number Two: No one goes to the house until everyone finds their egg.  

We were all rooting for that second brother.

My parents have pretty much perfected the art of family traditions, in general. We still hunt the eggs pretty much the same way we did when all of today's young parents were toddlers. But this year we will hunt on Saturday instead of Sunday so everyone can be in their own church Easter morning. 

I know my parents would love to have the whole bunch of us crowding into pews and singing "Up from the Grave He Arose" with them on Resurrection morning. Instead, they will send us each back to our congregations where we will teach Sunday school, lead worship, serve as ushers, welcome guests, and be faithful members of the congregation. 

And that is the best part about strong families with great traditions. We multiply.

Bread and Wine

I'm not actually having either of those things tonight. But I have a strange desire to turn on the Sabbath Prayer scene from Fiddler on the Roof, light some candles, drink some grape juice and pretend for just a few minutes that I'm living in that culture. That I'm sitting around a campfire somewhere in ancient Jerusalem listening to the Passover prayers.

When I was a child, my grandfather preached a message one Sunday on the significance of the first Passover. I remember being enthralled by the story of slavery and deliverance. And I remember being a little frightened by the image of the Death Angel that rose up and waved around in my mind. Then, he talked in great detail about the way the Hebrew fathers applied the blood of the lamb to their door posts. In my always vivid imagination, I saw that old Death Angel swoop down over the house with his sword drawn. But, in the last second, he saw the blood and veered away. I could almost hear the swoosh as his long, grey garment swept the roof of the house.

Tonight, I want to remember that scene again. And I want to flash forward to the Passover meal where the Lamb of God sat with his friends for a final meal. I want to hear him talk about the new covenant, the one sealed with His blood and demonstrated by our love. And I want to thank Him again for being the sacrifice that keeps the Death Angel away from my door every day.