Your Age/My Age

Our Hannah turns double digits this year. Ten years old. Yes, it seems like only yesterday when she was born. Yes, the time has flown by. Yes, it hasn’t always been easy. Yes, it has been worth every minute, even the tears, hurts, bumps and bruises.

A major part of why I continue this blog is to document life for her. It is a written accompaniment to the photos we take and memories we stick in our minds for later. With this blog, I want to remember moments Jennifer and I share with her. I want to tell her about both sides of her family. I want her to understand how loved she is. I do this so this record is there in case she ever doubts the depth and width of love we have for her.

Despite trying in so many ways to find the right words in the right order to say something memorable sometimes I still fall short. Sometimes I come across something that someone else says that hits closer to the heart than I can do.

I ran across the song below some time back. I stored it away looking for the right moment. Now as we celebrate Hannah’s latest birthday, I think the sentiments shared in this song ring true for me and her mom. We watch our lives speed before our eyes without being able to slow down time for any rhyme or reason. As Hannah grows physically and also grows more mature and smarter, it becomes more difficult to imagine us holding her in our arms wrapped in a blanket. It becomes easier to understand how we will always hold her in our hearts wrapped in our love for each other. One day maybe she will look back, listen to this song and understand how it makes us feel today and always.

Happy birthday, Hannah, Mom & I love you!

"When You're My Age"

When you're my age
I hope the world is kinder
Than it seems to be right now
And I hope the front page isn't just a reminder
Of how we keep lettin' each other down

When I was your age, things didn't seem to be this hard
Riding bikes out on the street, playing tag in the back yard

You'll outgrow your shoes
You'll outgrow your bed
You'll outgrow this house
Just don't forget
When you're all grown up
But you don't feel that way
You're still gonna be my baby
Even when you're my age

When you're my age
You'll still be full of questions
That I wish I had the answers to right now
And those dark times might make you second guess it
But I bet love will still be making the world go 'round

When I was your age, I didn't worry like I think you do
Back then innocence was something you could hold onto

You'll outgrow your shoes
You'll outgrow your bed
You'll outgrow this house
Just don't forget
When you're all grown up
But you don't feel that way
You're still gonna be my baby
Even when you're my age

When you have kids someday, I hope you teach them the Lord's Prayer
Before they go to bed at night
Like my daddy did for me and his mother before him
Well something about it just keeps you right
And I hope you don't work too much overtime
So you can be right there beside them when they close their little eyes

'Cause they'll outgrow their shoes
They'll outgrow their beds
They'll outgrow that house
And you can't stop it
Life will lie in your face
Time will turn the page
But they're still gonna be your babies
Just like you're still gonna be my baby
Even when you're my age
Even when you're my age

“When You’re My Age” written and performed by Lori McKenna, Liz Rose & Hillary Lindsey 

Why The Last Day of May Matters

Every year this day comes. It seems now to be sandwiched into so many other things that it can be overlooked. There’s work stuff. There’s school stuff. There’s summer plans to consider. Some years other big events happen in the weeks and months ahead. Add to all that the fact that this specific date falls close or right on a holiday every year, a holiday that should be considered soberly but a holiday many use as a kick start to summer. When all that happens, this one day of celebration can get lost in the shuffle. It’s never intended to be lost or forgotten.

While she probably wouldn’t like it if the day were totally forgotten or ignored, I know she doesn’t care if it isn’t the top headline of the day. So, we’ll aim for somewhere in between.

Jennifer’s birthday is the last day of May. It’s there in the middle of all that chaos of spring and summer and work and vacations and holidays and all that other stuff. Since she is sort of low-key, you can see how some of these things can hide this special event.

If you know her, you know what a smart, kind, Godly, loving woman and mother she is. You may know her as a caring relative or a devoted friend or conscientious co-worker. I don’t have to sell you on what makes her so special.

Some of you may know me but don’t know her. Trust me when I say she is a good one. For all my bumps, bangs, bruises, folly, flubs and foolishness, she makes me better with her than I would ever hope to be without her. For that alone, I am grateful. The world I come in contact daily should also be grateful.

So, a few years ago (you don’t think I would give her age away, do you?), her mom and dad welcomed her into this world. Her journey started then. Right around this time every year, we celebrate that day. We give her gifts. We wish her many more happy birthdays.

Those of us who know her though are the ones who are showered with the gift of knowing and loving her. I am especially blessed she chose to spend her life with me.

Happy birthday, Jennifer! Hannah and I love you so very much!

A Wonder...

Happy birthday to our daughter, Hannah!
A wonder of God’s own creation…
Challenging our balance…
Confounding…
Astounding…
Still, we believe…
Fate can smile…
Destiny can laugh…
Still, she is able…
With love…
With patience…
With faith…
She makes her way…
A wonder of God’s own creation…

Milepost

Here I am right beside another milepost along my highway.

Looking back I never thought about what would happen when I reached this age. It's not that I thought I wouldn't live this long. It's just I never imagined all those days between then and now would ever really dissipate in such a hasty manner. But there are a lot of yesterdays behind me and they continue to pass by at an alarming speed.

Looking ahead I look out onto the horizon. It rests there just far enough in the distance to seem like some hazy mirage. I see things just ahead but can’t make them come into focus clearly enough to determine what those things are. The winds whip by urging time to keep up it's steady pace.

And here I am, right here, right now. I look at things now with older eyes than I did before. Here I am at this place where growing older seems much more likely that growing up any more. And here I am hoping the passing time makes me wiser instead of smarter.

Still, I find myself riding the brakes, trying hard to not rush too far into the future so that I can’t still look back where I’ve been and so I can still enjoy the scenery along the ride

The Steps

Few things seem to last. You know this is true once you buy a house. If you are a homeowner you know all too well how quickly you can begin to feel that the house you bought, the place where you plan to plant roots, make memories and live until someone plots your move to some facility where prune jello and warm milk are the soup of the day is nothing more than a place to shovel whatever money you might, or might not, have. Some days this is truly how I feel, despite all the good things that home buying brings.

I suppose this feeling deepens when I realize I am no handyman. It's the house exterior or the dishwasher or the toilet or the yard or the carpet or the heating system or dozens of other things that sooner or later bend, break, give up or die. There are some things I can handle without much problem but other things tend to crop up that baffle me, other things appear that terrorize me and still other things emerge that seem to live to taunt me in regards to the upkeep of a house. Top my ineptitude off with the fact that spending money to fix the problem gets thrown in the equation and you have a recipe for certain indigestion.

Ultimately, things have to be fixed despite my own incompetence and my own frugality.

A few months back, Jennifer almost took a tumble down our front steps. Well, okay, tumble sounds dramatic and life-threatening. I suppose if I were part of the news media these days, I would choose the word “tumble” to describe the fact that the front part of the bottom step, two inches from the ground, finally gave way. The step and it’s co-horts had been beginning to fade for some time prior to this fateful day. My attempts at nailing the boards back down and praying and hoping that my effort in preserving those steps a little longer would be enough to be make it all better came to a grinding stop that day. So, I began to ponder what I should do regarding the steps. And for a few weeks our front steps stood damaged but still usable.

As I pondered, Mom and Dad came to town. Before the day was over the steps were almost replaced totally with Dad taking charge of the project at hand. As we worked our way through the task the thought came into my head that I might have been able to have done this job by myself after all. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m glad I didn’t attempt it though. I would have missed the time I spent with Dad. Yes, maybe I could have replaced the steps without his help but I would have missed the teamwork, the jokes, the little hints here and there about how to tackle and defeat such a chore. I would have missed the little things I see in him that I sometimes see reflected in me, the slow yet steady pace that drives some people crazy, the slight hesitation before pounding a nail into the wood just so you can measure one last time how close to hold the nail without placing your fingers in too much danger and even something as simple as recognizing the sound I make when I clear my throat sounds just like him when he clears his throat.

Today marks my Dad’s birthday. As I grow older I find myself continually amazed at how he quietly serves as the rock of our family. I stand in wonder as stray dogs and cats follow him around as if he were a long lost friend. I smile remembering the nicknames he gave every grandchild. I marvel at how his great-grandchildren always want to be near him, how they reach out their arms for him when their eyes lock in on him from across the room. I nervously chuckle at his stubbornness because that is an inherited trait that hits a little close to home. I smile thinking about times watching him laugh so hard he could barely catch his breath and thinking how I always want to be able to remember that happy moment. I am touched knowing how he looks after Mom as her health slowly becomes a battle they will have to wage together. I am amazed that he still plants and tends a garden every summer. I am terrified knowing his eyesight is not what it once was and worry what will happen if it fades away more than what it already has. Today, I am glad we built a set of steps together.

There are so many memories I could relate at this moment. Some things though I like to hold near and hang on to a little longer. I do wonder though if one day in the future, way, way, way in the future, if I will be sitting on the front porch of this very house, where my roots are now planted and where new memories are being made, waiting for some folks in some medical coats to come to carry me down the road to a new residence. And as they tell me about the shuffleboard games and the tantalizing evening meal of strained carrots and unsweetened tea that await me I can imagine interrupting them to tell them to take it easy as they haul me down the steps because me and my Dad built them a long time ago. And we built them to last.

Happy birthday, Dad. And many, many more.

Really, I Like The Cake

Wax runs away from a flame and down a small candle. A thin rubber band, no longer shaped in a circle but as a line, finds itself stapled at both sides of a flimsy cone-shaped paper hat with celebratory designs. A rectangular cake resting on a piece of cardboard covered in aluminum foil is the center of attention as icing in colors of white and green and red and yellow tease onlookers with the promise of an impending sugar rush.

Every year it is a ritual. Family and friends gather round and celebrate the passing of time known as a birthday.

I like the cake. Actually, I probably like the cake too much. I also enjoy the time with family and friends. But, honestly, I really don’t care that much about celebrating my birthday. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad to be alive. I just don’t enjoy the fuss some wish to make over my birthday. I mean I don’t think I did all that much on that August day so many years ago. Maybe we could verify my exact role then with my Mom, my Dad and the medical staff on hand then, but I’m pretty sure I just sort of made an appearance. Maybe we should be throwing some of the praise to those who did all the work that day.

Despite my ambivalence, the party goes on.

There are pictures somewhere on thin, yellowing paper that time tends to curl at the edges or pictures pressed onto the hard backing of a Polaroid of my birthday parties through the years. They begin with the early years as a child and progress through time into adulthood. Family and friends crowded around to get in the picture with the birthday boy. Years ago, the cakes were round but still colorful and loaded with icing and candles. Some were taken while we were around our dining room table, others as we were around our picnic table in the back yard. Maybe in the background a balloon floated through the air or a game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ was ongoing as a brief moment of a party was caught on celluloid to mark that instant in time.

The cakes became a bit more elaborate over time, maybe one was in the shape of a car or another in the shape of a guitar. I was fortunate enough to have an aunt who made a good living for several years as a cake maker and I was the recipient of some of her better cakes.

Some photos have a year written on the back, while others find me trying to determine a year by straining to count candles on a cake and doing a little math. As the dates on photos creep closer to today’s date, the photos show me growing older. As this happens, the photos become more posed, less spontaneous, more aware of the presence of the camera and maybe more cognizant of time moving forward.

The photos show other things. Places I once lived, people I once knew, people I have known longer than I can remember, times in my life when storms raged inside me or were battering my family and friends, times when it seemed nothing could bring any of us down, times before I met my wife, times since she became my wife, bad haircuts, poor fashion sense, questionable taste in furniture and gifts.

Those photos don’t show other things. Trouble at work, words spoken hours before in haste or anger at a loved one, what I was planning to do later that day, even the wishes made just before the candles get blown out, things that seemed like mountains to climb then but now fade into a place time has sealed shut from my memory. I can’t see those things in the photos. I can’t retrieve them by looking more intently at the photo.

Now the cake sits before me. Folks gather round and tentatively sing-song the words to “Happy Birthday”. Someone appears with a camera, so I stretch a smile across my face and give the camera my attention for a brief moment. I look at the cake and the flames from the candles momentarily run together in my line of vision. My mind races with all sorts of thoughts. As I stand, my eyes mesmerized by the miniature flames, I notice a drop of wax begin to slide down a candle so I bend down and blow out the candles before the wax drips onto the cake, thankful for another birthday and wishing for many more to come.

Worry and Love

Today is my Mom’s birthday. A couple of weeks ago my Dad celebrated his birthday. In four months, they will celebrate 60 years of marriage together. They are grower older. We all grow older. They, though, are beginning to show age on their faces and in their steps now more than ever.

My mom is the best worrier I know. She worries about me even now and she worries about my brother and my sister and their spouses and the grandkids and the great grandkids and the sisters and the brothers and the in-laws and the neighbors and on and on and on. Growing up she worried about my school work, my driving, my bike riding, being out with friends, traveling, going off to college, finding a job, finding a spouse. My dad is not a major worrier like mom although I know he has done his fair share of worrying. He tends to let things simmer inside hoping the answer will somehow bubble to the top.

Lucky me, I do both.

Now, I worry about Mom and Dad. I worry that they take the right medicine at the right time. I worry that they eat right. I worry when they leave the house and drive somewhere. I worry they sleep too much. I worry I don’t visit them enough. I worry when I mention my concerns about these things to them and they just blow them off like there’s nothing at all to worry about, so I let it brew inside, hoping the solution to all the worrying will magically appear.

It never does though.

Later today I will call Mom and wish her a happy birthday. We’ll talk and I’ll try to read the worry in her words over things I know she has tumbled over in her mind time after time. I’ll tell her not to worry about things she can’t change. She worries about those she loves making choices she doesn’t agree with or understand. I try to tell her that these people are adults and can make their own choices and by doing so have to live with the consequences of what they decide. Naturally, that only causes her more worry. She’ll worry about my sinus headache or whether or not I wear a jacket in the cool morning air. I know all that worry she and Dad do over all of us stems from love.

And when I hang up and wish her a good birthday I’ll wonder if she can read the worry I have for her and Dad in my own voice because I do love them so much.

Matthew 6:33-34