My children are not mine; they are not a possession. They have been given to me to love and to nurture, but ultimately they do not belong to me. This I learned from the beginning of motherhood when my firstborn, my son, was born six weeks prematurely. While I was in early labor a nurse at the hospital informed me, "This baby cannot be born. It is too little." He was born within less than three hours of that statement. He was small, weighing a bit over 5 pounds at a time several decades ago when there were no neo-natal intensive care units in hospitals, and the sole treatment for preemies was to place them in incubators, pumping oxygen in to assist them with their underdeveloped lungs. Watching him through a glass window, his heart beating in his chest like hummingbird wings, it never occurred to me that his life could be taken at any point in time. Later, I understood the reality of that.
After spending two weeks in an incubator, we brought him home from the hospital with all kinds of information as to what to expect from a preemie. His physical and mental development would be stunted, we were told. He would be playing catch-up for quite a while. The disparity between reality and what "they" said was evident from the beginning. Within three month's time he was on par with his peers. Apparently my son didn't read the pamphlets. I know God didn't.
Several years later, in his early teens, I learned how quickly life can turn, in a heartbeat, when a phone call was received from the school principal. My son had "taken a little tumble" in a physical education class, but they thought he was "okay." They had him sitting up and everything seemed to be "alright." The "little tumble" resulted in torn ligaments in his neck, making it impossible to support his head. While waiting for the surgeon to fuse three vertebrae, using wire in a figure 8 and bone from his hip to create one section of solid spine in his neck, there were no prayers. Not knowing whether or not he would have a whole body, I learned to wait on and for my Heavenly Father, asking nothing of Him. Waiting, waiting, only waiting, knowing my son's future life was not in my hands. The fact that he did not belong to me was reinforced.
He spent the summer in a body cast, no small feat for a growing 14-year-old boy, drawing questioning looks and stares wherever he went. I watched as he deflected them and simply lived his life, and I learned what it means to not be affected by others. Another lesson learned was of the kindness of our Creator. Almost 40 years later, my son has two scars, one on his neck and one on his hip where bone was taken for the fusion, but no complications from what could have been a debilitating injury. I never cease being thankful.
He taught me that one can make a collection of anything. As a little guy he collected animal figures given out by a local gas station. There was a particular Jell-O box which depicted Mr. Jell-O. He had a drawer filled with those. The Jell-O boxes are gone, but he still has animals he accumulated as a child. The collections of old insulators, old bottles, shells, Hard Rock Cafe pins from around the world --I have no doubt they are tucked away as well.
Christmastime brings out displays of more than a few Nativity scenes and favorite Christmas ornaments and decorations. Christmas at his home is like walking into a Christmas gift store, not knowing where to look first.
His office is filled with University of Oregon football memorabilia; his yard is filled with all varieties of unique garden accessories and birdhouses. If he has a particular taste for something, he will make a collection out of it. He just can't help himself.
His sisters talk about their brother's "fem" side: a former greenhouse filled with orchids; the detailed, exquisite cross stitch gifts he has created; the Thanksgiving meals he prepares for family and friends, the menus he plans and cooks for charity dinners and tailgating parties. He has taught me that gender is just a word.
My son lives his life at full-speed. He has since birth. A sister commented that he never does anything half-way, and she's right. His passion for animals, nature, wildlife, the sea and the outdoors; his humor and his hearty laugh; his effort to have a positive outlook no matter what the circumstances; his love for his family, music, and God--Everything about him is larger than life. If you were to see him you would be struck by his imposing presence, this 6' 4" man who began life as a preemie. In spite of the fact he never taught me the inappropriateness of wearing denim with denim, as my daughters have, I continue to learn by having him in my life. I am forever thankful for my son.
A Shanks' family reunion has been planned for today. Actually, I am refusing to call it a reunion. I'm calling it a family bash. Wouldn't you rather go to a bash than a reunion? A local swimming pool has been reserved for the afternoon exclusively for the offspring of my own family and those of my two brothers. The idea is that if the kids have fun then everyone has fun. I think that is a basic formula for success in a family with children.
This has been in the making for more than a few months. It was one of those "single thoughts" that began rolling around in my mind almost a year ago when I approached family members with the possibility of getting together during the summer of 2014. It seemed the only time my family connects any more is at funerals, and I wanted that to change.
My childhood memories and on into adulthood are filled with family times at my parent's country home. Every birthday was celebrated with a "get-together;" holidays meant the house was filled with people--my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews; summer always had outdoor fun with homemade ice cream. There was food, an abundance of hearty, home-grown food created by women who knew how to cook. That changed when my mother's life was taken over by Alzheimer's, and she subsequently passed after a 10-year-long battle. I don't think we ever intended to scatter, but we did. She was the glue.
Yesterday I was trying to recollect the last time we were all together. My children and the children of my two brothers grew up together, but it has been a while, a long while.
The response to my grand plan has been overwhelmingly positive. I think the lure of the swimming pool worked. The grandgirls are excited over the prospect of getting acquainted with cousins they've not met before. The little one's suggestion that "We'll pray before we eat, because that's what you do at reunions" will be heeded as well. The sparkly grandgirl noted the comment she always hears at reunions is that of how much she has grown since she was last seen. I need to remember not to do that.
Today is also a brother's birthday. It seems fitting that we are having a "get-together" aka bash, even though the homemade ice cream will be missing. I am thinking a Dairy Queen ice cream cake will fill the bill and run a close second as a favorite.
My son is preparing huge slabs of pork for pulled pork for sandwiches as we speak, and I have no doubt the daughters and granddaughters are continuing the tradition of preparing absolutely delicious potluck fare. The weather is cooperating, and family members have made this day, this time, a priority. Can it get any better than this?
A friend asked me if I was the matriarch. "No," was my response. "I just organized it. Besides don't you have to be old to be one of those?" The answer was that one only has to be 69. Bingo! I'm not sure what it means to be a matriarch, and I'm not taking that role on, but I am thrilled that my family is going to be together--and it's not at a funeral. Fun times and good food, wonderful memories!
She was an older woman about my age, choosing food from the bulk food bins at the grocery store. Dashing in to purchase my own selection of goodies to fortify me through my work day, I noticed her as I passed by. My one and only thought, a random one coming out of nowhere was, She must not have daughters.
My reasoning for this conclusion was that she was wearing a denim jacket with denim jeans. I am no fashionista, and I personally do not have a problem with that combination. However, I have been trained and trained well. If I was to even consider such a combination there is a resounding admonition in my head, a collective chorus of voices--"Mom, you can't wear denim with denim!" Who knew? I thought it was enough that they matched.
I have been gifted with daughters, three of them. Actually four, when I include the one who was given to me when my son married, but I'm talking about those who entered my life at birth and who grew up under my roof. These girls are not three "peas in a pod." If you were to see them in a lineup you'd be hard pressed choosing them as siblings. In addition, their personalities and interests differ as much as do their physical appearances. They are unique, one-of-a-kind individuals, albeit all raised by the same mother.
That early morning encounter set my mind in gear, and I found myself thinking about my daughters and all I have learned from them. I know it is the role of the parent to do the teaching, but oh, the things my girls have taught me.
My daughters have taught me that, when decorating a home or planting a garden, one must display pictures or plants in odd numbers, never even; I've learned that accessories, including shoes, and fit make all the difference in creating an outfit of clothing. I've also learned it is not polite to stare at people and was recently reminded of that once again.
With three daughters in the house, I learned one hot water heater really isn't enough on a school morning. The priorities in life are hair and clothing, but music--loud music, friends, and laughter are of an equal importance. Oh, yes, then there are "the boys." Another lesson learned was almost any situation (and the possibilities are far too many to list) has the potential of escalating from minor to major in a heartbeat, and every effort must be taken to avoid that at all cost. Reasoning with a girl who is in a calamitous frame of thinking and mind is nigh unto impossible. Plus she will either make a lot of noise or go silent. Neither of those two are beneficial nor productive.
Each of my daughters taught me there is no pain or heartbreak to match that of breaking up with a boyfriend. And a mother's love cannot help or heal. Recovery is a solitary, individual process which takes time and a personal inner strength and resolve. They each made it through and became stronger young women, and I learned they had to do it on their own.
I am a grandmother now, and I watch as those daughters of mine mother their own daughters. I'm quite certain they are being schooled and taught by them as well. All of my girls have an open, honest level of communication with their children. It is one I wish I had had with them as they were growing up, but I didn't. My grandgirls are encouraged to discuss any and all topics, and they do. What a gift they are being given.
As my daughters have become women I have learned they never cease being daughters, and I will always be Mother. And yet I have learned a bonus at this time of life, one I never expected in those early days, and it is that of being friends. I have always maintained that children are a gift, and my daughters are that. I have been gifted with a son as well, but that will be written about another day. Besides, he never taught me that wearing denim with denim was inappropriate.
Boise, Idaho is not on the other side of the world as I originally feared. The reason I know this is that I was able to hop on a plane--well, actually two--before breakfast and arrive in time for breakfast. One does not get to the other side of the world that quickly.
My apprehensions have dissipated. My daughter and her family, who moved there at the beginning of summer, still recognized me. A room in their home has been designated "Grandma's room", and, even though it had no bed in it, I have claimed it as my own. I even have access to a bathroom, willingly shared by a grandgirl.
My view is that change is important in one's life. It is the opposite of stagnation, and an outer change can be an impetus and opportunity for personal growth and development. We all know what happens with stagnancy. One need only look at standing water to draw a pretty graphic picture. It is the same in our personal lives.
The thing about change, though, is that there can be a change in our environment, our outer surroundings, and no change within. That was expressed clearly the other day in a conversation I had with someone: "I have moved; everything is different; nothing is the same. And yet nothing has changed. I am still the same." There was a recognition, an acknowledgement of the true need, the need to be transformed from within.
On the other hand, the opposite is true as well. Everything can remain the same in the physical outer and yet I can become a different person, a better person. I can change.
As I am writing this, I realize this is a theme I have already expressed, and the question is whether or not I am going to post this. I probably will, because I feel the basic premise is important and reminders are always good.
Circumstances in my life have changed and are constantly changing. The sparkly grandgirl and the fearless one aren't quite so handy to visit; summer is already shifting towards fall, and daylight is lessening; the grandgirl who made me "Nana" has her permit and will soon be conquering the highway on her own; an epic, milestone birthday awaits me around the corner, the big 7-0. And yet, I revel most in those changes which take place within.
My goal, my desire--to become and to be the person I was created to be. That cannot happen on my own but only at the hand of the One who made me. For me, that is the change that truly matters.
It was the first leg of my flight, and I can't say I was really even awake yet. My eyes were open, but I don't think I had slept much, and I had arrived at the airport in time for a 5:10 A. M. flight. You know how it is--hurry up and wait. The plane was small, one used to shuttle passengers for a 30-minute flight to Portland.
Window seats are my preference while flying. From the first time I flew, looking out on the majestic mountain ranges, the small farms tucked away out in the middle of nowhere, the lights of cities, the rivers and the seas, the clouds that carry the illusion of being able to step out and take a walk, I never tire of the view and try to book a window seat.
I was one of the first ones on and, as the passengers loaded and the plane began to fill, I realized that, due to the physical size of the one sitting next to me, I would be crowded. We exchanged names and shared the reason for the flight at such a God-awful time of the morning. She and two friends were taking their kids to Disneyland. I was headed to Boise, Idaho to visit my daughter, grandgirls, and friends.
The next leg of the journey was a bit longer and, once again, I was crowded, squeezed next to the window. Having had a weight problem myself, I have always thought of myself as having a sense of understanding and compassion for those struggling with the same, and I do. It's just that I saw and experienced a facet of myself that I do not like and one I am not proud of.
On my return flight when the same thing happened again on both legs, I realized that my Father was not only making a point but reinforcing it. My initial observations, my reaction and response were based solely on what I saw with my physical eyes. I closed myself in, shut myself down, and shut out those sitting next to me because of my own labeling. I don't like being treated that way and yet, here I am! Except for the first young woman, I have no idea what kind of people I was sharing my flights with. I can only give you a physical description, and it is not a stellar, complimentary one at that. It makes me wonder how many times in how many other circumstances I've done a similar thing--judged a book by its cover.
I am still processing my experience. I know I haven't fully grasped the point of my Eugene to Boise round-trip flight yet. But this I know: I did not practice what I preach. There is so much to learn, so much personal growth to be had. There is a saying which is applicable. "God is not finished with me yet."
"Man looks on the outer, but God looks on the heart."
It was either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on the perspective one chooses. Upon awakening, I found myself thinking about recent happenings and a word that ties them all together. As so often occurs in my life I have an idea, a sense of the word and what it means, but I am unable to define it succinctly. How does one clearly express privilege?
Yesterday afternoon my son communicated via a text, along with a picture, a geocache he had discovered; daughters shared their lives; a friend in another state showed me a picture of a wildfire being observed from her front porch. To top it off two of the grandgirls who have moved far, far away (Idaho fills that description for me) called telling me of their current accomplishments. The fearless one had just mastered an entire list of gymnastic feats, and I was able to hear about it first-hand. The sparkly one had her own gymnastic skills to share, and I was told of all the plans for an upcoming Grandma visit. The common denominator was the communication of our time, the cell phone.
Privilege: a peculiar benefit, advantage, or favor; a right not enjoyed by others or by all; special enjoyment of a good; preferential treatment.
The thing about privileges is that they become so easily taken for granted, right along with gifts, blessings, and all the other positive things in our lives. I daresay most of the younger generation (now I'm really sounding old, aren't I?) would not feel the plethora of electronics available is so much a privilege as it is a need. It quite matches my view of electricity growing up compared to that of my parents'.
There was a news report last night about 40,000 people stranded on the side of a mountain in Iraq. They have the choice of either staying there, starving and dying or coming down off that mountain and being killed by a group of terrorists. Their one fault: They have a different religious faith from those who would and will massacre them, given the opportunity.
Privileged? Yes, in so many ways. There is a tendency to think of money when one thinks of privilege. While money can and does provide a lot of unnecessary luxuries and perks to those who have it, there are plenty of things that cannot be purchased. One of those is that of being a citizen of this country and this nation. It is one of the greater privileges given to any man.
Upon returning home after spending time in Scotland as an exchange student I was struck by the fact that I had been created an American, a privilege given me by my Creator. That, as a 16-year-old.
There is a world of people who would give anything to just be able to live their lives. I am privileged that, thus far, I am able to do that, as are you. In spite of all the rules, the laws, and the regulations in place by the powers that be, I do live my life.
Gratitude and thankfulness to my Creator are in order.
Doldrums: part of the ocean near the equator, abounding in calms, which sometimes prevent all sailing progress for weeks; a state of listlessness, ennui, or tedium.
The doldrums have set in. You know, where life feels stagnant; it's all same ol', same ol', a merry-go-round, a hamster wheel. In gardening seasons past the description has been that I have "hit a wall." A daughter very gently reminds me that it happens this time every year. And she is right. Our temperatures have been in the near 90's or above for at least 3 weeks now, and everything has a tired look and feel about it, including me. Parched, dry grasses are everywhere. The lush look of spring in Oregon is long gone. The trees are the only thing which can tout the advertisement that Oregon is green.
For those who irrigate, those with vegetable gardens and beautiful flower gardens, the look and feel of despair isn't so prevalent. After having lived with wells for most of my life I refuse to pay what the city charges to keep my world green. That expense is a factor for many others as well and so brown and dry is the theme at this time of the year.
This, however, has a different feel to it. Something else is happening within me, something besides 90 degree temperatures in Oregon's Willamette Valley in August. I feel like I am stalled, not making the growth and progress I love. When this happens, I don't look to my physical world but rather, to my inner world and to my Creator, searching and questioning.
Introspection is good. Sitting quietly and looking deep within results in answers, truths being revealed which don't begin and end in the human mind or one's outer environment. The One who made me knows me better than I know myself. My experience is that the source, the cause of my state is most often far removed from what I would ever speculate or think. And so it is once again today. I could not deny the truth of that revelation upon seeing it and being made aware. Progress begins.
There is no moving forward, no escaping the doldrums until issues within are faced and dealt with. The joy of it lies in its simplicity. All that is necessary is asking for truth and facing it. In that single stroke the beginning of change and change itself takes place. Not a bad deal, I say.
"Seek and you shall find."
He spent the summer in a body cast, no small feat for a growing 14-year-old boy, drawing questioning looks and stares wherever he went. I watched as he deflected them and simply lived his life, and I learned what it means to not be affected by others. Another lesson learned was of the kindness of our Creator. Almost 40 years later, my son has two scars, one on his neck and one on his hip where bone was taken for the fusion, but no complications from what could have been a debilitating injury. I never cease being thankful. 