A Fresh Look

Posted on January 23, 2011 by Margaret

This afternoon the slanted sunshine of winter spilled through our windows. While the rest of the country gathered chips and dips in preparation for the Bears-Packers game, I decided to do something different: paint a couple of stools in the bright sunlight. They’d been primed for six months awaiting their finishing coat, and today was as good a day as any.

Though I don’t have TV, I could have listened to the game on the radio but chose worship music instead. Following football might have been a better idea, however, because when Nate’s favorite hymn, “Blessed Assurance,” came on, I got weepy. Even bright sunlight doesn’t help watery eyes see brush strokes very well.

Bagging the brush and picking up a hymnal, I decided to follow the words as the familiar song played. “Visions of rapture now burst on my sight. I in my Savior am happy and blest. Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine!”

Although these words had run through Nate’s mind hundreds of times, their meaning for him now is completely different, more authentic, tangible. Something about that struck me. He was far away experiencing a life radically different than mine. We had much in common until 15 months ago, but now we share very little. Today I’m painting stools. What is he doing?

Sitting in front of me on the coffee table was the book my kids gave me in September, the story of Nate’s life in pictures and words. As precious old hymns played, I read through the book again, feeling intense sadness that Nate was gone. It’s been quite a while since I cried hard, but as I carefully studied his face, especially in the most recent pictures, holding back sobs was impossible.

Oh to go back! I really miss him. Did I love him enough? Had I put him first? Could I have done more?

I… I… I.

It was self-pity for sure, which doesn’t do much for healing. If anything, it produces inertia. My crying was a good reason to ask God, “What would you like me to think right now?”

He answered with something he’d already told me. “Rejoice always. Pray continually. Give thanks in all circumstances.” (1 Thessalonians 5) I was thankful he brought that up again and gave me something positive to do immediately. Focusing back on the book, I continued weeping but this time found myself rejoicing in the picture-memories and being thankful for all Nate did as a husband and father.

When I came to the photo of Nate sitting in a wheelchair with severe pain on his face, I cried hard remembering his suffering but was enormously thankful for how courageously he bore his pain, a great accomplishment.

As the Bears and the Packers battled it out on the other side of Lake Michigan, the Lord and I sat together for two hours, listening to hymns, rejoicing, talking in prayer and remembering Nate with thankfulness.

Tomorrow, as the Bears nurse their wounds, I’ll finish painting the stools.

“My heart rejoices in the Lord! The Lord has made me strong.There is no Rock like our God.” (1 Samuel 2:1a,2b)

What’s required?

Posted on January 19, 2011 by Margaret

Most of us can tell interesting tales of our very first jobs. Mine was waitressing in a small California diner in 1966. I was 20 years old and living with my cousins for the summer in a tiny desert town above Los Angeles.

Cousin Gloria and I were hired together by Mary, the owner of “Mary’s Kitchen.” She was a one-woman show who did all the cooking, bookkeeping and food management while training two green waitresses.

Mary’s requirements were simple:

Buy a white uniform, and wash it daily.
Show up on time, and never miss a shift.
Serve drinks first.
For everything else, ask me.

Although Gloria and I made some major mistakes, Mary sensed we were trying hard and gave us endless grace. The day I dropped a tray of 20 water glasses, breaking them all, she rolled her eyes but only charged me a nickle a glass. When I spilled hot coffee at the counter, burning the ankles of those seated on the stools, she lectured me sternly but forgave me.

One Sunday morning about half way through the summer, Mary had just unlocked the front door at 7:00 am when the sound of approaching motorcycles made us both look toward the front window. Fifteen disheveled men pulled up on massive Harley bikes, and I heard Mary mutter, “Oh no. Hells Angels.”

I’d heard about this gang of trouble-makers with a death-head logo on their jackets and violence on their minds. They’d been credited with dealing drugs, trafficking stolen goods, extortion, public brawls, even murder.

My instinct told me to bolt for the door and throw the lock, but Mary said, “Better let ‘em in.”

They burst into our little dining room spewing language that burned my ears and roughly rearranging the tables with boisterous bravado. From their conversation I could tell they’d spent the night in the foothills and were ravenous.

Mary called her husband who quickly arrived on his own Harley with a gun in his pocket. His presence in the corner reassured us both as we pretended nothing unusual was happening.

Mary miraculously produced the requested dinner plates of meat and potatoes rather than breakfast eggs, and the men ate so much we wondered if they’d pay. In the end, some did, some didn’t, but the loss was offset by our relief in seeing them drive away.

Ever since then I’ve wondered about those men. Each had a life-story and a reason for joining the Hells Angels. Requirements for membership are complicated:

Become a “Hang-around”, attending only certain get-togethers.
Move up to “Associate”, waiting a year or two.
Become a “Prospect”, participating in some meetings.
Gain “Full-patch”, wearing the insignia and voting.

They call themselves a motorcycle club but are most proud of their strong bond of brotherhood. Maybe this “family” connection draws them more powerfully than their love of motorcycles or escapades.

The desire to belong is strong within all of us, because it’s God-given. That’s why the Lord offers membership in his family to not just a few but to everyone. Requirements are simple:

Believe Jesus is the Son of God.
Receive him as Savior from personal sin.

Unlike riding with the Hells Angels or even working at Mary’s Kitchen, belonging to God’s family is for everyone. None are excluded.

“To all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” (John 1:12)

Seven Birthday Trees

Posted on January 13, 2011 by Margaret

On several occasions, we Nymans have been criticized for having such a big family. “Seven kids? What a giant environmental footprint you’re leaving.”

I have a friend who was walking into the Field Museum with her seven kids when she was approached by a stranger. “Are these all yours?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then you’re breathing more than your fair share of the earth’s oxygen.”

It was rude and inaccurate, spoken like the disgruntled person she probably was, but it gave me an idea. Each of our children should plant a tree. It would give off oxygen and take in some of the carbon dioxide they breathed out. It would also provide a snap answer to a criticism, should another come.

Even though every human being would need to plant an entire acre of trees to bring balance to the O2-CO2 ratio, we could at least participate symbolically. We decided to let each of our kids plant a tree in the yard just as they were leaving home for college or other pursuits at 18.

Nelson was the first and chose a weeping willow. He knew they were fast-growing and loved the sweeping branches. His willow sapling had a trunk no thicker than his finger but true to its reputation, grew tall quickly. When we moved recently, it had grown into a healthy specimen of 50 feet, its “weeping” branches long and strong.

Two years later, Lars chose a sour-cherry tree, because he loved cherry pie. His tree also started small, and although it yielded a small cherry crop each year, the birds always got them before we did. Several years in, it began to suffer and eventually died. We quickly replaced it with a same-size, same-kind of tree, and it’s been growing well since then.

Linnea’s tree is a resurrection story. Because she loved apples, she chose a golden delicious tree, but our high-strung dog Penny spent hours gnawing its branches until only a stump remained. Surprisingly, after Penny died, the stump began growing again, eventually flourishing and producing apples.

Klaus chose a peach tree. The first spring it produced literally hundreds of peaches, too great a burden for such a little tree. We plucked off buckets of ping-pong sized fruit, leaving about 20 peaches to grow to full size. Even then, the little branches needed wooden supports, but the peaches were big and juicy.

Hans admired Nelson’s weeping willow and followed suit. We planted it in a sloppy downpour the morning he left for his Tennessee university, and after a minor set-back, his tree has grown quickly and flourished.

Louisa chose a decorative crab with giant white blossoms. Shaped like an umbrella with its branches cascading like falling water, it found a home in the center of the front yard where I enjoyed its beauty from the kitchen sink. Sadly, the week after we moved, someone dug it up one night and stole it. Only the hole was left, a bizarre end to a short story.

Birgitta chose a mighty oak no taller than she was but with the potential to outlast all the others. The day we dug its hole, we’d gotten two feet deep when we hit a rock. In a half-acre yard, we’d chosen the exact spot where a three-foot wide boulder was hiding. Digging a second hole, we set her oak in full sun, and it’s gaining steady growth every year.

Each tree choice reflects the personality of its buyer, and I hope as the years pass and the trees continue to grow, our kids will give God the credit. I also hope they’ll appreciate the variety in his creation and will point to him as they “show off” their trees one future day.

But we’ll have to come up with a better ending for Louisa’s story.

“The seeds of good deeds become a tree of life.” (Proverbs 11:30a)