Reverse. Refocus. Run.

I held on tight. Dale maneuvered Dolly’s reins as she slowly plodded around Grandpa’s barnyard. This morning, I smile while reminiscing that as 10-year-olds, my cousin and I assumed “we” were in control of Dolly. She plodded slowly with the precision of an ancient clock, habitually knowing the approved barnyard path for all young grandchildren. My cousin was only a few months older, but on this occasion, he was the expert horseman.

At Dale’s encouragement, Dolly passed through the gate towards the lush grass near Grandma’s clothesline. Grandpa grinned as he stood silently by the smokehouse. A glance at the edifice suddenly melded past adventures with the promises of an adventurous afternoon. Now a catch-all for the most interesting artifacts on the farm, the old smokehouse stood like a shrine overlooking a grape arbor. Momentarily forgetting Dolly, I made a mental note to push open the heavy door and search in the dark for the horseshoe set and scooter as soon as we finished our ride.

Suddenly, reality jerked me back as Dolly’s plodding quickened and eased into a trot. The quicker Dolly trotted, the more Dale and I leaned left. Grandpa called to Dale, “Sit up straighter.” Too late. As though in slow motion, I watched myself slide down Dolly’s side. I toppled onto the grass. Instinctively Dolly halted; a sentinel over her fallen rider. My mind was set: I would never ride Dolly again!

I haven’t ridden a horse or thought of Dolly in ages, so why 50+ years later is my mind wandering? I hear my fingers clicking away at the computer. Searching for ideas. Seeking perfect words. It dawns on me: I have a similar longing to get back in the saddle and ride again, figuratively speaking.

You see, by my next visit to Grandpa’s, I begged for a ride. Sliding to the ground hadn’t truly swayed my desire to climb back onto Dolly’s strong back for a ride, as long as my next ride had Grandpa controlling the reins!

A New Challenge

Months have passed since I last published on my website. The progression was as subtle as sliding off Dolly. Unexpected life situations demanded much time and focus. I carved out no “me-time” for publishing. Job assignments, graduation, caregiving, illnesses, church, and life, in general, took precedence.  Personal writing, with all it entails for this self-proclaimed perfectionist, was pushed aside. How could I possibly rewrite, revise, and edit to my standards? Plans to pick it up again “tomorrow” gave way to doubts and wishful thinking. “What creative tidbit might I write? Who would read it anyway? What is my purpose?” As though in slow motion, I watched the elusive love of writing disappear from my daily schedule.

Nagging Demands Change

Yet, the nagging need to write never eased.

Why? It is my calling. I am a writer. In much the same way, don’t many of us hunger for more? Increased time with God? More time to explore talents? Increased avenues to express love? When life gets overwhelmingly busy, doubts and fears invade. The whirl of activity demands a conscious effort to reverse. The legacy God placed in my heart forces me to refocus. I look to the author and finisher of my faith. I choose to carve out time for all that burns inside me. For today, I carved out the time – back in the saddle. Hooray!

Hebrews 12:1-2a (NLT) Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. (underlining added for emphasis)

Can you relate? How can I pray for you as you join the crowd of witnesses and continue the unique race God designed for you? What weighs you down? Won’t you join me in the race?

Hats in My Memory part 4 – Unexpected, Versatile, Integrity

The third and final hat in this series ushers in the “unexpected.”  This hat is a Tilley all-weather, washable, floppy hat. According to Tilley’s website, Tilley’s are “designed and engineered for travel, so you are ready for the unexpected turn in the road ahead.” http://www.tilley.com/us_en/why-travel-clothing/  The Tilley wearer I love has many titles: husband, father, son, teacher, and grandpa.  This grandpa is known as “Papa” in our home.

Just as a Tilley proves to be an “all-in-one hat,” Papa is an all-in-one grandfather and father.  When we first met over 35 years ago, I quickly noticed his devotion to people.  I saw the way he loved his daughter and respected his parents. His eyes sparkled as we enthusiastically brainstormed new units of learning for students. It didn’t take long for me to I sense the kind of future partner he embodied: a helpmate, a good parent, a teacher. So, the marriage and parenting life began. Within a few years, we added two sons to our blended family of a soon-to-be teenage daughter and ourselves.  Subsequently, she blessed us with three grandchildren, a boy and two girls.

According to Tilley, “Travel is about seeing a new place, experiencing life from a different perspective, trying a local dish, making new friends, experiencing a random moment. Tilley’s are designed and engineered for travel, so you are ready for the unexpected turn in the road ahead.” By then the Tilley adventures were underway: mowing grass, visiting family, adventure upon adventure. The Tilley joined us along the way.

On the night before my husband’s 49th birthday, we received a call changing our lives in an unexpected way, one of many “unexpected turns in the road ahead.”  Our young granddaughters needed to move in with us for the time-being, joining their older brother, our two high school aged sons, and my recently widowed mother-in-law.  Days turned to weeks, months, and years.  Suddenly “Papa” became a household term, taking precedent over many of his other titles.

Papa’s traits transcended his title.  He slept in a chair holding anxious toddlers many nights, helped care for the little girls, and once again read bedtime stories.  He transformed a bedroom of ball players into a pastel chamber for princesses. Tears were dried. Tough lessons were learned. Parents and children alike grew through the tough unexpected winds of change.

Today, nearly fifteen years later, this Tilley-wearing Papa is still versatile. He wears the Tilley when mowing, building a chicken house, or planting a tree.  Papa patiently guides homework, folds laundry, and monitors the cleaning of rooms.  When the suitcase beckons for travel, the washed Tilley joins us. Papa loves travel.  Tattered road atlases reminisce events of long vacations and hold the dreams of travels yet to come.

Like the Tilley, Papa is dependable, functional, and ages gracefully.  He leads our children – now three adult children, nine grandchildren, and one great-grandchild — to love the Lord and develop inner strength. He inspires courage to do the right, try new things, love deeply and passionately. He is a handyman and teacher who still sings at the top of his lungs, tackles new projects and exudes tremendous love. Unexpected changes cause no animosity, but they do bring about versatility. My husband, Papa, is an example of utmost integrity through the good. The bad. The unexpected.

Three hats hang in my house, two more in my memory:  a tattered blue and white striped engineer’s hat, a wide-brimmed straw hat crumbling on the edges from years of wear, a billed John Deere cap spattered with oil, the uniform hat of a Kansas City policeman, and a floppy Tilley needing the washing machine.

Hats in My Memory part 3 – Farm and Fun.

Straw hat reminds me of Grandpa Tanner

The second hat, wide brimmed and woven of straw, belongs to a man of the farm, my Grandpa Tanner.  How could 30 plus years have possibly whisked by since Grandpa was asking about my first days of teaching? His voice is clear like yesterday.  As I slipped into the back door of the farmhouse, I still hear him call, “Come on over here.” He pats his knee.  Grandpa sits in his upholstered rocker, a flowered sheet protecting it from his farm dirt.  Who cares about dirt? Farms were meant for dirt. Grandpas were meant for fun. I hurry over and sit down on a bony knee.  Only a brief hesitation slows me with reminders of my age or weight. Never too old for Grandpa’s knee. “Well, how are you doing? How is teaching?”  he asks.

His eyes twinkle with genuine interest as I tell him about my fifth-grade students and some of their challenges.  Imagine my farmer grandpa wanting to hear about my city ten-year-olds. With his straw hat off, Grandpa’s forehead reveals snow-white skin rarely touched by direct sunlight. It looks wrinkled yet soft.  “Well,” he responds as he quietly pushes back his thin black hair, “Now, remember.  Only make the rules you really need; then stick to them.  Don’t make any rules you don’t want to enforce.  You don’t need a lot.”

After a pause Grandpa continues, “And tease a lot.  Have fun.  Kids have to learn to tease and take teasing.  You have to have fun.”  I’d heard Grandpa tell of being miserable from teasing when he was a child. I heard him say more than once that his own children and grandchildren would learn to laugh.  Grandpa didn’t dwell on the pain; he focused on the future — the future of his children and grandchildren. Little did I know, so many years ago, that his advice would guide my years of teaching. His voice would speak patience. His voice would warn against impulse rules and decisions blurted out from a weary, frustrated teacher.

Shifting my weight a little, I gaze out the large windows at barns and cattle, the vegetable garden and strawberries, poppies and rhubarb. I ask about the cattle and hogs. I envision Grandpa in his straw hat completing his daylight to dark chores.  Grandpa wore his straw hat year round. He tilted it high on his head in the hot summer to wipe beads of sweat with a red bandana. At times, he positioned it atop a hooded sweatshirt in the winter. No matter what, the straw hat with the built-in green visor always protected him from the sun, wind, rain, and snow.  The last time I saw Grandpa’s hat it was worn and tattered, just like his work clothes.

Truths one and two: few rules; consistency; fun. As I think of Grandpa, another truth comes alive: If it’s not totally worn out, it’s still useful. How often had I watched Grandpa whittle a new end on the mop handle and refit the head?  Grandma expertly patched his overalls and the elbows of his work shirts, as though she were sewing for a fine dressmaker.  The colorful patches may be obvious, but the sewing is precise and neat.  No hanging threads on her patches!  Nothing gets tossed in the trash if it still has life.

Grandpa’s clothing smells like hay and the wood stove which heats the house — a strong musty odor of dirt, grass, and cattle.  To some it might seem offensive; to me it is rich and bold – the smell of the outdoors; the smell of hard work; the smell of love for the land; the smell of Grandpa. It’s nearly time to leave. I begin to say my good-byes as Grandma offers me a homemade roll. Smiling, I slather on the home churned butter. As I turn, Grandpa calls out, “You know you’re going to be a good cook someday.” I give him quizzically. As the grin spreads across his face, he rubs his leg and continues, “Yes. Good cooks like to eat. You are just like your Grandma. You like to eat.” Be sensitive about my weight and love of Grandma’s rolls or be grateful for a grandpa like my Grandpa Tanner? I choose grateful.

Hats in my Memory part 2 – Routine, Nature, and God

I pull the blue-striped engineer’s cap down from high in the closet.  A dusting of starch covers my hands as I cradle muted shades of blue and cream stripes. The hat is still surprisingly stiff from its last upkeep years ago. I find a wadded Kansas City Star newspaper, dated April 5, 1992, stuffed inside securing the cap’s shape.  I rub my fingers along the edges of the tattered bill and accidentally brush starch powder onto my jeans.  The denim blue isn’t nearly so bold, nor the white not nearly so white as they used to be, but hidden inside a fold in the cap I find a hint of the old, bright colors, defying years of wash and wear.

GrandpaTurnage died in 1982 at the age of 80.  I inherited his caps when my mother began helping Grandma sort through her house and its hidden treasures.  Grandpa’s work cap might seem like a strange heirloom to many, but to me, it brings Grandpa’s voice and tenderness back to life. Noting that the stuffed newspaper was ten years past Grandpa’s death, I couldn’t help but wonder how often Grandma had relieved his tenderness through his caps also. I recall the stark difference between snow-white hair and skin covered by the cap versus the dark sun-leathered face of a hard worker. A cap of protection. A cap of hard work. A cap of recollections.

In my memory, I sit at a round wooden table with Grandma and Grandpa.  After a busy morning of playing outside, my childhood-self smells fried chicken, fresh creamed corn scraped from the cob, and tiny new sweet potatoes. Grandma prepares these along with crisp radishes and cold dripping cantaloupe from Grandpa’s garden. The sweet potatoes, barely as long as my fingers, are Grandpa’s favorite.  I follow his lead, dipping these plump roasted vegetables into butter:  sweet mushy vegetable candy on the inside, a crisp skin on the outside.  Just that morning I awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and oven toast.  Come evening we’ll have popcorn in the blue metal bowls while Grandpa challenges us to games of Carrom and checkers.

I recall Grandpa as all about routine, nature, and God.  Outside in the mornings, he kept the huge yard freshly mowed.  Grapes grew from the backyard vines.  We walk to the pond to fish or to the barn to groom his white horse. I play in the dirt as he harvests fresh vegetables from the garden.  Then I find him sharpening a tool at his workbench in the garage.  No matter what Grandpa did, my brother and I were always welcome alongside. Often times our youngers sisters joined us, too.

Noon dinner was always followed by a short rest.  Grandpa’s “short rests” have little to do with naps, though.  Instead, Grandpa moves to his overstuffed burgundy chair, reaches across the end table for his dog-eared black Bible, and with all the tenderness of a man opening an ancient treasure chest, he lays the book on his lap and reads.  I sit on the matching couch, eager to hear Grandpa’s thoughts.  Oh, how Grandpa loved reading and committing every word to heart.  “God can do anything.  Just pray.  Let Him become the most important part of your life.”  His words ring in my ears as he thumbs the pages.  After a few minutes, Grandpa’s eyes close:  meditation, prayer, thoughts … perhaps a short nap, after all.

Afternoons and evenings were much the same: tinkering outside, caring for the yard, reliving stories of his younger years pushing brush with a bulldozer, or helping Grandma with the evening dishes. Laughter, games, kidding and entertaining us with short ditties on the piano. Grandpa played “Chopsticks,” to our enjoyment. (We all knew Grandma was the real piano player.)

What do I recall? Grandpa Turnage never failed to share of his faith in God. With every breath, he seemed to be teaching or meditating on the Word. “Let the Words of my heart and the meditations of my mind …”

As I think back, I know Grandpa Turnage was far from perfect. He’d be quick to point out his own faults, but I recall his integrity. I recall his desire to know God — and be sure everyone around him knew of His God. Looking at the blue and white striped engineer’s cap, I wonder. Will others remember me as a person of routine, nature, and God years from now? I hope so.

HATS IN MY MEMORY — an introduction, part I.

Three hats hang in my house, two more in my memory:  a tattered blue and white striped engineer’s hat, a wide-brimmed straw hat crumbling from years of wear, a billed John Deere cap spattered with oil, a Kansas City policeman’s uniform hat, and a durable floppy Tilley needing the washing machine.  Another head-covering adds a touch of softness to the mix, my grandmother’s handstitched bonnet.

I call these my “grandpa hats.”  (Well, all but one!) My two grandfathers wore the engineer’s cap and the straw hat while working on their farms. My father and father-in-law wore the tractor cap and policeman’s hat while supporting their families.  My husband, “Papa” to our grandchildren, just donned the Tilley and headed out to mow.

Why are these hats important? Well, for me, they represent much more than a chore to be completed or a career. They each represent the grandpa who combined hard work, love, laughter, family, and faith. They epitomize the uniqueness and special personality of each person. I hope you enjoy meeting my loved ones through their hats.

 You’d be hard-pressed to find the words “hat” or “cap” in the Bible.  On the other hand, a “helmet” is common. Helmets were weapons of protection. I love the account of young David in I Samuel 17. Moved by God’s boldness, David offers his service to Saul and Saul promptly dresses David for the task at hand: his own garments, a bronze helmet, and body armour. David tries to walk. Impossible. This attire was simply not David! He takes off the king’s clothing. He removes the helmet of protection. He arms himself with a stick, five smooth stones, a pouch, a sling, his shepherd’s bag and God’s power. God’s protection. He boldly moves forward and does God’s business. He slays Goliath. God’s receives the glory.

A simple scarf draped over the head in humility. A king’s crown of leadership. A crown of thorns. So many hats. So many possibilities and purposes.  As you read in subsequent “Hat Stories,” consider what hats you are called to wear in life. Are you trying to wear, like David was encouraged to do, a hat that just isn’t quite “you?” In what ways do your chosen hats reflect you? What memories are you leaving behind?