Pomp, circumstance, and soggy scrapbooks

 This past weekend has been jubilant and celebratory. Our granddaughter Alandra graduated from George Fox University as a mechanical engineer. That is, indeed, an accomplishment. The whole class of 2024 is to be congratulated for their courage and persistence. These young people entered their college experience in the fall of 2020 at the height of the COVID pandemic. What was to have been a long-awaited experience of collegial life—new friendships, classes, all the challenges involved in this phase of life—turned into a marathon of masking, six-feet apart fellowship, hand-sanitizing, and Zoom classes. Not at all what was expected. Rather than collegiality, isolation.

But they persisted and formed bonds that only those passing together through a hard time can experience. And the weekend celebrations were, indeed, jubilant, at time raucous.

We celebrated Alandra. For four days we celebrated: Thursday, Honors Convocation; Friday, Baccalaureate; Saturday, Graduation followed by a family meal; Sunday, reception with family, friends, food, and the sharing of memories. Our dear granddaughter beamed all weekend long. She has passed through one door and entered another, the door to the rest of her life.

Graduation day was drizzly, this being Oregon, but the skies held back during the ceremonies, not actually raining until afterward when people gathered in the Quad to congratulate the new grads. One special moment during the actual ceremony happened as Alandra came forward to accept her degree. The moderator paused to tell the crowd that she was a fifth-generation graduate of George Fox University. (He didn’t supply the details, that her parents graduated from GFU, as did her grandparents (us), her great-grandparents, and her great-great-grandmother. Quite a legacy.)

Alandra doesn’t know what’s ahead. She hasn’t yet applied for a job, and for the summer she is moving back home to live with her parents, a temporary situation she insists. She senses the need for a break, for a time to reflect on where she’s been and to wait on God for an indication of where she’s to go. That seems wise.

For me, last week didn’t begin on such a high note. On Monday morning the director of Resident Services phoned to let me know I needed to get right down to the basement storage units. Each resident has their own cubicle and ours was stuffed. She informed me that a pipe in the ceiling had sprung a leak that had affected a few of the many cubicles. Ours happened to be the most affected. She gave me a number to call in case any of our stuff was ruined and needed to be replaced. That was not a reassuring piece of information. So I hurried down.

Sure enough, wetness reigned. A tarp covered the top of the affected cubicles, funneling the water from the still leaking pipe into a large garbage container. It didn’t pour, but the steady drip drip was not music to my ears.

All our stuff was wet. Fortunately, we had stored most of it in plastic containers and the contents of these stayed dry—winter clothes, Christmas stuff, some documents and memorabilia, etc.) Our suitcases, camping gear, and bicycle pump were wet but not damaged. But I had stored some items in cardboard boxes, never thinking something like this would happen. These items were damaged. They included my high school and college scrapbooks, something I’m sentimental about. Also a shoebox of love letters from Hal from before we were married. Mushy stuff, now literally mushy.

The staff loaned us an empty cubicle where we could store our stuff until the situation was resolved. And I brought the scrapbooks upstairs, pried the pages apart and spread them on the floor, table, and chairs to dry. My soggy memories. I’ll be able to salvage some of it. It will now have an antique, wrinkly look, quite artistic (at least that’s what I’m telling myself).

In the college memories book, I found my graduation program (“The George Fox College Year of Jubilee Graduating Class of 1967”), some photos (sticky), and a newspaper article with me in my regalia looking quite pleased with myself.

I love the coincidence (a coming together—a co-happening—of two separate incidents) of the two graduations—my granddaughter’s and mine. There are differences—for one, 50 graduates at my ceremony and just under 500 at Alandra’s. But the goofy smiles and the sense of accomplishment and celebration—these are universal.

Hurrah for the celebration of landmarks!

Hurrah for the links between the generations!

Hurrah for good memories!

Hurrah for new beginnings!

God is good. Hurrah!

Earth Day and new life in all its forms

 Today is Earth Day and I spent the morning on my knees. No, I wasn’t worshiping Mother Earth. I was weeding the garden.

Hal and I got our first plot in the community garden last year. We enjoyed being part of the garden family, all the residents who cultivate plots. We have good fellowship as we weed, plant, water, etc., and eventually harvest. I especially enjoyed watching the first sprouts break the surface. For some reason it surprised me. When planting the seeds, I had found it hard to believe anything would come of it. That reflects my lack of experience as a gardener.

In spite of our enjoyment, we had our doubts as to whether we could keep it up another year. Hal’s back gives him fits and he tends to overdo any task he commits to. So last year involved a lot of back pain. And I’m perpetually dizzy, although I find that being surrounded by dirt and green stuff actually calms my head. We had half decided to give up our plot this year when a friend talked us into dividing it and taking responsibility for only half. That didn’t sound so overwhelming so we agreed. Our revised space is eight by 16 feet, give or take a little. That’s enough for a rim of flowers with some veggies in the middle.

Right now we’re weeding, hoeing, and turning the soil, getting ready for the planting phase. We’ll know when that is by watching our neighbors and doing likewise. Of course, we can always ask questions.

Earth Day became an official holiday in March 1970 when U Thant, UN Secretary General, signed a proclamation to launch a day to honor the earth and commit to caring for it. Some say this was the beginning of the present environmental movement that advocates the conservation and restoration of the earth’s resources. On this day people around the globe participate in projects like cleaning up rubbish, planting trees, and educating children about the wonders of nature. It’s good.

Currently I’m reading a book called The Book of Nature: The Astonishing Beauty of God’s First Sacred Text by Barbara Mahany (2023). Mahany claims that God communicates with us in two basic ways: through creation (the first sacred text) and through his written word (for Christians, the Bible). Her book focuses on how creation speaks, with reflections on different aspects of nature (woods, water’s edge, birds, first snow, dawn, and so on). It’s well written and very inspiring.

This morning, appropriately, I read the chapter entitled “Garden.” She avoids getting too mushy and mystical about it all, which I found to be a relief. Gardening is a hard, sweaty business and Mahany addresses that aspect. Even so, God speaks through a garden:

It’s mighty hard not to believe, when tucking in a seed, sprinkling it day after day with your watering can, and catching sight, glorious sight, of that first hint of newborn green pushing through the earth. To plant a seed, to bury a bulb, is to practice resurrection gardening. And to watch in real time how faith works. Some of us need to rub it between our fingertips, to get its dirt struck under our nails.

“Resurrection gardening.” I like the sound of that. I’ll have to repeat that phrase tomorrow morning when I again fall to my knees in the dirt.

And speaking of something marvelous and newborn pushing through barriers to reach the air, since writing my last blog, something happened that is better than crocuses, daffodils, and cucumbers! FINN ALEXANDER BECKER was born! I became a first-time GREAT GRANDMOTHER! My granddaughter Bree and her husband Jade did a great job getting him born. Or so they tell me. I have not yet met this little person, but I’ve seen photos and, believe me, he is better looking than a cucumber! Or a daffodil. I’m finding this miracle is worth getting mushy and mystical over.

A new human being. Born into a family that will love, protect, and nurture him. Like a gardener tending her garden. Like God watching over his creation, including all the people made in his image, set on the earth to love, protect, and nurture it. And we do it for all the Finn Alexanders who one day will also cherish the earth.

Hurrah for Earth Day!

Hurrah for gardens!

Hurrah for Finn Alexander and all miracle babies!

It makes all the weeding seem worth it.

Writing down the small stuff

 I’ve been teaching a series of classes on “Writing Your Life Stories.” The class is mostly older adults, each with a lifetime of experiences and memories. These experiences and memories comprise a legacy to pass down to grandchildren, friends, even organizations and churches.

Since the idea of writing a memoir or autobiography can be daunting, I’ve been emphasizing the small stuff, memories of single events or relationships that even now evoke a smile, a laugh, or a grimace. Stuff you wish your brand-new great grandson would know about you someday, so he could smile, laugh or grimace along with you. So he could know you.

Small stuff can be a response to a prompt: “The time my prank got me into big trouble,” “The ugliest clothes I ever wore,” “My most interesting job,” “What I learned from my dad,” “When God answered my prayer,” “The time I thought I’d lose my life,” “How I met my husband/wife.” And so on. You get the idea. Small stuff includes the funny stories you tell time and again in family reunions. Those are stories worth writing down.

One idea I gave was that of writing a series of stories around a certain theme. I shared my friend’s collection of stories of his encounters with animals. Gary has traveled widely, so the stories included lions, as well as local critters—deer, birds, and the owl that stole his hat from off his head. He put these stories into a book (shutterfly.com) that included photographs and gave one to each of his grandkids.

Another friend read in class one of the stories from his collection of times God answered a prayer.

That gave me inspiration to begin making my own collection.

I’ve been reading through my old journals, being inspired, entertained, and appalled at things in my past. Some experiences I definitely want my descendants to know. A few pages I tore out and shredded. But overall, I’ve been delighted to stand back and see the growth. Among other things, I’ve recognized patterns in my relationship with God and ways he has touched my life.

So I decided to write stories about ways God has spoken to me—specific messages in concrete situations. Part of what interests me are all the different ways God has spoken: through dreams and visions, through a Bible passage, through a prophetic word, through a discerning friend or family member, through a circumstance that acted as a sign, through a Quaker meeting for clearness, and through a talking donkey (just kidding about that last one—although it’s in the Bible). Often God has spoken through an inward nudge or sense. Holy intuition.

Not that I aways get the message right. I’m human and make mistakes. Sometimes a “message” doesn’t come from God. Even so, I’m listening and hopefully practice is giving me more discernment.

Anyway, I’ve got the stories and I’m typing them from my journals into a folder.

My journals are full of dreams. I don’t remember most of my dreams; often I wake up and try to capture a dream, but it flies out of reach and disappears. But some dreams stick around after I wake up, and I pay attention to those dreams. I write them down. Not all are to be considered messages from God. Probably most of them come from my subconscious mind and indicate a fear to be faced or some unresolved issue. These are helpful.

Sometimes God does speak through a dream. I’ve found a number of these in my journals. I’ll share one here. It’s “small stuff,” really, but it encouraged me at the time. If I were to give it a title, I’d call it “The Pooping Baby Dream.”

Background: It was 1999 and Hal and I had recently moved to Santa Cruz, Bolivia at the invitation of the Bolivian Evangelical University to begin a masters program in missions. We arrived excited, ready to work. We were assigned a team of interested faculty members and together began to design the program. But we soon ran into roadblocks, and disagreements with university personnel.

Bolivia is a lovely country, but it comes gift-wrapped in red tape. Even in a Christian university. Administrative hassles, squabbling between academic departments, requirements we didn’t understand, and so on. I guess this stuff is normal in institutions, Christian or not. To add to our difficulties, in order for the degree we would offer to be recognized, the Bolivian government had a long and complex process of legalization.

We grew weary and at one point questioned our call to this task.

The Dream: In my dream I had given birth to a new baby. She was beautiful, healthy, and big—the size of a three-month old at birth. She was smiling, cooing, eating applesauce, shaking her rattle. A very accomplished new-born. We loved her and she responded to us.

The only problem was that she was a super-pooper. Much more than normal. As soon as we changed her, she would fill up her diaper again. And each time, the poop made her heavy. She was hard to hold with all that weight. And of course it was all very messy. I don’t really want to describe that part, so I won’t.

But we loved her dearly and recognized her as a gift from God, in spite of the inconvenience of constant diaper duty. Hal assured me that she would outgrow it in time.

The Interpretation: I woke up laughing. Hal was already awake, so I told him the dream. His response surprised me. “Nancy! Don’t you see what God is telling us?!!!”

Well, no. I didn’t see it at all. It was just a funny and strange dream.

Hal went on to explain what had been instantly obvious to him, that God was encouraging us. He was saying that giving birth to something new and good was naturally a messy process. It was normal. We needed to cherish the gift of this opportunity, proceed through all the mess, and have faith that it would all work out in the end.

We both lay in bed laughing and praising God.

And it did work out in the end, but that’s another story.

I’m hoping that my collection of stories of God speaking can be an encouragement to other people someday, and occasionally give them something to laugh about. I’m glad God has a sense of humor.

Cherish the small stuff. Write it down.

What little children teach us about love

 We older people are supposed to be the ones with wisdom that we then pass down to younger generations. In many cases, that’s true, although being old doesn’t automatically bring wisdom in its wake.

Sometimes we forget that wisdom often comes from young people, even children. Wise old people know this. They know when to speak and when to listen. They know how to listen to children.

Recently my sister Becky sent me a list from a Facebook site called something like “Heart-warming.” I don’t often gravitate toward heart-warming stuff, like Hallmark greeting cards, but I trust my sister’s good taste. So I read it, liked it a lot, and will now pass it on to you.

A group of professional people posed an interesting question to children between the ages of four and eight. (The survey didn’t say what profession these professionals represented; they could have been plumbers or bee-keepers; they were probably some kind of social scientists. This information is important, but I’ll forward the results to you anyway.) The question was, “What does love mean?” Here are some of the answers:

 

"When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore.... So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love.” Rebecca—age 8

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.” Billy—age 4

“Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.” Karl—age 5

“Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.” Chrissy—age 6

“Love is what makes you smile when you're tired.” Terri—age 4

“Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.” Danny—age 8

“Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and just listen.” Bobby—age 7 (Wow!)

“If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate.” Nikka—age 6 (We need a few million more Nikkas on this planet.)

“Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it every day.” Noelle—age 7

“Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.” Tommy—age 6

“During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn't scared anymore.” Cindy—age 8

“My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.” Clare—age 6

“Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken.” Elaine—age 5

“Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.” Chris—age 7

“Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.” Mary Ann—age 4

“I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.” Lauren—age 4

“When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.” (What an image!) Karen—age 7

“Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn't think it's gross.” Mark—age 6

“You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.” Jessica—age 8

And the final one: The winner was a four-year-old child whose next-door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, “Nothing, I just helped him cry.”

 

See what I mean about wise children? I notice that their definitions were all concrete—actions, demonstrations of love. Nothing abstract. There’s wisdom in that.

Sometime this week, if you can, have a conversation with a child you know. Listen more than you speak. Then do it every week.

Here are some photos of grandparents hanging out some wise little kids:

New life in old rocks

 A few weeks ago, Hal and I took one of our retirement community’s field trips, this time to the Rice Museum of Rocks and Minerals. We were just a small group on the bus that morning, six dedicated rock hounds and several staff members. The ride itself took us through beautiful Oregon farm country. The museum is located in a large field outside the city of Hillsboro, appropriate for a natural history museum.

The several buildings themselves are lovely, constructed of Oregon wood and rocks. According to their website, “the museum showcases not just rocks and minerals, but also fossils, meteorites, lapidary art, and gemstones from both the Pacific Northwest and all around the world.”

The name “Oregon” usually makes me think of God’s beauty shouting from the trees, mountains, and oceans. But this experience reminded me that God’s splendor sometimes hides under the earth. The displays fascinated me. I especially loved the petrified wood examples, slices of incredible creativity. And the crystals, of course, and the thunder eggs, and lacy fern fossils, all invited our admiration.

I walked around slowly, but not nearly as slowly as Hal did. (That’s always the way with us in museums.) He paused to read each description and look intently at each specimen. He didn’t make it all the way through the museum before it was time to board the bus and head home. (I had made it to every display, with time left over to rest.)

Hal is a true rock hound, while I just like to look at and handle pretty rocks. He collected rocks since he was a little kid growing up in Eastern Washington, a rock-rich region. At one point he decided he wanted to be a geologist when he grew up. But that was not to be.

He had to leave his rocks at home when he went off to college. That was hard. God took his life in another direction. We went to build a new life in Bolivia in 1972, and he discovered that land to be another rock-rich place. He enjoyed taking our kids rock hunting on the Bolivian altiplano, occasionally finding fossils and arrowheads. We found a favorite rocky valley between two hills that we named Amethyst Valley for the many small purple gems hidden near the surface.

I don’t think he ever regretted giving up his dream to become a geologist and instead follow God in Christian service to Bolivia. But he never gave up his love of rocks.

Years ago I wrote this poem for him:

To a Would-Be Geologist
(Turned Missionary)

To scrounge the soil and bring up rough treasure,
to extract earth’s secrets from glacier and volcano,
to study the strata, measure the masses,

then line the evidence on shelves, catalogued
(agate, obsidian, soapstone, shale):
this was light to you and life. But now,

rather than rocks, you’ve put your dreams
on the shelf, chosen to dig on different
ground. Instead of the concreteness of

excavations, labs, and lecture halls, you wrestle
the tougher intangibles of spirit and soul.
Instead of hypotheses, you make disciples,

and the mountains you tunnel now
only faith can move. Maybe someday,
you say, you’ll collect kingdom gems, classify

crystal near the throne. Perhaps. Today’s obedience
treads another turf. But your labor adds living stones
to the Temple. The Rock of Ages holds you fast.

 

Here are some photos I took in the Rice Museum:

Petrified Elm

                                                           Rhodochrosite 

                                                Wulfinite

Fossil Fern