Dear Daughters,
Grandma loves to get the water pitcher out from underneath the sink and water her flower pots. There are three out on the deck and one hanging outside the front door. For decades she has watered flowers. Pour the water in and the flowers come out. It’s a miracle.
She usually waters them before I get out of bed in the morning. Then as I’m doing the breakfast dishes she’ll water them again. Often mid-morning she’ll forget they were watered already and will douse them once more. Oh yes, there’s that Christmas cactus too that gets lots of water, sometimes overflowing onto the floor.
She also remembers to faithfully water those flowers down at the end of the lane. Grandma remembers very little these days, but she does remember the flowers.
Thankfully Idaho is a very dry climate with little rain, so the flowers love all the extra attention they are getting.
One day I noticed that the pot on the deck table was a bit wilted. So I mentioned to Grandma that the two hanging baskets were good and damp, but the middle pot on the table needed some water. Being the pleasant lady that she is, she quickly got out the water pitcher and said “OK, I just need to water the middle pot on the table right?” Yep, just the middle pot on the table. As I watched her from the window, she watered the two hanging baskets and passed right over the middle pot on the table.
Efficiency.
My life used to be focused on that word. Do the most I can in the least time possible. Work. Be efficient. Don’t waste time. I made every moment in my life count. Make the meals, wash the clothes, create the lesson plans, be sure everybody was where they were supposed to be at the appointed time. That’s how I grew up and that’s what I taught all you girls.
Now that Dad and I are living with Grandpa and Grandma, that word has become extinct in my vocabulary. Nothing is efficient. We walk slowly, we speak slowly, we eat slowly, although Dad and I are still the first ones finished with a meal. We talk and wait until everyone at the table is finished. We repeat many of our words, either because Grandpa can’t hear us, or Grandma forgets what we told her 60 seconds ago.
Yesterday we celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary. About half the clan was there. Almost forty of us in all – children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren – came together for a meal next to beautiful Bass Lake. Hamburgers, summer salads and baked beans made for a simple yet scrumptious lunch. Grandpa and Grandma couldn’t remember all the people’s names, but they did know that they are loved, appreciated and respected.
We were at the lake for about four hours and no one seemed in a hurry to go. Hugs, smiles, cards, cake and words were in abundance. We were not efficient but we enjoyed life for the afternoon.
Last night after we got home we were talking about the delightful party, Grandpa kept talking and talking about how much he enjoyed having so many of his offspring around him. Grandma asked “What party was that? Was I there?”
So why do we throw a party for someone who doesn’t remember it an hour after it’s over? Because we need to celebrate faithfulness with the younger folks. We need to rejoice in life and all that is good.
Have there been times during their 65 years together that Grandpa and Grandma fought? Of course. I know there were days of anger, hurtful words, silent treatments, frustration, times that they each got on each other’s last nerve. It is an imperfect marriage, just like all of ours, but vows were made and kept. And for that, we rejoice.
I recently read a book called Adam, God’s Beloved by Henri Nouwen. Adam was a 34 year-old man, severely handicapped, who could not speak or even move without assistance. But Henri, a world-renowned author, university professor and speaker, had become tired of the continual expectations that come with someone of his stature. So he decided to stop all the fabulously impressive things he was doing and care for Adam and others at L’Arche Daybreak in Toronto, Canada. There he found community and a sense of belonging, something he had been missing much of his life. He was accepted and loved even though he wasn’t writing books or teaching.
After caring for Adam and other L’Arche residents for almost ten years Henri wrote the following:
Adam’s great teaching to us was, “I can live only if you surround me with love and if you love one another. Otherwise, my life is useless and I am a burden.”
Such wise and true words. We need the Grandmas and the Grandpas, the Adams, and other people of the world to teach us to celebrate life, listen carefully, laugh often at ourselves and each other. It has been good for Dad and I to adjust to a new, slower rhythm of life. We have come to realize that we are all on the same journey, that mysterious and profound journey of life, and that we are all broken, yet beloved.
Life is a gift. Each person is unique, known by name and loved by the One who created us. Regrettably, there is a consistent, loud, prevailing message that comes to us from our world leading us to believe that we must prove our belovedness by how we look, what we own, and what we can do.
True living does not mean checking off everything on your to-do list. Living, at the root of all life, is learning how to love. And what better way to learn to love than to hang out with people who are not efficient, with those who struggle, with the weak-minded and the weak-bodied. Life can become shallow when we think only about ourselves, our own interests, and our own lives.
Is it easy? Nope.
Is it always fun? Not at all.
Is it challenging? Yes.
It is hard, but oh so good.
Though it has been a long journey, I am learning – finally – to love, and sometimes that means to water that poor, neglected middle flower pot on the table after Grandma has gone to bed.
Love, Mom
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