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 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.