As a small child, I used to sit on my father’s lap on cold winter evenings and watch the fire as it danced in the fireplace. He would rock me in that saggy, cane-bottom chair we used to have; a rocker so worn and tired that every time someone sat down, the joints creaked and complained like an old man with lumbago. Back and forth. Back and forth we would nod together, my father and I, as we listened to that rocker sing its squeaky song.
I’VE ALWAYS loved company. I grew up in a home where the front door was seldom locked and a constant stream of friends and relatives enriched our lives with their warmth and conversation. I learned the art of hospitality by watching my parents welcome guests into our home…
How would you finish this statement: “I hate… ”? If your mother was like mine, you learned at a very early age to be careful how you used that word hate. Never, for example, would I entertain the thought of inserting a person’s name in the blank after hate. You don’t hate people.
I remember, now. I stood, one day, waiting.
That gathered group of friends waited, too.
We waited for the mothers to take their seats,
And then, for bride’s maids to slowly walk,
Whether I remember to ask Him, or not. Whether I even take notice of Him, or not, He is there. How, I wonder, would things be different, if I would just address and confess? Yes, confess … the sin of ungratefulness in my life?
I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this story. But it’s been long enough now. I guess I can tell you. One cool March day in the early Spring of 1991, something happened to me that changed my life. It didn’t seem like a particularly momentous thing at the time, really.
I’ve never been troubled much with it before, but this morning as I sat, pondering ‘the way things are,’ a bothersome thought crossed my mind. The more I dwelt on it, the more it nagged at me . . . something I think I forgot. I’m not sure there’s much I can do about it now. Maybe that’s the reason I was troubled. It has to do with ‘talk.’
Sit in a room full of moms, and mention the day they became a mom,
And you’ll hear the noise level rise.
And the looks in their eyes,
And the depth of their sighs will tell you: The stories are about to begin.
CLARA DIED YESTERDAY. I saw her for the first time several months ago while we were visiting relatives in her hometown. I had heard about her before, but the sight was more than I expected. The locals called her the “Garbage Lady.” She couldn’t get inside her house, because it was full of garbage.
Sometimes when I tell stories, people ask me if they are true. And I say to them, “Yes, they are true stories, and yes, they really did happen.” Usually, the one who has asked the question will smile and nod, and I will smile and nod back. It’s always nice to write a story that brings warmth and encouragement to another.