A Burning Light

Some of my memories have to do with a light burning in a window.

As we enter the holidays I believe many of us are drawn to remembering our pasts. We set around the table following a grand meal and think about those who are no longer with us. Sentences will begin with “You remember when...” or “I remember a time when...” Then we share the stories; stories that we’ve all heard before but never tire of hearing again. 

My name for my grandmother was “Nannie.” It was what everyone called her. If she were still living, Nannie would have been 99 this past Monday. She was born while Woodrow Wilson was president. This was a time before we knew what World War was, before there was a League of Nations and before women had the right to vote. She was a little less than a month away from her 16th birthday when the market crashed and the country entered the Great Depression.

Chicken and Dumplings. That was Nannie’s recipe. No one made Chicken and Dumplings the way she did. People have come close, but they are just not the same. She was also very good with Cornbread Stuffing. It was all about the proper amount of sage to include. 

My grandmother was a kind, soft-spoken lady. But she also knew how to make her displeasure known when it was appropriate and deserved. One such time was in 1972. Actually there were a few times from that year, but I’ll only write about this one. 

I spent my Freshman year in high school living with my grandparents. That would be the 1971-72 school year. It was a wonderful year. One Sunday afternoon in the Spring of ’72, my friend Stephen Rogers and I were out doing what we did most weekends. We were out on our bikes, exploring. 

Not far from Stephen’s house were a few new houses being built. The foundations had been dug but not a lot more had been done. The rains from a few days earlier had slowed the progress. Stephen and I set there, on our bikes, at the edge of this hollowed out foundation. Some of the rain had collected into a rather nice pond in this hole. 

We didn’t have many ponds in Sikeston so this new pond was inviting. It posed a new challenge. We thought. If you were to drop off into the foundation, how slow could you actually go, peddling your bike, to remain upright? This meant that you had to slow your speed once inside the hole in order to test the question. This also meant that the slower your speed, the higher the probability of slipping into the pond.

Stephen and I took up the question and spent the better part of an hour riding along the slope of the foundation, and yes, on occasion, slipping into the pond. The extremely muddy pond. 

We heard his mom calling. It was time to get ready for Sunday evening church. We said our “See you in little whiles” and went home; he to his house and me, the 10 minutes or so to my grandparents house. The bike ride would help dry out my clothes. 

When I got to my grandparents I was a surprised at the reception I received. My usually kind, soft-spoken Nannie was livid! “Where had you been? What have you been doing? How did you get so dirty?” All good questions. I answered. “I was over at Stephen’s. We were riding our bikes. And there was this construction site you see and there was this big hole in the ground where they were digging the foundation and there was water in the hole from the rain we got a few days ago. Well, anyway, we were trying to see how slow...” You get the picture. 

What I haven’t told you is this. When I got home from church that morning and wolfed down my lunch, I ran out the door and headed off to Stephen’s forgetting one thing. I forgot to change clothes. I went riding, in the mud, in my Sunday church clothes. She was more than a little upset. Looking back, I really can’t blame her. But, kid’s will be kid’s.

During the last years of her life, she along with my mother, lived in the house behind mine. She had the back corner bedroom and in the corner, between two windows set a rocker. This is where she would spend a good amount of her time. She set in her rocker and she would read. She was a ferocious reader.

Some evenings when I would be getting something from the kitchen, I’d pause by the back door and look out across the yard. There in back corner of my mom’s house would be the light burning and I knew it was my Nannie, reading. There would always be a smile on my face when I turned away from the door. 

I often think how wonderful it would have been to have had Nannie write down some of her memories. There was so much she experienced. There was so much she knew. Every day she lived shaped the lady she became. It strengthened her and molded her. Now these stories live only in our faltering memories.

I once knew a woman who knew she was dying of cancer. She set up a video camera in her kitchen one evening and taped herself. She sat at her table and shared her recipes; the ones that had become her daughter’s favorites. She included the little this and thats, the nuances, that only the cook knows. The things that aren’t written down. 

What I do here is much the same. It’s a place to share my thoughts, my dreams and some of the stories of my life. It is my small contribution to the tapestry that is our families history. It is for a time, many years from now, when my grandchildren will be setting around the holiday dinner table with their children and grandchildren. Devon or Shelby will push their plate away and begin, “You remember that time when Papa got in so much trouble with Nannie?” 

____________________

Some evenings now I’ll be getting something from the kitchen and I’ll pause by the back door and look out across the yard. There in back corner of my mom’s house a light will be burning and I know it is my Mom reading. Perhaps she is writing some of her stories. There is a smile on my face when I turn away from the door.  

Wanderlust

“I love to go a-wandering,

along the mountain track, 

and as I go, I love to sing,

my knapsack on my back.

“Val-deri, val-dera,

Val-deri,

Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ah-ha.

Val-deri, val-dera,

My knapsack on my back.”

I have long loved the word wanderlust. It holds such possibilities where each day holds the gift of something new. 

Wanderlust is waking up to find a new adventure, a new journey for that day, a new sight to see, a new person to meet and a new experience to be enjoyed. When it is at its best, it is a new revelation of God! Wanderlust is proclaiming that I am no longer satisfied with routine; with waking up and going through the same motions.

The word wanderlust has a German origin and literally means “a desire to hike.” We define it in English as a strong desire or impulse to wander or to travel and explore. Fitting for how I have been feeling of late.

It seems an odd statement, but I don’t think I am wired to stay in one place for very long. As I have been thinking and writing lately I have been caught on my desire to get more out of life. My thoughts are constantly drawn to doing and seeing more. I am not wanting my “one of these days” to be spent comfortably right where I am. 

In a sensible world, this is dangerous. It goes against what we were taught. We  were supposed, expected, to grow up, get good jobs and work through to the age of retirement (or beyond). Once we’ve reached that age, and if we’re still able, we could  then chase I dreams. That is how it’s supposed to work. But, that isn’t always the case. Some never get the chance to chase their dream or they simply can’t do it. They spent themselves, spent their lives, working to fulfill someone else’s dreams and no longer have the time or energy for their own. 

To me, that is the real danger; chasing after something that is not our own. We are convinced of what life is supposed to be like and have lost sight of what life could be like.

What life could be like - Gerrie and I had that once. We felt God calling us to the mission field. So we went against the grain and took a chance. It wasn’t always easy. It was difficult, at times, for us and our families. But as I have said before, it was perhaps one of the happiest times of our lives. 

That time, well, it really wasn’t wanderlust was it? It was more like obedience. Yet, it had some of the elements. It gave us a new adventure, a new journey, a new sight, a new person to meet and new experiences. And most importantly, a new revelation of God!

We may never make it back to a time like that. With family and friends, being far away for a long time, doesn’t seem like what God is calling us to do. But is God calling? We believe He is. We feel He is calling us to something

Last week Gerrie commented about our experience in Italy and about what may be on the horizon. In her comment she said, “Our restless hearts are, to me, a sign to be ready for absolutely anything!”

We’re listening.

Familiar territory. 

____________________

Update @ 12:55p  Gerrie and I got in from church a few minutes ago. This morning in LifeGroup, we were left with two thoughts to consider. First, how do we make our lives count.? Second, when God asks you what you did with the time He gave you, how will you answer?

An "Ah-ha" Moment

15 October 1996

I have had this particular date on my mind for a few weeks now. My wife and I woke up that morning in Arquata Scrivia, Italy. Arquata Scrivia is a small town in the Province of Genoa, about 34 miles north of Genoa. We had fallen asleep the night before with a light drizzle of rain falling and woke up with the same light drizzle. If only it had stayed that way.

We were in Italy on a prayer walk. This walk, the Reconciliation Walk, was the outreach of our missions training class. For us, the walk began in Dijon, France on September 23rd and ended in Bari, Italy on November 24th. We covered a distance of 1,020 miles crossing the Jura Mountains, the Alps at Saint Bernard Pass and the Apennines. But we didn’t walk every mile. A good many of them yes. But not every one.

This is what we were doing in this small, obscure town in Northern Italy on this damp morning. We had our breakfast, packed our gear and set out. 

The drizzle became heavier as the first hours passed and finally gave way to a steady rainfall that accompanied us through the day. It would lighten up at times and become heavier at times. Light or heavy, it was raining all the time. About that day, I noted in my journal that “even the inside of my coat was getting wet. My sweater and undershirt were getting wet around the neckline and I could sense the wetness creeping higher up my legs. There was no keeping the rain out.” It was a rain that would eventually soak me, and everyone else, thoroughly. 

It was also becoming colder. About the only thing that would keep you warm was to keep walking. Normally we would take turns having a break from walking as a day would progress. But not this day. Walking fought back the chill.

In time, we made it into Genoa and found a small church where we would spend the night. There wasn’t much room, but enough to have a place to change and get dry, to cook a warm meal and to drop my pack and spread my sleeping bag. I laid down pulled out my journal to write. Gerrie was beside me, laying on her sleeping bag, reading. 

“Another revelation of today is the appreciation of dry socks, shoes and cloths. Also having a dry place to lay your head. This whole day, and other events and locations we have rested for the day have taught me the appreciation of the simple pleasures of this life. So often we chase after so much comfort feeling that they are the necessities of life. But when it comes down to it, we all need few things than we think.

“Laying here in my sleeping bag I have just come to understand that all I really felt was needed for this two months, is under my head. It is a nice understanding. True, if I were settled somewhere, which I will be sometime in the near future, I would like my books and music. But I know that it doesn’t take all these things to live. They are add-ons that can make a life more enjoyable, but they are not needed to live. I am beginning to understand more about the teaching the Jesus in Matthew 6:25-34. He will provide.”

This was one of those quintessential moments in life. An “ah-ha” moment when you catch a glimpse of something bigger than yourself. It was a moment in time when I could pause and truly say that I was happy in that moment.

Life is full of distractions. We race around doing all in our power to achieve, to acquire, to accumulate all the things that we were told “makes life worth living.” As Tom Hodgkinson writes in the preface of his book, How To Be Idle, “In the West, we have become addicted to work. Americans now work the longest hours in the world. And the result is not health, wealth and wisdom, but rather a lot of anxiety, a lot of ill health and a lot of debt.”

When Gerrie and I returned from foreign missions, this is world we returned to. It is not the world of our creating, but the world of our necessity. It is the world that demands a quickened pace simply to keep up. It is a world that chips away at dreams and says that you can’t do something. You can’t do the thing you want to do because it takes time that you do not have. It takes time that you should be working, achieving, acquiring and accumulating. 

But this is not the life I want. Is is not that life we want. So I dream. We dream. We dream about “one of these days” and wonder if we might be able to manage one or two them. We dream about striking out on an adventure again where the experience, or the lesson from the experience, is gained. We long for those “ah-ha” moments again where we are given a glimpse of something grand. Something spectacular!

Many moments in life are meant to happen only once. Yet still, there are moments that I wish for, that I dream for, to happen again. I pray that someday I'll have a moment again, like that evening in Italy, when I realize that what I have with me, is all that I need. That I am at peace in a moment. Living simply and simply living.

Gerrie and I don’t know what it is, or when it will come. We don’t know where we will be. It could be right here at home for all we know. But we know that something is ahead of us. We know that before we close our eyes for the last time, that there is still a time for us. A time when we will say, “this is what it is all about. This is our life. This is profound. This is God!“

Defining Style

I have just completed a Digital Photography I course this past week. Actually the course ends tomorrow evening, but I am traveling on family matters this weekend. So, I’ll miss the last class.

The course was one of the better investments of time and money that I have made in recent years. Each Monday provided me with “ah-ha moments” and areas of being challenged. The instructor said he would engage the right side of our brains, and he did. I look at the world differently now. This means, I am actually taking time to look at it; not just rush through it. I look at the world through a camera lens in hopes of finding art. 

A few weeks ago there was a discussion about style. Find your style. What is it about a photograph that says, that it is your photograph? Think Ansel Adams. When you see a black and white landscape, you immediately think of Ansel Adams. In truth, it may be that someone else shot the photograph, but you first think of Adams. That was his style, his genre; and that is what he is known for.

I made a note in my class journal. “What is your style? Develop your style. What is it about my photographs that will define them as my photographs.” That is a question.

Finding my style will be like like finding my voice, but only with the camera. It is like a writer experimenting with words or a painter trying a different brush. It is that thing that makes one unique, causing one artist to be distinguished from another.

I read through my notes and think. I look at the work I produced for class. Is there something there? I know that I enjoy shooting landscapes. I like cityscapes. I am not that good at photographing people. This comes from being an introvert and shying away from people I don’t know. What abstracts I shot I enjoyed. And I had a little success with black and white (still a bit of work to do there though). There is a profile emerging.

Can I tell a compelling story with a black and white landscape? Can I marry that with my flirtation with high dynamic range processing? Maybe.

This past weekend Gerrie and I spent a few hours on the loop trail at local state park. We actually didn’t make it too far on the trail. The sky was overcast so shooting a broad vista of the changing colors would not work. We were forced to look at the trail; look at our feet. What was there? Was there anything interesting? What we saw was texture. A marvelous variety of texture that God laid before us. 

It isn’t Ansel Adams. It isn’t remotely close.

But it is a beginning perhaps.

Legacy is something that I’ll explore as time goes on. But this space, this blog, is part of the legacy that I wish to leave for my children and my grandchildren. For them, the photographs that I hope to make are simply other expressions of how I see the world. They help to chronicle how I lived my life. My wish is that after I have left this life, that they will look at photograph or a drawing and be able to know straight away that “Papa took that picture” or “Dad drew that.” They’d just know and, they may even be a little bit proud.

That is my wish at least.