The Silver Drawer

“It is the Lord who sends the thunderstorms.” Zechariah 10:1

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The sound of a thunderstorm makes some people nervous, but I’ve always loved the rumble in the heavens. When I was little, we would sit on the front porch and watch the summer storm clouds roll in over the cornfields. I must have picked up on my mother’s calmness, because I never felt the urge to dive under my bed and plug my ears. Instead, we counted the seconds between thunder claps and lightning bolts as we kept an eye out for the men coming in from the field.

Occasionally, if the skies turned an eerie yellow and the air hung heavy, we would scamper down to the basement to wait out the windstorm. A call always went out as we hurried down the stairs, “Don’t forget the silver drawer.”

The silver drawer was pulled out of the hutch and carefully carried down the steps to safety. Those knives and forks were the real deal, not stainless steel every-day utensils. This was silver silverware — the kind that needed to be polished before every holiday meal. The kind that was washed and dried by hand so it wouldn’t tarnish. The kind that was rolled up in felt pouches and placed into a special wooden chest. The kind you would take to the cellar if there happened to be a tornado warning.

I didn’t understand the value of that treasured box at the time. I grew up thinking that every family kept their drawer full of silverware close by during times of trouble.

Thunder still congers up feelings of family and safety and the fun of unexpected time together in the basement on a muggy summer evening. Today that silverware is in my house, in the same hutch, in the same chest, in the same felt pouches. And, naturally, I will haul that drawer downstairs if the winds blow hard enough.

“The voice of the Lord is over the waters; the God of glory thunders.”   Psalm 29:3

Half A Cup

coffee cupWhen I was seven years old, our family went to New York City.  One of my memories from that trip was having breakfast at a small diner in Manhattan.  My wide-eyes had never seen anything like it.  The waitress was yelling out orders, the cook was yelling right back, people were yelling for more coffee…it was New York City mayhem at it’s finest.  There was more noise and chaos in that little place than I had seen in all my seven years on the farm.  At one point, the waitress was moving so fast that she knocked over a tray of empty coffee cups.  She picked up one cup that was broken clean in half down the middle, held it up in the air and shouted, “Who wants half a cup?!”  The customers broke out in laughter and cheers, so we did too.  When in New York……

I thought of that story the other day when I was reading Philippians 3.  This is such a great chapter that I’m putting some of it to memory, starting with verse 10. “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection…”  Coming off of Easter and a fresh sense of wonder and awe at Christ’s resurrection, this verse sends goose bumps up my spine.  What would it be like to really know the kind of power that could take a dead, beaten, bloody body and breath life back into it?  Wow.  Count me in — I want to have that Very. Same. Power.

Verse 10 isn’t done, though.

“….and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings…”

Wait.  What?

Hold on just a second.

Power?  Yes, please!

 Suffering?  *crickets*

Who wants half a verse?

Like the shattered cup, half holds nothing.

True power rises up out of true suffering.

And actually, our hurts and disappointments are just a share of what Christ suffered….

and honestly, fellowship thrives when brothers and sisters carry each other’s burdens.

Jesus took the whole cup.

I should, too.

Love Story: Puerto Rico

Episode #7

beachA few weeks after our engagement, I was scheduled to go to Puerto Rico with my dad and step-mom.  For some reason they thought it would be a nice idea to let me come along with them on their winter get-away.  Since I was a grown-up girl, they figured I would be low-maintenance.  They could do some sight-seeing and leave me to sunbathe by the pool.

It was extremely generous of my parents to share their vacation with me, and I was excited about going.  That is, until a sparkly diamond ring was securely on my finger.  The thought of leaving my brand new fiancé was more than I could bear.  I wanted to be with him every second of every minute of every day.  But, alas, the plane ticket was purchased so I had to leave the snowy, subzero midwest for the beautiful beaches of an island in the Caribbean.

I cried the whole time.

Well, not the whole time, but enough of the time that I put a real damper on the vacation.  I wrote love letters and sad poems while sitting by the pool.  I longed to talk to PB, but phone calls were out of the question.  Every beautiful sunset made me cry because he wasn’t with me.

The day we were to fly home, there was a huge blizzard that shut down O’Hare.  I was beside myself.  We got as far as Miami but couldn’t get a flight back to Chicago.  I begged my dad to get me home to my true love.  I’m sure he was just as anxious to bring the vacation to an end as I was.  He managed to find a flight to Kansas City where we waited on standby for another flight to Milwaukee.  Finally, we three bedraggled travelers boarded a train and headed west.  I called PB and explained the situation.  Between “I love you” and “I miss you”  I told him where the train was coming in (30 miles away) and when (midnight).  A little blizzard wasn’t going to stop him from getting to me.

In the middle of the night, the Amtrak pulled in to a quiet station.  Because we hadn’t planned on this route home, we didn’t have any winter coats with us.

The train stopped and the three of us stepped off with all our luggage.

Into a snow bank.

On the wrong side of the train.

We stood there, in our t-shirts and shorts, shivering as the length of the train zoomed by.

When the caboose finally passed, I looked up on the platform.  I could faintly see an outline of a handsome figure through the falling snow.  My rescuer.  I was so happy to finally see him after suffering through that long week in Puerto Rico.

So was my dad.

Love Story: The Edgewater

Episode #6

EdgewaterBy the time my ankle healed, PB and I were making plans for our future. There was no doubt — we were meant to be.

My mother’s diamond ring had been tucked away in a lockbox at the bank for several years.  When mom died, it was understood that I would have her ring someday.  So PB not only had to ask for my hand in marriage, but also for the ring to put on my finger.  He drove to my dad’s farm early one winter morning to ask for permission to marry me.  After having a man-to-man talk, the two of them went into town to get the ring.  PB waited in the lobby of the Citizen’s State Bank and soon my dad walked out of the vault holding a little white box.  There were tears streaming down his face.

On the night of December 23rd, PB planned a special date.  He wanted to propose at one of the nicest places in the city — The Edgewater.  When he called to make a reservation, they asked him if he would like a room.

“How nice, ” he thought, “this restaurant has private rooms for a quiet dinner for two.  That sounds romantic.”

“Sure, reserve me a room,” he said.

When he picked me up at my house, the snow was starting to fall.  It was a beautiful drive through downtown Madison.  He looked so handsome in his suit coat and a tie.  I was all dressed up and felt the excitement in the air.  We walked into The Edgewater and PB told the man we had a reservation.

The concierge handed us a key and gave us a room number.

I looked at the key with a confused frown.

I looked at the man with a confused frown.

Then I looked at PB with a confused frown.

“I made a reservation for dinner,” my date said, his face turning red.

“You made a reservation for a hotel room,” the man replied.

“This is a hotel???  I thought this was a restaurant with nice little rooms to eat dinner in…..”

The staff quickly found a table for two in the restaurant, right next to the window overlooking the lake.

I said “yes”.  To the proposal of marriage, not the room.

Love Story: Bascom Hill

Episode #5

bascomFollowing our trick-or-treat adventure, I was forced to hobble around on crutches for awhile.  Getting to most of my college classes was doable, but twice a week I had Economics 101 in a building at the top of Bascom Hill.  It was a fairly steep climb for a girl with torn ligaments in her ankle.

(As a side note: one day the professor started the class by writing the word “BOOKKEEPER” on the blackboard.  “This word,” he said in his Boston accent, “is the only word in the English language with three double letters.” It’s the only thing I remember from Econ 101.)  Back to the story.

I didn’t want to skip two weeks of classes since I was already having trouble keeping supply and demand straight.

Enter my knight in shining armor.

Or perhaps PB was feeling a little guilty about my injury.

Either way, he showed up at the bottom of Bascom Hill right on time twice a week and gave me a piggy-back ride to the top.  It seemed like a fitting penance for dumping me off his shoulders and onto the sidewalk on Halloween.

When he carried me up the hill on those November afternoons, I started to believe that he loved me.

As I sat in that lecture hall taking notes on the Cost-Benefit Principle of goods and services, I began to see the many benefits of PB’s good heart.  I started to believe that I loved him, too.

Love Story: Trick or Treat

Episode #4

trickAfter a year of long-distance person-to-person phone calls, PB and I decided to quit monkeying around and get serious.  We had known each other for four years, but never lived close enough to actually go out on a date.  So he left Kentucky and I left Michigan and we both landed in Madison, Wisconsin the summer of ’78.  Our relationship survived the long distances.  Things got serious.

Looking for any excuse to be together, we offered to take my nephews trick-or-treating that October.  The two boys were excited to have their cool aunt and her boyfriend take them around the neighborhood.  PB thought it would be more fun if we dressed up as well.  I got on his shoulders and my sister-in-law threw a big sheet over my head — we were a giant ghost.  The boys were pretty impressed with their cool aunt’s boyfriend and his fun ideas.

Half way down the block PB started saying things like, “It’s so hot under here” and “I can’t see where I’m going” and “You’re getting kind of heavy”.  I suggested ditching the fun idea.  The next moment is still a blur for me.  I tried to slide off his shoulders and he tried to let me down easy, but something went terribly wrong.  I heard a crunch in the midst of arms and legs and a tangle of bed linens and hard pavement.

An hour later, in the hospital emergency room, a nice nurse finished wrapping my colorful swollen ankle — the ligaments were badly torn.  She asked, “How did this happen?”  Wiping away tears of pain I replied, “I was getting off him and my foot got caught in the sheets.”

There was a moment of silence as we all processed what I said.  In an effort to explain further, PB said, “We were trick-or-treating.”  The nurse smiled and quickly discharged me.

It was a memorable date.  I’ve been wary of PB’s fun ideas ever since.

Love Story: Betty

Episode #3.

operatorFollowing PB’s shocking statement in my driveway, we kept in touch.  I graduated with the class of ’77 and left the farm for Michigan State University.  PB was in school at Asbury College in Kentucky.  The distance grew farther, but our hearts started growing closer.

Because he was a poor college student, and I was a less poor college student, we devised a system for making those long distance phone calls.  It went like this:

The phone would ring in my dorm room.

I would answer it.

The operator would say, “Person-to-person call for Betty.”

I would say, “Betty is not here right now.”

The operator would say, “Thank you.  The caller will try back later.”

Click.

Then I would call PB.

If my dad wondered about the hefty phone bills and long list of calls to KY, he never said anything.  Bless him.

Love Story: Someday

Episode #2

chevyThe tent was taken down and PB left on a bus headed north.  We wrote a flurry of letters back and forth across the miles, but, alas, adolescent infatuation didn’t survive the distance.  I discovered there were cute boys right in my own high school. He had cute girls after him in his own hometown.

One day PB called from the phone booth, ready for a long conversation with his pocket full of dimes.

“What have you been doing?”

“I went out with Dan the other night.”

“Dan…..your brother?”

“No.”

After that we didn’t talk, didn’t write, didn’t see each other for two years. He was mad.

During those years of silence, I began to pray for God to show me who I was going to marry.  I don’t know why.  It seemed important to me when I was a sophomore in high school to fervently seek His will concerning my future mate.  My thoughts often took me up north to the cute pastor’s son who played his harmonica outside my bedroom window.  PB had all the right qualities: 1) he believed in God, 2) he could sing, 3) he was cute.

One day, a letter arrived and the silence was broken.  He was going to be in the area and would like to stop by and say hello.  The fervent prayers picked up.  “Lord, if he’s the one You’ve picked out for me, make him say something about marriage when he comes.”  Lord have mercy.

He came and we spent the afternoon together.  When he got ready to leave, he started up his candy apple red 1969 Chevy Chevelle Malibu with a black vinyl top, and said, “Someday I’m going to marry you.”   Then he drove away.

I was 16 years old and I knew he was the one.

Love Story: The Tent

Chocolate box valentine days flowersFebruary is the month of hearts and cupids.  Unfortunately, I’m a rather vapid valentine. I’m allergic to chocolate, so a heart shaped box of candy is as good as a death wish.  Flowers are ok, but they don’t stay fresh for more than a few days and then they die. That disturbs me.  Greeting cards are good, but knowing that someone got paid to come up with the lovely heart-felt script inside is a little weird.

What’s a guy like PB to do?

I know what I’m going to do: this month, in honor of St. Valentine, I’ll share a few scenes from our own personal Love Story.

Episode #1: The Tent

PB and I met at a church event.  My brother was the youth leader for the weekend so I went along for the ride. Within five minutes of our arrival on Friday, I was keenly aware that the pastor’s son was ca-uuuute.  We spent the weekend learning about God and trying to impress each other, and then exchanged addresses before leaving on Sunday.

After a few months of writing letters to each other, he suggested coming to see me.  Did I mention I was 14? And he was 16?  And he had to take a bus 180 miles?  And that he planned to stay for a week?  My poor father didn’t quite know what to do.

Even as a teenager, PB was resourceful and charming.  He pitched a tent in our backyard.  Yes he did.  And he played his harmonica outside my bedroom window.  It’s true.  The one night it rained, my dad let the boy sleep on the porch.  But I bet all the doors were locked.

 The guy in the tent in my backyard started winning my heart in 1974.

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Sorry, Pussycat

Last week I wrote about funny sayings that families have.

Have you ever heard this one?

“Sorry” won’t feed the admiral’s pussycat.

Yeah, well, Google hasn’t heard of it either.

I remember hearing it in our home when I was a kid, though.

I have a feeling this family adage was once the punchline of a joke.

I have a feeling that it had something to do with an admiral’s cat that didn’t get fed and thus, met it’s demise.

I have a feeling that it means you can’t make everything right by just saying “sorry”.

But obviously, I don’t know for sure.

It hit me today,

that with both my parents now gone,

I have no way to find out.

Why didn’t I ever ask about the admiral’s pussycat?

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