Category Archives: Remembering

Risky Business

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When Mom was in her mid-80’s, she wanted to drive from Chicago around the south end of Lake Michigan to her summer home, staying as close to the water as possible. The rest of us doubted the efficacy of her idea, an old lady driving through dangerous neighborhoods for no important reason, but we knew Mom.

She was going to do it.

She asked if any of us wanted to accompany her, and although many of us said, “Sure!” there were always reasons why it wasn’t a good day. Then Mom got tired of waiting. She left her home in Wilmette, 25 miles north of Chicago, and threaded her way south along Sheridan Road, Lake Shore Drive and route 94, enjoying a lake view all the way.

When she got to Gary and Hammond, she had trouble staying close to the shoreline because of the steel mills but said she never lost sight of the water (questionable). She finished her drive to the Michigan cottage on routes 20 and 12, accomplishing her goal.

Naturally we lectured her after the fact, but half of her joy was in showing up the rest of us. When I asked if she’d been nervous anywhere along the way she said, “Be friendly to people, and they’ll be friendly to you.” Who knows what she encountered.

Dad was accurate when he said, “Your Ma is a risk-taker.” When it involved our children, however, we cringed, like the time she let our preschoolers drive her car by having them crawl under her feet and push the break and gas pedals with their hands. Or the time she sent two 2 year olds to the beach unaccompanied. We found them playing in the lake.

Another time she took our 4 and 5 year old girls to Chicago’s Adler Planetarium. Once inside the building, she remembered their snack bags in her car.

“Grandma’s tired,” she said, plunking down on a planetarium bench. “Here’s the car keys. Remember where we parked?” The two little girls headed down the wide steps and into a massive parking lot in downtown Chicago in search of snack bags. I can’t even list the multiple risks she took in doing this.

Recently some friends and I talked about risk-taking in relation to aging. As the years pile up, most of us get cautious, eliminating risk wherever possible. Guaranteed safety becomes more and more attractive, and without our realizing it, the world shrinks, along with many positive possibilities.

We agreed it’s a good idea to fight this natural shut-down, forcing ourselves to take at least minimal risks. We should keep driving in busy cities, going out after dark, trying new foods, meeting new people, traveling to faraway places. But how?

By factoring in God. We’re supposed to trust in his care. But will he come through if we’re risking too much? He wants us to walk in wisdom, which is usually somewhere between wild risk and none at all, a difficult place to live. I think its called moderation.

Amazingly, Mom’s risk-taking never got her in trouble. And she sure had fun! Maybe God assigned extra angels to “keep her in all her ways.” 

Is there such a thing as “wise risk?” Although Mom’s risk management was sometimes foolish, taking no risks is foolish, too.

 “Moderation is better than muscle, self-control better than political power.” (Proverbs 16:32)

Oh Mama!

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In honor of Mothers Day, and because so many of you blog-readers love stories about my mom, here’s a bit of info about her. As you read between the lines, you’ll see how she came to be the colorful person she was.

 

Mom was born at home in 1912, arriving just before Christmas. Because she was due in 1913, she told everyone she wasn’t as old as they thought.

She was born too soon and was unhealthy, so the doctor told her parents not to name her. That way when she died, they wouldn’t be too attached. And so she remained “Baby James” through December and into 1913. By St. Patrick’s Day her father, a full-blooded Irishman, nicknamed her “Pat” after the holiday. He called her that for the rest of his years.

Eventually they officially named her Evelyn Pauline after an older brother, Everett Paul, who died at the age of 8 in a school yard accident.

Growing up during the Great Depression, she learned to squeeze a penny till Lincoln squirmed and made sure we could pinch him, too. She married a shy, 42 year old Swede when she was 29. Unable to wait until he popped the question, she did it herself.

When asked what she wanted as a housewarming gift, she said, “Toys for children who might visit us.” Before she had any of her own kids, though, she made friends with all the neighborhood children, and while in labor with her first baby passed out chocolate chip cookies before heading for the hospital.

After having two little girls born 20 months apart, Mom was expecting a third when she began hemorrhaging and was rushed to the hospital. After being given the wrong blood type from an inaccurately labeled bottle, she nearly died. But God had other plans for Evelyn Pauline Pat James Johnson.

Although doctors cautioned Mom not to become pregnant again, our brother Tom came along on Dad’s 50th birthday, a definite bonus to all of us. To this day I think Mom tricked Dad, since she’d wanted nothing more than a houseful of children. Eventually she got her wish with 17 grandchildren, all local and all in love with their grandma.

Mom viewed children as marvels to be cherished, protected and admired. She never encountered a child she didn’t approve of and although she rubbed off on them, her greatest joy came when they rubbed off on her.

She also loved music and practiced piano daily. In her teens she taught lessons, in her thirties played the four-keyboard organ for Moody Church, and in her prime accompanied enough weddings and funerals to put us through college, although she gave the money back to the bride instead.

Mom memorized entire books of the Bible, taught high school Sunday school for decades and conducted in-home Bible studies throughout her married life. But she also loved a good practical joke and made good use of her whoopee cushion, plastic vomit and artificial dog poop. No wonder kids loved her.

Dad used to say Mom was a risk-taker. Tomorrow I’ll tell you a story that proves it.

“A cheerful heart is good medicine.” (Proverbs 17:22)

Were you there?

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Tonight our church conducted something called “The Stations of the Cross.” Growing up, I’d never heard of this tradition, but apparently it originated in the Catholic Church. During Easter week, parishioners walk Jesus’ path toward the crucifixion, praying through each stage of his dreadful journey. The point is to ponder Christ’s suffering and death, appreciating it anew. Our initial prayer tonight was, “Let me see what once you did for love of me and all the world.”

I overheard one attendee said, “Isn’t this a Catholic thing?”

But another said, “Yes, and we grew up thinking we shouldn’t do it because they did.”

We were given a booklet listing 14 stopping points throughout the church, each with a suggested prayer and an opportunity to participate in Jesus’ experience.

At Station 1 we found a bowl of water representing Pilate washing his hands of Jesus, along with a gavel we could bring down in judgment representing the mob that unjustly condemned him.

At Station 2 we were invited to lift a heavy wooden cross as we thought about Jesus carrying that burden on his flogged and bleeding back. It symbolized the weight of our sins, so heavy they crushed him completely.

We were encouraged to choose a large, dirty rock and feel its weight, then write one of our sins on it and throw it into a garbage can, receiving forgiveness and leaving sin behind.

There was a station representing the love of Jesus’ mother and his love for her, expressed on the cross. Another station urged us to accept a small handkerchief as a symbol of the comfort so many in this world need but don’t receive, just as Jesus needed comfort on his painful journey. As Christians we ought to provide that comfort, even for someone who’s been disfigured and might be covered with spit, blood and sweat as Jesus was.

On we walked through each station, arriving at Station 8 where we approached a bowl of salty water representing Christ’s tears. If we so desired, we could taste them from a cup, sharing a tiny bit in his suffering. We were reminded of Psalm 126:5, “When we sow with tears, we’ll reap with songs of joy.”

We meditated in front of clothes representing Christ’s stripping and humiliation for us and prayed for a willingness to be stripped of whatever hinders our full submission to him – possessions, affections, addictions.

At Station 11 we planted wheat seeds in rich, black earth and meditated on John 12:24: “Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” Jesus spoke these words in reference to his own impending death.

As we approached a full-sized, vine-wrapped cross at Station 12, we put dead branches onto it, symbolizing Jesus’ death. By this time I was feeling cold and shaky with a deep sadness from head to toe. Holding back tears was difficult, but Station 13 was harder yet.

Spread on the sanctuary communion table was a flax colored cloth (behind the cross) representing the removal of Jesus’ body and preparation for burial. Beside the cloth were bowls of sweet-scented spices. Something about touching that cloth made his death poignantly real for me, and the tears spilled. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

The last station found each of us sitting alone in the dimly-lit sanctuary while solemn music played, all of us in one-on-one conversation with the Savior. My little white hankie from Station 6 came in handy!

After sharing communion together, we went outdoors where a dramatic scene ended the evening. At one of the stations we’d been invited to leave our burdens at the cross by writing them on small cards and putting them inside a cardboard cross. The cross was now set on fire, and our burdens were lifted heavenward by the flames.

“When they had crucified him… they kept watch over him there. Above his head they placed the written charge against him: THIS IS JESUS, THE KING OF THE JEWS.” (Matthew 27:35-37)