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As Thanksgiving approaches, I am already becoming consumed with the preparations. Each year I ready the house to receive as many as 30 people, who come and leave at different times throughout the week. I cook and bake ahead as much as possible, and I fret ahead of time over how my feet will hurt so at the end of that day. But I also remain mindful each day leading up to the big day of all the many blessings in my life. God is so incredibly good.
In thinking about all the preparations yet to be made this morning on my walk, I rounded the corner onto my street and envisioned all our family members pulling into the drive anticipating this most-loved holiday in our family. I wondered about the other houses on my street. Do they celebrate Thanksgiving? Do they travel, or do they have family that comes? Is theirs a peaceful weekend, or is there strife? I pictured our houses without roofs, where the inside reality was visible to everyone. I wished everyone could see and participate in the grace and support and love and true gratitude our family shows every year as we stand in our huge circle before the feast. We pass the communion bread and cup and each tell what we are thankful for about the person standing to our right. Sometimes we cry as we recall an especially difficult year for that person, and sometimes we laugh hysterically at a memorable moment. We are always touched as the little ones take part and learn how to affirm each other and give thanks for our amazing family.
We aren't perfect, of course. And we aren't always happy, or even nice, for that matter. But we are close, and we love each other and we are doing the best we can. So it's at this time of year that I begin to feel that warm swelling that rises up when we think of certain people. I feel it at different times for different people, but I feel it for my immediate family ALL the time. And especially for my girls.
I have loved, loved, loved being a mom, and now that my girls are moms, I can't sit them on my lap or braid their hair, or tuck them in at night. (Thank God for memories!) But I do love them now as friends. Each of our friendships is different, just as our relationships were when they were growing up. I have taken what I learned as we raised them and still apply it to our friendships today. I know not to pry or ask too many questions to the one, and I actually remind myself not to talk so much at all. Rather, I still just show up and listen, and eventually she will share what she wants to. To the other I can give subtle suggestions, then allow her to grow them as her own, passing along full credit for even the hint of the idea. And to yet another, I am most free to agree or disagree without ever giving a thought to any fatal damage, knowing we always come back around to meet again in the middle admiring the other's strength and ultimate wisdom.
My girls are truly like three facets of myself, only in most perfect forms. None of them are exactly like me, yet all of them have characteristics that are amazingly like me! They are quiet, thoughtful, fun-loving, passionate, intense, wise, and creative. They love God, and are raising their children to be kind, faithful and responsible. They are much less legalistic than I was, and a million times more witty and wise. They don't worry about the temporal and aren't the least bit shaken by what others think (usually). They are funny beyond funny and caring beyond caring. They are pragmatic and loyal and trustworthy, and they have a healthy respect for all things Southern (which pleases me to no end, as I wasn't born there, but got there as soon as I could!). And finally, they each have given birth to seven of the most beautiful, intelligent and adorable angels that God has ever sent to earth.
So this Thanksgiving, I may not be standing next to any of my girls, but in my heart I will be most grateful to God for allowing me to mother three of the most amazing young women on the planet!
I love you, Shannah!
I love you, Jocelyn!
I love you, Lauren!
(Next post needs to be about my loveable hubby, huh? ha.)
Even though our grandkids all live within just a few minutes of us, we get to enjoy them overnight every now and then when their parents are out of town or have a late night planned. Such was the occasion the night we kept Lauren's girls. One of the highlights is always getting to hear all about what they are learning in school, even though the first answer is usually, "Uhh, I dunno."
This night, however, Simone was very excited to recite her Bible verse for the week, because it happened to be the same one her big sister, Savannah, was also memorizing. What made it so exciting for her was she had memorized not only the same verse, but the verse following, which of course made her much smarter then all the second graders. Especially since she is only in Junior Kindergarten!
I was thrilled when she proudly recited it for me to record, since Simone always has a mind of her own, and you never know when she'll cross her arms in resolute refusal, or when she'll be perfectly delighted to perform. This time, she was perfectly delighted to perform. So, may I present Miss Simone!
Tsk - tsk. A week has gone by and no World Series Part 2 post until now. I have been busy with a most awesome excuse, however. Our friend, Izella, had her baby this week! Izella found herself on our doorstep about nine years ago, new to America from Mexico, and moved into our hearts and our home. She moved out after seven years, married two years ago, and had baby Juliana Sophia this week! I have been busy being her stand-in Mom, and preparing my house for her sister and niece and nephew to come visit for two months! They will stay with Izella and Dominic part of that time, but we are happy, happy to have them here again! So that's my excuse, perhaps I will share more about them and the new baby later, but now on to the "Rest of the Story".
I began my last post by imagining being a 10 year-old boy in a World Series-winning city. I could not have been more excited for the Cardinals to be in the World Series, so I couldn't guess who might be more excited than me... Grayson or his Papaw. I told you about Doug's obsession with baseball, and he is obviously thrilled to have a grandson to pass his obsession on to, but mostly to share it with. (He also has Xavier coming up through the ranks, but Xave's dad is also a baseball fan... the CUBS, of all things, so you can imagine the rivalry. Poor Xavier will be caught in the middle his whole life! ha)
I will shrink the World Series down to the final game (even though Game six was the one to remember!), and tell you that I was happy to go with Doug to the first game. After that, I was hoping and praying that the series went to seven games, because I knew the plan was for Doug to take Gray to the final game if they made it that far. Win or lose, Papaw and his little buddy would be there to witness baseball history.
I pictured Gray in his 10 year-old mind seeing all things World Series bigger than they actually are, if that's possible. Or maybe that's the awesome part... it would actually BE every bit as big as a 10 year-old could create it to be. The players, the legends, the grass on the freshly-cut field, the crowds, the lights, the autumn night air, and of course, the hot dogs and pop, all boyhood wonder to be called forth night after night in his memory until Gray is an old man, and his Papaw a dear, faint memory.
If you knew the relationship between Doug and Grayson you would get all of this. This is more than just any 10 year-old boy's experience of the Cards going to the World Series. And maybe even more than any 10 year-old boy's experience of getting to GO to the World Series. And quite possibly even more than any 10 year-old boy's experience of getting to go to the World Series with his Grandpa (although that's special, I don't care who you are). This relationship is tight. Doug and Gray revere each other. Theirs is a bond so inseparable, so sweet. When you know about this relationship, you know it was divine in the making; providential, and truly a gift from God.
Any little guy who finds himself without a father at the critical age of five is a lost little guy. That's typically about the time boys really begin identifying with a male figure. And Gray was the perfect little boy for a Daddy. (see May 2009 post.) He was inquisitive, loyal and tender-hearted. And Doug, who had no sons, was beyond blessed to have his first granchild be a boy, Grayson Douglas. Moreover, he got to live within five minutes of his little namesake who was now fatherless. And so began this hand-in-glove thing between them that no one could come between. More than once Doug held him when he melted down, as his ill-equipped, juvenile behavior tried to make sense of his loss. He reinforced his mother's ettiquette lessons, and rough-housed with him on the living room floor. He spent hours in our basement letting Gray ride his Harley Big Wheel tricycle around and around, and lovingly pretended the 100th round of "Speed the Road" was just as exciting as the very first time Gray created the game. He celebrated with him the first ball he caught, and was there when he took off on his first real bike. I have seen Doug weep over Gray, pray over him, discipline him, play with him, encourage him, wrestle with him, praise him, teach him, coach him, and laugh hysterically with him. And now I was blessed to watch them share everything the game of Baseball represents to fathers and sons and grandfathers and grandsons all over this country. I don't know who God's favorite team is (gasp!), but I do know that as He is the giver of all good things, He surely loves baseball, and at the very least, stood up with tears in his eyes, and cheered at the final game of this World Series 2011. Not because of which team won, but because He is a God who lavishes on us blessings upon blessings (John 1:16), and He thought about and planned for this special relationship long before Gray needed a trustworthy man in his life and before Doug would try his hand at influencing a boy who would one day be a man.
Of course Doug was also taking in how special it was for him to share that night with his best buddy. He was taking in the moment when the last out was made, and the crowd went wild, and the fireworks were booming overhead, and the confetti was raining down all around them, and the players were in hopping heaps on the field, and no one was leaving the stadium. Knowing how he would have felt as a boy, it was surely a time Doug could fully appreciate and ponder in his heart. But evidently Gray was also fully appreciating and doing some pondering of his own. As they were walking away from the stadium Gray looked up at Doug and said, "Hey Papaw, just think... you and me were here together for the first pitch Opening Day, and we were here tonight for the last pitch of the last game of the World Series."
Baseball Buds forever. Man, I love those guys.
I need to back up a few days to the World Series celebrations here in St. Louis. GO CARDS! What a thrill for our grandson, AND his Papaw! Let me just say that having no brothers or sons, I can only imagine what it would be like to be a 10-year old boy (who loves baseball!), growing up in a baseball town when your hometown team makes it to the World Series! It's the stuff Mom and apple pie (and apparently Chevy trucks), are made of, so I hear.
I grew up in Cincinnati, and have fond memories of my dad sitting in a lawn chair in the backyard listening to the Reds' on the radio go long into the ninth inning. I still know exactly how Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxhall sounded announcing the play-by-play. Their voices are burned in my memory as they brass through that distant AM radio white noise while the crack of the bat and the faint cheer of the crowd play the backdrop. That's the sound of baseball to me. Occasionally Woody Gleason, from across the street, would bring by a bucket of leftover chicken the nights he worked the closing shift at the new Kentucky Fried Chicken. When we got to stay up late and eat chicken outside in our shortie pajamas while Dad listened to the game... that was summertime heaven. So, while I had no brothers or sons, I sure have an appreciation for America's favorite past time.
Fast-forward years later when I dated a kid that lived three blocks from me who use to sit with his Dad on their front porch and listen to the same games on the same nights. The only difference was they ate fried bologna sandwiches while we were eating Woody Gleason's leftover chicken. Doug grew up obsessed with the game, and went with his Dad as often as they could get the "company seats". In fact, our first official date was to a Red's game at the brand new Riverfront Stadium. We sat in the blue section in those "company seats" of The Ohio Knife Company, where his dad was an executive, and that, my friends, was a BIG deal! By the time we married, baseball was as much a part of who we were as our own DNA.
In our newlywed years Doug and his college roommates were hooked on this baseball boardgame where they managed their teams for hours while I was employed as non-paid "ground crew", which basically meant I was the concession stand (and eventual babysitter!). I did, however, learn who all the old valuable players were. Of course I had heard of Babe Ruth, Dizzy Dean and Hank Aaron, but I also became quite familiar with guys like Honus Wagoner, Ernie Banks, Tris Speaker, Carl Hubbell and Rogers Hornsby. They practically shared our little one bedroom married student apartment on Hart Street in Nashville, Tennessee, and moved with us to our next 2 places.
The next 15 years, or so, of our marriage I lost my husband once a year to a week-long pilgrimage with his "buds" to see every National League team play in a week... no trite scheduling talent. Later, the tradition morphed into a quest to see every MLB stadium in the country. In addition to the yearly baseball treks, they also practically started the Fantasy Baseball craze. Our phone rang all hours of the day and night during the trading season, and this was before cell phones. More than once passers-by did double takes to see if they were in the presence of somebody important when hearing strange and spirited conversations over a restaurant table. "No way. I'm keeping Nolan Ryan, but I might be willing to let Enos Cabell go for two outfielders. The team could use a couple o' good outfielders, and you're sittin' there with more money than you know what to do with!" More talk of rookies, protected players and trade deadlines had everyone within earshot listening.
Such talk continued and became even more lively when the draft rolled around. The draft was held every fall at a chalet in Gatlinburg, and conveniently for the married men, wives were cordially invited. We bailed on being ground crew by this point, however, and opted instead for hours of mountain craft shopping, as the draft drug on round after round after round.
So, for being a non-athletic girly-girl, I'm surprised how much baseball is in my blood (and my marriage.) By the way, I bought those four "company seats" for Doug when they closed Riverfront in 2002, and they're in our basement today, symbols of the the love of the game.
