Doing God's Work

All summer my granddaughter, Paige, and I have shared our Fridays with a few of the neighborhood Fort Town children and their parents/grandparents.  It all started because one of the fathers was taking Fridays off during the summer and suggested the kids go to the pool or park or some place every week.  For the most part we had 100% attendance, but as the summer days came to a close, we gradually fell apart as a group.  It was the natural course of things.

Kim, Melanie, Jeff, Donna, Noah, Me (back) and Madison, Paige,
and Jossalyn (front)

As much fun as it was for the children, swimming, hiking, tie-dying t-shirts, going to Pump It Up, eating out at Burger King, playing games outdoors and doing crafts indoors when it was too hot outside, it was also a bonding time for the adults.  The three women in the group promised Jeff’s wife Kim that we would not start playing poker using coupons as chips as Michael Keaton’s character in “Mr. Mom” did in that classic movie.  Jeff’s military and Boy Scouts background was an asset to our group.  Their son Noah, being the only boy in the group was such a gentleman with the three girls, always being positive and not complaining.  Melanie, Madison’s mother stepped away from her role as my Girl Scout assistant leader and became the young mother (my daughter’s age) who lives next door.  And Donna, Jossalyn’s “Nanna” and unofficial grandmother, who lives across the street from Paige, had so much fun that she participated even when Jossalyn (who is two) fell asleep.

When Noah and Madison went back to school Paige and I invited Jossalyn and Donna to come for lunch at my house for one final gathering.  The girls dressed up and had macaroni and cheese, green beans, grapes, and crackers (Paige planned their meal); while Donna and I had chicken salad and tortilla soup with the last of my homegrown lettuce and tomatoes.  Paige baked brownies with her other grandmother the day before and shared them with us for dessert.

Donna and I talked about how great our neighborhood is; she living a street over from her daughter and son-in-law and me living six houses down from Paige.  It’s a great mix of old and young.  The only negative is the huge proportion of rent houses.  I say negative because renters tend to not take care of their yards and many do not speak English (most are East Indian).  But we both try to be kind and speak to our neighbors even when they don’t respond in like.  I wave to every car I pass and speak to anyone walking by my house; Donna is the same.  It’s what neighbors do, no matter what race or religion.

Last month a neighbor around the corner from Donna died of cancer, and then a week later her husband died leaving a mentally challenged grown son who had to move in with an aunt across town.  The family had an estate sale and the house was emptied, foreclosed on and is currently vacant.  It made me sad that I didn’t know them.

After lunch, we took the girls and walked down the street to visit another couple who live two doors down from Paige.  He is elderly and yet quite active currently painting with acrylics, in their lovely “Florida” room, beautiful scenes as well as adorable pictures for their grandchildren who live in Chattanooga.  In the corner of their huge kitchen is a miniature electric train set with at least two, maybe three tracks with villages, trees, buildings, etc.  Paige and Jossalyn climbed up on chairs and were mesmerized.  His wife, Joanne, Donna and I mostly watched John’s eyes shine as he entertained the children.

It was a grand way to end our neighborhood Friday Ft. Town gatherings.  But does it have to end?  Maybe; maybe not.  The children are closer and the adults and their families have grown closer and by example we invited into our group other neighbors.  Who’s to say we don’t find creative ways to keep on gathering.  Hey there is a neighborhood garage sale coming up September 8^th and of course Halloween is always a fabulous experience in our neighborhood.  The real challenge is to not lose touch with each other and those who touched our lives, and that includes the renters, the new neighbors, the older couples, the single moms, and the grandchildren being raised by their grandparents.

There is always time to do God’s work.

Recently, I’ve been drawn to the concept that we are all connected in one way or the other. Spiritually, I’ve believed this for years, maybe my whole life. When I was a child, I would find myself standing at an open window sheltered by the sweet smell of a cedar tree, wondering who in the world was also feeling what I was feeling.

Later when I grew in adolescents, I struggled with the same issues of every other teenage girl until I finally got to the point of asking the most important question which was why did I ever want to be a teenager. It was not, as I dreamed, all it was made up to be, but surely other girls (and boys) felt like me.

As a young mother, every decision I made came from my gut. I survived motherhood from pure instinct, never knowing was I making the right or wrong decision for my children, my husband, and my extended family. I took a leap of faith and let the ball bounce, as the saying goes. Comforting as it was to see other parents struggling with the same issues, it never seemed like their problems were the same as mine and it was lonely at times. That I questioned our connections was an answer in itself.

The older I get, the more clearly I see the similarities in other’s lives. One couple may be enjoying their empty nest and retirement years while the other finds it frightening. One set of grown children seems to have the perfect life while another deals with children with learning disabilities. One woman wakes each day wishing she had not while another wakes and thanks God the cancer has not come back. Each of these people is living a different life and yet each is the same. They are all one in God.

Coming to this realization took many years for me; however, looking back I was already conscious of this state of mind. I know this because from an early age I had compassion for all I met. I didn’t walk around saying this or bring it to other’s attention. It was a gift, to be able to see others and feel one with them; one in their pain, one in their happiness, one in their love. Everyone has this gift; tapping into it is the challenge. To meet this challenge one must be present in the lives of those we are connected.

Yesterday my neighbor and I were talking outside while his daughter and my granddaughter played. Sirens, on the highway got louder and louder. Suddenly, four fire trucks, a fire chief, three police cars and an ambulance pulled up to a house three doors down. There was no fire that we could see and as it turned out it was just a small fire in a trash can; a lot of hoopla for nothing. Until I looked around and saw my neighbor’s wife standing at the door. And I suddenly remembered that it had not been too many years ago that the house we were standing in front of had burned down. They lost everything inside including their dog. And what was still intact was stolen while the house was roped off by the fire chief until the cause (which was faulty wiring when the house was built) could be determined.

Maybe my granddaughter distracting their daughter, and maybe my presence were both a coincidence, but I think not. Being present I was able to comfort and share in my neighbor’s pain as she remembered that day her house burned down. I know I remember watching it from my granddaughter’s house and praying for the family who lived there and who I didn’t know. Yesterday, I prayed for them again, and now they are my friends and neighbors. The prayer was the same.

Happy Birthday Emery Kate

By the time I was 28 years old, I had given birth to four children, three boys and a one girl. Jennifer, the baby came eleven months after my youngest son, Jason. Daniel was three years older than Jason and Brian, the oldest was three years older than Daniel. I didn’t plan it that way. It just happened. Having babies just seemed to come natural to me. In truth had the last two not been C-sections, I would have loved to have kept on going, but we couldn’t afford the cost of the surgeries.

I think this is one reason why I love being close to my grandchildren. They are an extension of my children and I have the opportunity to have a “do over,” a chance to keep my maternal instincts shining in their lives. I might add here that giving birth to a child and adopting a child may not be the same physically but be assured they are emotionally. Our family has grown by two recently with the adoption of a brother and sister to a cousin’s daughter and husband. It was clear that the love this cousin has for her two new grandchildren is as deep as they love she has for the two born into the family. She should know firsthand as she was adopted as well.

Today, my youngest grandchild, Emery Kate, turns one year old. She is pulling herself up, mimicking her big sister Lexi, trying new “real” foods, and beginning to show signs of her own unique personality. Having spent the last year either sleeping or eating (not unlike her mother who was the best baby in the world), everyone is ready to see the real EK. Her big sister, Lexi, who has the gift of being able to see inside a person’s soul, has given us glimpses of her little sister. She can tell when EK is hurting before her parents and then can say why (ears, teeth, etc.). There is a bond these two sisters have and it is a joy to watch.

She is not talking or walking yet, however I was present when she started crawling and maybe when I’m in South Carolina this weekend to celebrate her birthday, I’ll see her take a step or two.

I was told that I started talking full sentences when I was nine months old, however, I did not walk until I was fifteen months old. I would stand in my baby bed and bounce and call to my Daddy saying, “JACK,” at the top of my lungs. And when they heard me stop screaming his name or the springs on the baby-bed stopped squeaking, they knew to come into the bedroom (which I shared with my parents) because inevitably I would bounce right out the bed, over the rail and onto the floor. It is hard for me to believe they allowed that to happen and that it is not just a story they made up. But I did enjoy hearing it. Not because I necessarily believed it, but because it was a memory they shared with me.

Now I share the memories I have of my grandchildren and when they grow up, they will know that I loved them and cared enough to write down their stories.

Happy Birthday Emery Kate Swing; Mimi loves you!