This is my Christmas letter from 2007. It means as much to me today as it did the day I wrote it. I hope my blog followers will enjoy reading it. For some, it's for the second time.
What Is Love?
This was a question posed to me this summer by a very dear friend. Did I have an answer to the question? My immediate knee jerk response was, “Beats me!” followed by countless hours of pondering the meaning of love. Now, as the holidays draw near, and we turn our attention toward gift giving and receiving and celebrating our faith, family and friends, I decided to share some of my insights with all of you. I could write on and on about love, but maybe this Christmas letter will hit the highlights. I always welcome responses from you if you have something you’d like to share with me on the subject.
First, I’ve come to the conclusion that love is enduring. Even when we think love dies, it doesn’t. Through the pain of what we think is the death of love, we find ourselves growing and our horizons expanding, and we become capable of even greater love- it may be directed into a new direction, and might lie dormant for awhile, but it is still there waiting to emerge and bloom.
Love makes us cry. We cry when we are happy and we cry when we are sad, angry or grieving. It is love that brings tears to our eyes and pain to the pit of our stomachs. Sometimes love causes us to hurt- it isn’t love that hurts us, but how we deal with the many facets of love.
Love makes us a family. Whether those we love are blood-kin (a familiar Campbell family term) or are those we “adopt” into our family, it is love that binds us together.
Love changes. Romantic love matures to either enduring love or transforms itself through heartbreak and loneliness as it motivates us to expand our reach toward others. Disappointment from love not returned motivates us to find love in new places.
Love is flexible. It is forgiving.
Love comes in many shapes, sizes, and flavors. I love Phil, I love
my sons, I love my friends and family, I love my home, I love my
dog and cats, I love the feel of the wind on my face, I love pizza
and English toffee, I love a long hot shower, I love country music.
Love is eternal. I love my parents dearly, even though they have
been gone from my sight for many years. When asked if I believe
in life after death, I have two reasons for believing as I do. First,
I am incapable of not believing in it, and second, l believe that
love cannot be destroyed, and is the essence of God.
We are created to love and to be loved.
Love is the song of the universe and God’s greatest creation and gift.
May you be blessed this Christmas surrounded by love.
Dear friends, let us love one another, because love is from God. (I John 4:7 NEB)
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Friday, December 17, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
A Strange Case of Writer's Block
I’m back in my Collection of Days. I’d like to say that I’ve been suffering from a case of writer’s block for the past month, but if I am going to be honest in my writing, I have to admit that it’s been more a case of writer’s avoidance! It’s not that my days have not been interesting. On the contrary, my dilemma is that I haven’t found the words or the courage to honestly write about some recent special days.
Last month my mother-in-law died. It affected me profoundly, mainly from the perspective that it was a huge relief that she finally let go of her earthly body at the age of 89 and journeyed to her next place. I loved her dearly, and I wish I could say that she was a wonderful person, which she was in some ways. However, in reality, she was very difficult for me to love, and for many years I wasn’t sure how she felt about me. It wasn’t until her final three years of life that we became close, became confidants, and I finally let myself love her unconditionally.
I remember a comment she made to me early-on as I told her that Phil and I had married. Her response, “That’s wonderful, Jennie. We always hoped that Phil would marry Susan.” [a former girlfriend]. Then, one Christmas early in our marriage, she proudly presented everyone in the family with a new pair of bedroom slippers. When she got to me, she said, “Sorry, Jennie, they didn’t have any in your size on sale.” It was comments such at these that built the wall that separated us. I could see how she loved her family and was always helping out people in her church, but I wondered where I stood with her. I also knew that she was always trying to get me to influence Phil to do things that she thought he should do. When I refused to intervene, she didn’t like it one bit.
In spite of things like this, I grew to love Mom. After Pop died and she moved into an assisted-living apartment, we became fast friends. I shared my writing with her, which she seemed to enjoy reading and discussing. She also confided some of her deepest thoughts with me. Whenever I’d go to visit her, she wanted to know about my sons, and how they were doing. She was always interested in hearing about their lives and careers. Up until a few months before her death, when senility took more and more of her away from me, I knew that she was aware of who I was when I’d visit her in her nursing home room, because she never failed to ask me about Wade and Brian.
Her funeral was difficult. Phil and his sister haven’t spoken to each other in several years, and Mom’s death didn’t change anything. While the minister spoke of her love of her family and how much it meant to her, I felt a deep sadness that her family had splintered and was uncomfortably enduring having to sit together in the same pews for her service. I also admitted to myself that some of it was her fault. When something difficult came her way, she’d turn her head the other way, wouldn’t want to hear about it, and would pretend that everything was fine. She just never could admit that things were less than ideal in her family, even though she was always willing to add a critical comment about whatever the issue of the day happened to be. In contrast, she would always find excuses for everyone’s, including her own, behavior, as her way of forgiving herself for making such caustic comments and thinking such thoughts.
Mom was a World War II veteran, and she was buried in the National Cemetery in Canton, Georgia, with military honors, next to Pop, also a veteran. As the bugler blew Taps, something inside of me was released, and I finally let Mom and all of the Lazarus family conflicts drift away with the warm October breeze. I knew that Phil and his sister might never reconcile, and that the awkward times with the family were now a thing of the past for me. In a purely selfish thought, I realized that never again would I have to endure the strain of family get-togethers, when someone was always mad about something, and never have to dread coming face-to-face with Phil’s sister who openly despised us both. Instead, I thought of the good things that I knew about Mom, and cherished the special moments that we had together acting like girlfriends in her apartment, and later in her nursing home room. I remembered the way she would grip my hand, not wanting to let go, and how her eyes would sparkle when we’d share a private moment or joke. I remembered her smile when she’d spot me walking down the hall toward her room, and the delight in her face that I had come for a visit.
No, Mom was not perfect, and she had the ability to get under my skin and irritate me to no ends. But I miss her, and will miss my visits with her. I am happy that she is finally at peace and is exploring heaven with her beloved Trooper.
Good-bye, Mom. I love you. I am now ready to write again.
Last month my mother-in-law died. It affected me profoundly, mainly from the perspective that it was a huge relief that she finally let go of her earthly body at the age of 89 and journeyed to her next place. I loved her dearly, and I wish I could say that she was a wonderful person, which she was in some ways. However, in reality, she was very difficult for me to love, and for many years I wasn’t sure how she felt about me. It wasn’t until her final three years of life that we became close, became confidants, and I finally let myself love her unconditionally.
I remember a comment she made to me early-on as I told her that Phil and I had married. Her response, “That’s wonderful, Jennie. We always hoped that Phil would marry Susan.” [a former girlfriend]. Then, one Christmas early in our marriage, she proudly presented everyone in the family with a new pair of bedroom slippers. When she got to me, she said, “Sorry, Jennie, they didn’t have any in your size on sale.” It was comments such at these that built the wall that separated us. I could see how she loved her family and was always helping out people in her church, but I wondered where I stood with her. I also knew that she was always trying to get me to influence Phil to do things that she thought he should do. When I refused to intervene, she didn’t like it one bit.
In spite of things like this, I grew to love Mom. After Pop died and she moved into an assisted-living apartment, we became fast friends. I shared my writing with her, which she seemed to enjoy reading and discussing. She also confided some of her deepest thoughts with me. Whenever I’d go to visit her, she wanted to know about my sons, and how they were doing. She was always interested in hearing about their lives and careers. Up until a few months before her death, when senility took more and more of her away from me, I knew that she was aware of who I was when I’d visit her in her nursing home room, because she never failed to ask me about Wade and Brian.
Her funeral was difficult. Phil and his sister haven’t spoken to each other in several years, and Mom’s death didn’t change anything. While the minister spoke of her love of her family and how much it meant to her, I felt a deep sadness that her family had splintered and was uncomfortably enduring having to sit together in the same pews for her service. I also admitted to myself that some of it was her fault. When something difficult came her way, she’d turn her head the other way, wouldn’t want to hear about it, and would pretend that everything was fine. She just never could admit that things were less than ideal in her family, even though she was always willing to add a critical comment about whatever the issue of the day happened to be. In contrast, she would always find excuses for everyone’s, including her own, behavior, as her way of forgiving herself for making such caustic comments and thinking such thoughts.
Mom was a World War II veteran, and she was buried in the National Cemetery in Canton, Georgia, with military honors, next to Pop, also a veteran. As the bugler blew Taps, something inside of me was released, and I finally let Mom and all of the Lazarus family conflicts drift away with the warm October breeze. I knew that Phil and his sister might never reconcile, and that the awkward times with the family were now a thing of the past for me. In a purely selfish thought, I realized that never again would I have to endure the strain of family get-togethers, when someone was always mad about something, and never have to dread coming face-to-face with Phil’s sister who openly despised us both. Instead, I thought of the good things that I knew about Mom, and cherished the special moments that we had together acting like girlfriends in her apartment, and later in her nursing home room. I remembered the way she would grip my hand, not wanting to let go, and how her eyes would sparkle when we’d share a private moment or joke. I remembered her smile when she’d spot me walking down the hall toward her room, and the delight in her face that I had come for a visit.
No, Mom was not perfect, and she had the ability to get under my skin and irritate me to no ends. But I miss her, and will miss my visits with her. I am happy that she is finally at peace and is exploring heaven with her beloved Trooper.
Good-bye, Mom. I love you. I am now ready to write again.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
A Memory of My Daddy
From my book, "A Collection of Days", this chapter is appropriate for Father's Day as I remember my father.
Two Phone Calls
It was a hot, summer, Florida evening. Mama, Daddy, and I had finished supper and were clearing up the dishes when the phone rang. It was my roommate from Mount Union College, Jackie. She was calling to tell me that she was in Fort Lauderdale visiting her grandmother, and would love it if I could drive over to spend a couple of days with her. Of course, I was delighted with the prospect of a little adventure on my own- driving my baby blue ’64 Cutlass across the state to have some beach time with my good friend. I saw no reason why I couldn’t go, but when I asked permission, Daddy stolidly said no. After I hung up the phone, I lashed into Daddy about all the reasons why I should be able to make this trip, but he had as many reasons why I could not go. Our argument culminated with my screaming at him, running to my bedroom, slamming the door, and flopping onto my bed in angry tears.
I lay there crying, feeling sorry for myself, and otherwise despising my father for being such a stick in the mud. I felt like I was an adult, and he was treating me like a child. It wasn’t fair, and I was angry and hurt.
While I was in the midst of my temper tantrum, the phone rang again. Several minutes later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. Thinking the phone call was for me, and that Mama was on the other side of the door, I sobbingly responded, “Come in.” To my surprise, it was Daddy who walked over to my bed and sat down. Tears were streaming down his face. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry, and I knew that something terrible had happened as my stomach turned a flip in anticipation of what I was about to hear. Daddy wrapped his arms around me and told me that my cousin, Madeline, who was nine months pregnant, had died suddenly. What about the baby? was the question that popped out of my mouth first. The baby, a little boy, was dead, too. My tears instantly turned from tears of a selfish teenager to those of grief, as the news sunk in deeper and deeper. Daddy didn’t know the details, only that she was gone. As I cried in my daddy’s arms, and felt his strong arms around me, I felt the love he had for me, and his thankfulness that I was alive and healthy. He was only looking out for my safety and well-being by prohibiting me from driving across Florida by myself, and maybe being a little selfish himself in an attempt to protect me from some unknown harm lurking out there on the Florida highways.
I have often thought back to that night. My emotions ran the gamut within about an hour’s time, and changed me forever. I never felt closer to my dad than I did that night, within a moment’s passing after thinking terrible and hateful thoughts about him. I never saw him shed tears again the way he did that night, and we never spoke again of that time we shared, wrapped in each other’s arms on the edge of my bed. We would continue to have our arguments and disagreements until the day he died, but we had a deep understanding of one another, which brought a more intimate daughter-father relationship, still alive even years after his death.
Two Phone Calls
It was a hot, summer, Florida evening. Mama, Daddy, and I had finished supper and were clearing up the dishes when the phone rang. It was my roommate from Mount Union College, Jackie. She was calling to tell me that she was in Fort Lauderdale visiting her grandmother, and would love it if I could drive over to spend a couple of days with her. Of course, I was delighted with the prospect of a little adventure on my own- driving my baby blue ’64 Cutlass across the state to have some beach time with my good friend. I saw no reason why I couldn’t go, but when I asked permission, Daddy stolidly said no. After I hung up the phone, I lashed into Daddy about all the reasons why I should be able to make this trip, but he had as many reasons why I could not go. Our argument culminated with my screaming at him, running to my bedroom, slamming the door, and flopping onto my bed in angry tears.
I lay there crying, feeling sorry for myself, and otherwise despising my father for being such a stick in the mud. I felt like I was an adult, and he was treating me like a child. It wasn’t fair, and I was angry and hurt.
While I was in the midst of my temper tantrum, the phone rang again. Several minutes later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. Thinking the phone call was for me, and that Mama was on the other side of the door, I sobbingly responded, “Come in.” To my surprise, it was Daddy who walked over to my bed and sat down. Tears were streaming down his face. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry, and I knew that something terrible had happened as my stomach turned a flip in anticipation of what I was about to hear. Daddy wrapped his arms around me and told me that my cousin, Madeline, who was nine months pregnant, had died suddenly. What about the baby? was the question that popped out of my mouth first. The baby, a little boy, was dead, too. My tears instantly turned from tears of a selfish teenager to those of grief, as the news sunk in deeper and deeper. Daddy didn’t know the details, only that she was gone. As I cried in my daddy’s arms, and felt his strong arms around me, I felt the love he had for me, and his thankfulness that I was alive and healthy. He was only looking out for my safety and well-being by prohibiting me from driving across Florida by myself, and maybe being a little selfish himself in an attempt to protect me from some unknown harm lurking out there on the Florida highways.
I have often thought back to that night. My emotions ran the gamut within about an hour’s time, and changed me forever. I never felt closer to my dad than I did that night, within a moment’s passing after thinking terrible and hateful thoughts about him. I never saw him shed tears again the way he did that night, and we never spoke again of that time we shared, wrapped in each other’s arms on the edge of my bed. We would continue to have our arguments and disagreements until the day he died, but we had a deep understanding of one another, which brought a more intimate daughter-father relationship, still alive even years after his death.
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