Day 2 of the #AtoZChallenge focuses on an attempt by people to build a tower to heaven, recorded in Genesis 11. The tower came to be known as the "Tower of Babel." Babel sounds like a Hebrew term than can mean confusion. Read the account of the story in Genesis 11:1-9, then enjoy the poem that recounts the story below. The Tower of Babel Genesis 11:1-9 A long time ago, All the people spoke the same-- One language used by men From wherever each one came. The eastern plain of Shinar Was a common settling place, And here is where plans were made To bring fame upon the race. “Let us build a city With a tower to the sky! We will not be scattered!” Was their mighty cry. The Lord looked down upon them And pondered what they planned, He knew they would not stop Once they made this selfish stand. “From now until forever, The people will all speak In different languages-- This will make them meek.” The tower was not built, People scattered everywhere, The city of confusion: Aptly named, no longer there. From . . . And a Poem by Kathy Mansfield
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April 1 begins the annual #AtoZChallenge for bloggers. Each year folks are challenged to write blog posts each day of April (except Sundays) on topics beginning with each letter of the alphabet, A to Z. Beginning today, look for poems from my current books (. . . And a Poem and . . . And a Poem, Too), as well as the forthcoming third volume (as yet untitled). Day 1: Achan. Read the account of his life in Joshua 7, then enjoy the poem that summarizes a valuable lesson we can learn from his choices. Achan Joshua 7 Dumb old Achan – He disobeyed the Lord By confiscating items He never could afford. A beautiful robe, Silver coins, a pound of gold – If only he had followed What Israel had been told. Instead he broke a covenant By hiding in his sin, And because of this one man, Israel’s army could not win. Joshua called upon each tribe And narrowed by each clan, Then he narrowed further By family; then one man. “Achan, you and yours Will receive a terrible fate. For we can’t defeat Ai In a disobedient state.” So, Israel learned a lesson From Achan’s selfish choice, And chose to obey God And listen to His voice. Mom and I stopped by Walmart a couple of days ago to pick up a few items, and I noticed bundles of roses discounted to $2.98 per dozen—an “after-Valentines-Day-special.” Mom loves roses, particularly red ones, and I can’t help but gaze at yellow roses anytime I see them, so I bought a dozen red and a dozen yellow to spruce up Mom’s kitchen table. Every time Mom walks into the kitchen, she smiles as she sees the roses; they truly do brighten up the kitchen. And my heart is warmed to see Mom smile. This morning, though, I moved the vase of roses to a coffee table while we ate breakfast. As I was washing dishes after our meal, one of the cats knocked the vase over. I rushed over to grab the spilled flowers and to sop up the water. The vase was intact, and only one rose was scathed—a solitary red bud. As I carried the vase to the sink and dropped the broken red rose into the trash can, Mom said, “We just can’t have anything nice around here. The cats knock things over.” She picked up the single rose bud in the trash and continued, “These were so pretty, and now it’s ruined!” I calmly filled the vase back with water, and placed the 23 roses back on the table. I said, “Mom—it was only water. I’ve already dabbed that up. The vase wasn’t broken. There are still 23 beautiful roses in the vase.” I’m not sure she heard me completely (she wears hearing aids), and I saw her walk away from the single rose in the trash with a somber look on her face. About an hour later Mom took a nap. When she got up and walked into the kitchen, her face lit up. “The roses are so pretty! You can’t even tell that one is gone!” I just smiled, glad that Mom still thought the arrangement of roses was as pretty as they were before. Then I thought about the small things that I worry about each week, each day. Sometimes I focus so much on the one bad thing that happened or the one thing I cannot change for the better that I fail to see the 23 blessings still in the vase. Mom’s nap and brief time away from the “disaster” brought a better perspective when she saw the roses anew. We all need that, too: a brief respite from the worry or problem that seems to take over our thoughts and time. Perhaps that’s time away for a walk or a nap. Maybe that’s time spent around a fire pit with a friend to talk and laugh. Maybe that’s time spent reading a favorite passage from the Bible or praying for a fresh perspective and a restoration from worry. Whatever your respite choice, may you see the blessings and joy that remain once you return with a fresh perspective. I remember the way my Grandmother smelled. Probably not how you think, though. I don’t remember the scent of perfume that she wore or how she smelled when I hugged her. I wish I did. I just don’t have the nose for remembering those sorts of things. Rather, I remember the way she smelled things. When I would stay overnight at her house as a teen and get ready in the mornings with all my various hair and body care products, Grandma would say to my Mom, “I just love the way the bathroom smells after Kathy gets ready in the morning!” Now, every time I spray hairspray and body spray, I think of Grandma saying that to my Mom. And I smile. When Grandma and I walked around the neighborhood or out in the garden puttering around, she would often say, “I smell rain coming.” And sure enough, she was right. When Grandma brought her freshly washed and folded clothes home from the laundromat where she worked, she would comment, “I love the way fresh clean clothes smell.” Mom makes similar comments as she goes about her daily routines: “I love the smell of pinto beans and ham hock cooking on the stove.” “There must be honeysuckle nearby. I can smell it on the breeze.” Since somehow I don’t have the ability to remember the scent of people, including my Grandma, I’m so glad I do have the wonderful memories of how she smelled things. And I’m glad that my Mom states out loud those aromas that bring her pleasure. Because every time I smell those same things, I hear their voices and feel their joy in appreciating the scent of something wonderful to them – things that remain wonderful to me. Oh, how sweet is that aroma. Routines are necessary for our jobs, our families, our lives. But when routines breed complacency, or even contempt, they become less effective and can hinder our potential growth.
“Can we do this today, instead?” asks our child or student. “No, we have our schedule. We have our plan. We have our routine.” Unbeknownst to us are the myriad trails that can lead to new learning, new adventures, new joys. Stopping to smell the roses, stopping to breathe the fresh air, stopping to watch a butterfly are rarely part of our routines. But, observation and reflection and rest from a routine pace could be the catalyst for something that could never be described as “routine.” Father’s Day has always left me longing. My father died when I was three years old, and I only have two memories of him. One is a trip to the local Tastee Freeze for a soft serve ice cream cone. I was wearing yellow pajamas, and it was summertime. I remember riding in the front seat of the car sans seatbelt (that was okay back then) and feeling so happy to be spending time with my Daddy. It might have been around Father’s Day, but I have no way of knowing. My second memory of my father isn’t quite so lovely. I remember seeing him in the casket at his funeral. I saw the white, fluffy bedding around his body in the raised casket and asked my Mom, “Why is Daddy in a baby bed?” Someone took me to the funeral home lobby soon after that where I remember sitting with my Mrs. Beasley doll watching people walk through the doors. Just those two memories – one happy, one sad. I have photos of my father, but I cannot remember his face in real life. I remember only the emotions associated with my two memories. My husband and I don’t have children of our own, and we are both only children since my brother died four years ago. He did not have children either. My mother is an only child, too. So, I am the last of my family. Each Father’s Day reminds me of that fact. But, this Father’s Day is different. My husband, Rick, got into genealogy a few years ago and began searching for information about his ancestors and extended family. I wasn’t as interested in seeking out my own family’s history, maybe because I didn’t want more confirmation that it all ended with me. But, that didn’t stop Rick from investigating my family’s tree for me. He asked my Mom for photos and for information. He posted data online with Ancestry.com. He found and shared birth certificates, death certificates, marriage licenses and military records. I listened when he shared new discoveries with me, but knowing about my ancestors just made me frustrated that I don’t have descendants to carry on the family name. Then, I got an email. Or rather, Rick got an email. From my cousin. Unbeknownst to me, Rick found and contacted a cousin on Facebook who I didn’t even know existed. And that cousin responded back! I can’t exactly describe my feelings. It was somewhere between a mix of excitement, sadness and relief. I read the email and cried like a baby, surprised at such an emotional response. That was six months ago, and I still haven’t emailed my newfound cousin. I am friends with him and his sister on Facebook now, and I enjoy seeing photos of them and learning about family I never knew existed. I have messaged with his sister, and we shared a few photos. Baby steps. I definitely want to meet this family I’ve discovered, but I know the tears will come. There will be tears of joy at seeing cousins who share common ancestors. There will be tears of gratitude for stories that can fill gaps in my family tree. There will be tears of sadness that half a century has gone by before I knew them. So, this Father’s Day is different. I look at one of the very few photos of my father, and this time it doesn’t just evoke fuzzy memories and sadness. Now the picture brings hope – hope for new family and new memories that will keep the legacy of my family forever strong. I spent an afternoon antiquing with my mother-in-law this week. She likes to look around at antique stores, looking for pretty little dishes to go with the sets she collects and wondering about the stories behind different items. I, however, have a love/hate relationship with antique stores. I love to get ideas for decorating my home. And I like to see which of the items I grew up using have inexplicably crossed over into the designation of “antique.”
I end up sad, though, when I think about my own grandmother’s belongings that are probably in antique stores somewhere in Arkansas being rummaged through by folks oblivious to the stories and history those items hold. Grandma’s health declined quickly in May, 2002. At 92, she still walked the block from her house to her part-time job at the local Laundromat. Grandpa died in 1976, and Grandma had courageously lived on her own the next 26 years, a good six-hour drive from her only daughter, my Mom. But that May, she had to stop several times on that short walk to work to catch her breath, and she knew something was wrong. Mom, 70 years old at the time, drove the six hours to Grandma’s in northern Arkansas to take her to the doctor and then take her home with her to north Louisiana. Dialysis would soon follow, and within eight months, Grandma would leave this world to meet Grandpa, just hours before she would have turned 93. That May 2002 was a tumultuous time for our family. Not only did Grandma have declining health, but my husband and I were going through a very difficult time in Kentucky. My stepfather was struggling with numerous issues, as well, and Mom was the one we all turned to for help. I drove to Louisiana to spend time with Mom to help with Grandma, and while I was there, Mom and I realized that Grandma would not be able to return to her home in Arkansas. I remember the long drive Mom and I made to Grandma’s house to collect some of her belongings. We were preparing for Grandma to move to an assisted living home since Mom was already providing in-home care to my stepfather. We met with a real estate agent on that two-day visit, and we packed the back of that pickup truck as full as we could with things we thought Grandma needed and wanted the most with her. The plan was to come back for the rest when we could. Mom asked the real estate agent to list the house “as is” with all the furniture inside, except for three pieces that we would come back to get: Grandma’s foot peddle sewing machine, an old family table, and my mother’s childhood cedar chest. I remember having reservations about the real estate agent. I even voiced them to Mom. I just didn’t think she seemed all that reliable. But, we had two days to take care of things before heading back to Grandma and my stepfather. Grandma’s attic was large – an entire half a floor of the two-story house – and was filled with family belongings going back many generations. I remember family Bibles with hand written notes recording births, marriages and deaths. I remember my grandfather’s military uniform from World War II, handmade quilts, clothes from a bygone era and so much more. The plan was to come back for those precious items. But plans don’t always turn into reality. That two-day trip in a packed-to-the-hilt pickup truck was the last I would make to the house Grandpa bought for Grandma decades ago. Life back in Louisiana became overwhelming with Grandma living with Mom and traveling to dialysis treatments several times a week, while Mom struggled to help her own ailing husband. I headed back to Kentucky to deal with my own chaos, leaving Mom alone with the weight of the world on her shoulders. Mom told me about the phone call she received from the real estate agent. The house’s price needed to be lowered if Mom wanted it to sell quickly. Oh, and by the way, it appeared there had been a break in. The only things stolen? The three pieces of furniture Mom had told the real estate agent about. I knew the real estate agent had taken the only three large items Mom wanted to salvage from her mother’s home. But, I couldn’t face that battle at that particular time, and neither could my Mom. Mom made one last trip to Grandma’s house and discovered the contents of her childhood hope chest had been dumped on the floor. Mom was able to gather the tossed items to take back home to sort when she had time. She packed a few photos and other small items, locked the doors, and was not able to return again. The home sold with the remaining contents inside – antique furniture, jewelry from long forgotten dinner parties and special events, dishes that held special family recipes, and an attic and closets full of memories contained in inanimate objects. Grandma never asked about her house. She never asked about her treasures stored inside. Mom didn’t tell her about the stolen sewing machine or the hope chest or the table handed down through generations. But, I think Grandma knew and felt the sorrow that comes with losing a lifetime of belongings that remind you of the journey you have traveled. I have a few items from Grandma’s house, probably more than my mother has, actually. There’s an old radio that doesn’t work anymore, an ancient typewriter, a camera, a pair of pinking shears and a pair of eyeglasses. And a photo album with pictures that tell a story that objects could never fully tell. Not much to represent 93 years of life. But, what I do have are wonderful memories – memories that can survive burglaries and family crises and estate sales. So, every time I visit an antique store, I’m reminded of all that happened to Grandma’s things. My husband says that one day we will visit antique stores in the city where Grandma lived, and we can search for things that were hers. Will I find photos of family members? A hope chest that once belonged to my mother? A foot peddle sewing machine? Perhaps. And I’ll certainly purchase them and bring them home. But, ultimately, I already have the best “things” I could ever have from Grandma – the memories and stories of a Godly woman who showed courage, strength and grit for 93 years. And those are things you’ll never find in an antique store. What is courage? As a child I thought it was not being afraid of things: the dark, snakes, speaking in public, dentist visits, heights. I knew I wasn’t very brave, but some of my friends were. Were they born with extra courage? Did they develop that somehow?
Google’s dictionary defines courage this way: “the ability to do something that frightens one.” I was somewhat surprised at the definition. Even as an adult, I think of courage or bravery as the absence of fear. But, after looking in multiple dictionaries, I found that courage is not defined as the absence of fear. Courage is the ability or willingness to tackle fear! If courage is an ability rather than an innate characteristic, then I believe courage can be developed. Do I have courage? My first thought is “no.” I quake at attempts to fire a gun. My knees go wobbly when I’m in high places. I travel with a nightlight for hotel rooms. But, perhaps I just haven’t been willing to develop my courage in those particular areas. I used to be afraid to speak in public, but now I do that regularly. Being a teacher for over two decades probably lessened my anxiety over that. I used to be afraid of elevators, but that particular fear was pretty much eliminated when I got a job on the 19th floor of a building. So, why have I chosen to face some fears but not others? I have no desire to face my fear of the dark. I sleep with a nightlight at home, and I can’t recall the last time I was anywhere that was in complete darkness. I suppose I need to face my fear of going to the dentist. I think I have somewhat faced that as evidenced by my regular check-ups, although my clammy hands throughout a teeth cleaning probably belie that. I guess you could say life circumstances have dictated my courage development. I can’t not go to the dentist because I have a greater fear of losing my teeth. I love my job, so riding an elevator to the top of a very tall building means keeping that job. So, if you need someone to welcome a crowd, then I’m your courageous girl. But, until life circumstances require me to extinguish my nightlight, I will continue to be a wimp about the dark. And I’m okay with that. Read a poem about courage here. My mother has a habit of declaring at various times each day, “I guess I’m just lazy.” She usually does this after a nap or after sitting on the back porch to read a book or even after yawning as the day stretches into night. I’m always a bit perplexed after these declarations. My mother is one of the least lazy people I’ve ever known! She worked hard outside the home her entire adult life, first as a young bride and then as a young widow with two children. Her job was very important to her, and doing well at her job was a non-negotiable. The work ethic I have now can be attributed to the model she was and is for me. Mom’s co-workers, friends and family would all say she is a hard-worker.
So, that’s why these fairly recent announcements of “I guess I’m just lazy” have bothered me so much. Somehow my 84-year old Mom equates rest with being lazy. And I don’t exactly know when that idea developed for her. I remember my grandmother (her mother) taking time each day to rest and relax. She, too, worked hard each day of her life. Grandma worked outside the home (when that wasn’t really the thing that married women did) including stints at a button factory and at a laundromat. In fact, her two decades working at the laundromat began when she was in her 70s! That’s right. She worked into her 90s. Every Monday through Friday, 12:00-4:00 PM. Walked the block to work each day and then washed and folded people’s laundry before making the short trek back home to do daily chores in the home. No laziness there! But I also remember Grandma taking time to watch her favorite TV shows, listen to her Arkansas Razorbacks play on the radio, read books and magazines, putter in her garden, take naps, sing along to her favorite record and sit on the porch. The porch-sitting is one of my favorite memories. The back porch was the favorite spot for sitting with a cup of coffee in the morning to watch the birds playing in the yard. It was a prime spot at night to watch the bug zapper sizzle with the occasional confrontation of moths and mosquitoes. Then there was the front porch. It was a massive covered brick and concrete structure that extended the width of the house. Littered with old metal chairs for anyone wishing to sit and visit, it was the gathering place for family, friends and neighbors to watch the world go by on the busy street in front of the house. Over the years, my grandparents provided rooms for boarding in the huge upstairs of their home. Residents would wander down to the porch to join my grandparents after dinner for a glass of sweet iced tea, storytelling and people watching. No one ever considered the daily habit of porch-sitting to be lazy. So, how did my mother come to equate rest with laziness? Our society leans toward activity. Wayne Muller says in his book Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in Our Busy Lives, “Our culture invariably supposes that action and accomplishment are better than rest, that doing something—anything—is better than doing nothing. Because of our desire to succeed, to meet these ever-growing expectations, we do not rest. Because we do not rest, we lose our way. We miss the compass points that would show us where to go, we bypass the nourishment that would give us succor.” Merriam-Webster has the following as the first definition of the word lazy:
I can assure you that my mother is not averse to hard work. She takes care of her house and husband and four cats, cooks, cleans, runs errands and even checks regularly on friends older than she. But every time Mom takes a nap or sits for a little while to enjoy a book or goes to bed earlier than the rest of the household, she thinks she is being lazy. My hope is that Mom will remember that rest was important to her parents and that they made time each day for rest and relaxation. I hope that Mom will remember that God rested after the work of creation and established that model for all of us. I hope that Mom will recognize that rest is restorative and that at this point in her life is well-deserved. Most of all, I hope that Mom won’t think of herself as lazy. I want her to see herself as I see her: the woman who showed me how to work hard and who instilled in me the value of a balanced life—feeling good about a job well done and appreciating those moments of rest and reflection that help me to be thankful for a life well-lived. Quotation from: Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in Our Busy Lives by Wayne Muller, 1999. Read "Remember the Sabbath" from . . . And a Poem, Too by clicking here. I've lived over half of my life a 12-hour drive from home. Rick and I moved to Louisville, Kentucky in 1991. I was 24 years old, and we had been married just over a year. At the time, we thought we would be away from home for only a few years -- long enough to finish graduate school. Somehow, we settled into church life, work life, and community life, and 25 years later, we're still here in Kentucky.
This morning as I got ready, I contemplated spending half of my life so far away from our parents and our childhood and college friends. I realized that I live in two different worlds. The inhabitants of one world know the me who was once a little girl. They know that I always liked to sit on the front row in class because I loved school so much. They know that I like to ride my bike and I love cheese pizza. They know that I'm not very good at sports, I'm not fond of alcohol, and I took piano lessons for 10 years. They've eaten at my Mom's house, shared dorm rooms and apartments with me, and held my hand at family funerals. The inhabitants of the other world have never known me before I was married; they know me as one half of "Rick and Kathy." They know a woman who loves working in the field of education, who likes to hang out at coffee shops, and who enjoys super hero movies. They have seen me perform in dinner theaters and skits at church (or performed with me). Most have never met my family, and certainly haven't met my high school and college friends. North Louisiana is a far away place to them, and the only images they have of that world are from "Duck Dynasty" and "Billy the Exterminator." I feel as if the folks in each of those different worlds know me only half way. They either know the person who grew to 23 years old in Louisiana and got married, or they know the 24+ year old (49 this year!) who has been a school librarian and education consultant for 25 years in Kentucky. I am so grateful for the adventures Rick and I have had in Kentucky and the wonderful opportunities I've had in my career there. I love my Kentucky friends dearly, and will remain their friends for life. Yet, I envy those friends back in Louisiana who have stayed in our hometown and watched their own kids go to Greenacres Middle School and Airline High School, and then on to Louisiana Tech -- all my alma maters! I envy the time they've spent with their families and the positive influences they've been in our hometown. They've seen changes that I only get a glimpse of a few days a year when we visit. I know I'm not that same little girl who grew up in Bossier City, Louisiana. I've grown and changed and become someone that I hope my family and friends are proud of. But who I am now is a combination of those first 24 years spent in Louisiana and the last 25 years spent in Kentucky. And I often wish that at least one person could have walked that journey with me from little girl to the woman I am now. |
AuthorKathy Mansfield Archives
December 2022
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