Seedtime and Harvest

 My husband closed his sermon with a story I'd heard many times before, but I was just as moved as the rest of the congregation by his fervent, gripping manner of speaking.  He was determined to give every dramatic detail of the true experience of two young missionaries many years ago.

They had gone as naive Christian workers from Stockholm, Sweden, to a remote area in the wilds of Africa.  Another couple went with them, but when they had hacked their way through the undergrowth to arrive at a settlement, they were rebuffed by the natives. Again they hacked through the treacherous terrain, erected flimsy shelters, and attempted to reach the people with the gospel.  After six months of exhausting and seemingly futile efforts, the second couple despaired and went back to the mission station to return home.  The first couple would have gone with them, but by this time the wife was six months pregnant and couldn't travel.

Day after day, they struggled.  They had learned Swahili and tried to win people over, but their efforts were met with disinterest and hostility.  All except for one young boy who came to their hut every week to sell them fresh fruit or an occasional live chicken.  The young missionary wife befriended him and told him stories from the Bible.  Though somewhat interested, he did not accept the Lord.

Before long, a baby girl was born in these discouraging circumstances, joining a two-year-old brother.  A few weeks later, the mother became seriously ill.  A searing infection reached its peak and left the husband a  widower with a crying newborn in his arms and a toddler hanging on to his trouser legs.

Standing over the grave of his beloved wife and destroyed by grief, the missionary declared he was through.  He gave the little girl to the missionaries at the mission station, took the small child, and returned to Sweden.

Years passed, and the baby, who was adopted by another missionary couple, grew up and was sent to the U.S. for college.  She married a man who would become prominent in the national leadership of their denomination. Many years later, the opportunity arose for the couple to go to a church conference overseas.  The keynote speaker and organizer of the event attended by thousands was a striking black man with a commanding presence, the president of his denomination.  As he spoke, he mentioned being in the area where the baby girl was born.

The American lady talked to him and asked if he remembered the young missionaries she described, giving their names.  "Why yes," he said, "I used to sell them chickens and fruit.  The missionary's wife told  me Bible stories.  I heard her husband left when she died after their baby girl was  born."

"I am that little girl," she replied.  She subsequently located her father and convinced him that their labor had not been in vain.  One small boy reached with the gospel had resulted in uncounted thousands for the Lord.  The father, who had lived a life of bitterness and rebellion, found a place of repentance and forgiveness and was able to return once again to see his beloved Africa, this time seen through tears, not of defiance, but of gratefulness to God.  

"If You Can't Stand the Heat..."

 It seemed like such a good idea to use up some bananas that were getting too ripe. Howard heard  me say I was going to make banana pudding, and he suggested I make banana-nut bread while I was at it. Well, okay, I finally got the pudding finished after picking up pudding mix at the store. My recipe called for whipped topping, but I hadn't gotten any of that, so I made meringue, separating the whites and beating them.  I guess the egg yolks would be good for the banana bread, I thought.  I had plenty of vanilla wafers on hand for the pudding, so the dessert came out to our satisfaction.  (I can't be sure, but I noticed my husband had been sampling it eagerly.

By this time, I was a little tired to make banana bread from scratch, and it occurred to me I could use some of my baking mix. I seemed to remember doing that once before, but there was a recipe on he back of that particular box, and there wasn't one on this one.  Oh well, how hard could it be?  I wanted it to turn out like my favorite recipe, "Banana Bread with Oatmeal," from a 30-year-old church cookbook that was now held together by rubber bands. I sorted through the out-of-order loose pages for the contribution of our then-60-year-old youth leader, a successful business woman who loved kids.

I'd already started mixing things together, but something seemed amiss, so I thought I'd better check her recipe.  Hm-m. It called for two 1/2 cups of flour, and I only had two cups of baking mix.  I wondered if that would matter.  I was reminded to soak the oatmeal in buttermilk, (made by adding vinegar to milk) and to use soda.  The batter seemed a little thin, but I put it in the oven.  Checking the loaf awhile later, I reached in and touched the surface to feel it kind of deflate. When it was done, it had an ominous hollow down the middle.  Flipped out of the pan and turned upside down, though, it wasn't even noticeable.  I wonder what Howard will say when he sees the loaf is hollow?

Next he asked me to make soup for supper out of remains of a baked chicken from a few days ago.  It had made a nice meal then, and we'd already had sandwiches from it, plus I had served slices of it in the gravy over rice for another meal. (Around here, we say chicken is the gift that keeps on giving.)  I had seen him nibbling on the foil-wrapped carcass several times, so I didn't think there was anything left on it.  But now it is boiling away with carrots, peas, and miniature bow-tie pasta from 1/2 a box left from an earlier soup.  

I'm beginning to think frugality is not all it's cracked up to be, and that restaurant meals are worth every penny.  I'm exhausted from cleaning up messes, washing utensils and having iffy outcomes. I know how Martha must have felt when she asked Jesus to make her sister help.  If he told Martha to get out of the kitchen, that's good enough for me!

The Good Earth

 "Mom! Dad! Do you want to help us plant a garden this year?" our son Greg asked with his typical enthusiasm. He explained that one of the churches was designating a large expanse of their sunny back lawn as a community garden project. For a nominal fee, city dwellers like us who had the gardening bug but no space for one could enjoy a great summer activity.

My husband heartily agreed while I warmed up to the idea. I remembered gardens being a lot of work as a kid, but I also remembered gathering bushels of tomatoes and that sunshiny, vine-ripe taste of eating one fresh off the vine while the juice ran down my arm as I picked. So Greg signed us up for a 12x40 foot space for us to share with his family.

It was a win/win situation. The church prepared the soil, gave out seeds, provided the water and even encompassed the whole 1600' plot with a border of marigolds (a natural bug repellant--chemicals were not allowed.) Our kids eagerly set out to plan our garden. Being very analytical, they plotted it on graph paper with appealing-looking little sections, some on the diagonal, illustrated with neatly sketched rows of onions, peas, watermelons, etc. This looked like fun.

It was a little labor intensive, especially the watering part (plastic 50 gallon drums were mounted on stands enclosed in the middle of the garden to drain into buckets or watering cans), but later a hose was run from the church. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant diversion to go there in the late afternoon and attend to our project.

Scattering mulch, weeding, putting up tomato cages and other chores left us with dirt on our hands and tired bodies, but it was a pleasant tiredness. Almost before we knew it, we were enjoying leaf lettuce, radishes, and green onions, followed by green peppers, a smattering of peas and even a few green beans (we needed to perfect our skills in this area). Soon we were chatting with fellow gardeners, commiserating over the lack or abundance of rain, comparing notes and casting smug or envious glances over the crop. Several area feeding programs were the benefits of our excess. 

Now we were getting tomatoes, cantaloupe and watermelons, and the pumpkins that were green earlier are dotting the landscape with great orange orbs. Not only are we reaping the benefits of our garden, we were blessed with the visual treat of everyone's efforts.  The garden shimmers Eden-like on the landscape, a heavy planting of giant zinnias bobbing their Mexican colors down the length of the garden, purple blooms from the vines dripping from the trellis surrounding the water barrels, rows of cornstalks that formerly waved tassels in the wind have produced tempting ears of corn (never mind that they were stolen--our Eden isn't perfect, either).

So with the exception of a few snitched watermelons and other kinks that need to be worked out, the project was a success. They're talking of expanding it next year, and we'll probably be first in line. The wonder of pulling food from the good earth is too magical to resist!

The Golden Years

 "Its so nice to have a man to do that!" a woman who was returning her shopping cart for the 25 cent deposit said as she noticed Howard pulling the car up to collect me and our groceries. I smiled in agreement.  I was getting in the car and he was loading the groceries when she walked past again on her way to her car. "That's a good guy!" she called back to me.

Well, of course, I know that, and probably even take for granted that he will do all the "man" things. (But the shopper likely didn't notice the leg splint I had on, mostly hidden by the loose Capri pants I was wearing.)  It's easy to forget that there are many single moms out there who struggle with daily chores, not to mention older widows or those who live alone. And there are just lots of women with spouses who have to, or like to, do things on their own.

My husband used to work six days a week, not getting home until seven or eight o'clock at night, for most of the years our children were growing up.  Then it fell to me to do everything without him--school events, shopping, picking up kids, doctor appointments and on and on.  His only time was Sunday, which was church in the morning, lawn mowing and/or a nap in the afternoon, and church at night.

I admit I had gotten a little spoiled now that he is home so much and we do everything together. But he has always been the consummate gentleman, polite and considerate even at home, and naturally assuming heavy chores or difficult tasks.  I am a truly blessed woman in having a faithful, loving husband who has been such a godly example for our children.

The great passage on marriage in Ephesians 5:22-33 says in verse 25, "Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church and gave himself for it." I can't think of any other person that fulfills that command any more than my husband. There is a saying that goes, "The best thing a man can do for his children is to love their mother." It must be true, because 53 years (now 62 years)of marriage says a lot, as do the marriages of our six children. Howard is with the Lord now, reaping the joy and rewards of his faithfulness here below.

Voices

 "Mama!" I heard as I finished putting dishes into the dishwasher at my daughter's house in Georgia on a recent visit. She had just left on an errand, so I responded, "Your mother has already gone!" Again I heard over the noise of the dishwasher, "Mama!"

"She's already gone to town!" I repeated. Then came the words, "Mama, it's me! I want to talk to you!" Oh! It was my daughter. I had thought it was one of the grandchildren. She was calling up from the garage to tell me she was taking the kids with her. With several family members around sounding so similar, it's no wonder I was confused.

I have learned not to answer every "Mama" I hear when I'm around my grown children. Once at Jamie's, our son who lives in Texas, he called, "Mama," and when I answered he said, "Not you, Tammy." They have small children and usually refer to each other as Mama or Daddy for their benefit.

I was "Mama" to all our children when they were young, but that became "Mom" from most of them as they grew up. However, Greg, our second-oldest son, has gotten into the habit of calling me "Mother". Perhaps to distinguish me from his wife.  Only one, Trevor, still calls me "Mama," and apparently, Amy.

Few of us ever forget our mother's voice. It always remains in our head with the memory of her calling our name from as far back as we can remember. My husband, Howard's, mother, always called him "Howardie," her pet name for him. We had lived away for nearly 40 years from the area where we grew up until a few years ago. One day we were in a place of business and fell into a conversation with a man whom my husband soon recognized as someone he used to know. When they realized who each other was, the man said, "I still remember your mother calling, "Howardie, it's time to come in," when we were playing."

The Bible says in John 10 that Jesus (the Shepherd of the sheep) knows the sheep and calls them by name, and that the sheep know His voice and follow him. Sometimes (not often, but it has happened) when I hear the phone ring I can't immediately distinguish which one of my son's is calling me. Though they sound different, there is enough similarity in their voices that sometimes they sound alike.

Mothers are not perfect. The Bible says in Isaiah 49:15-16 that even though a mother might forget her nursing child, that He will not forget Zion. He has them inscribed in the palms of His hands. He is speaking to Israel, but also to us. The nail scars prove it.

With Milk on the Side

 One day on a trip we stopped at a Cracker Barrel restaurant where I studied an old advertisement for cornflakes and found the proper way to eat them. The ad said they were "delicious with good top milk, poured into the side of the bowl, a little at a time." I guess that's why mine were always soggy. I dumped the milk over the top all at once.

I read once that cereal is the culprit responsible for America's obesity problem. The article recalled that a hundred or so years ago, people ate bacon and egg for breakfast. Then cereal was developed, and people stopped eating as many eggs, especially once it was known that they are high in cholesterol. Supposedly, cereal did not "stick to the ribs" all morning, and people ate even more for lunch. Well, they do fatten animals on grain, so maybe it makes sense.

Conversely, breakfast cereal was invented in an effort to give people healthier diets, as many people were troubled by intestinal problems back then. They often went to "sanitariums" to be cured. Dr. Harvey Kellogg was the superintendent of one of these sanitariums, strictly adhering to the guidelines of Sylvester Graham, who also invented Graham crackers. One day in 1894, as Dr. Kellogg and his brother, William Keith Kellogg, were experimenting with corn, they left the mixture out too long and it became stale. When they tried to roll it into thin sheets, it flaked up. Being thrifty, they decided to bake it anyway, and cornflakes were born.

Then, according to the article I read, a man with failing health visited the sanitarium. His name was C.W.  Post. He wasn't cured there, but he picked up the ideas on healthful eating, and went on to invent Grape Nuts, which made him rich. (It was sweetened with a type of sugar known as "grape" sugar, and it tasted like nuts.)

Diets come and go, and the pendulum now seems to be swinging to include fat in your diet(in moderation). Low-fat and fat-free diets are obviously not the answer to our weight issues. God created all foods to sustain us, and variety and moderation are no doubt the keys to good health. The focus of our society is almost exclusively on the temporal to the neglect of the eternal. Fashions, cosmetics, and exercise programs are all distractions that take our mind off what is really important. The body doesn't last, but the spirit lives on. That is where our emphasis should be. But a little bowl of cereal doesn't hurt, either. 

The Gift of Gab

 The Gift of Gab

My husband could carry on incredibly long conversations with people he had never met before. Even on the telephone. He had never had qualms about calling even the most important people for the minutest shred of information that he needed. I've been known to ask unbelievingly, "You're calling the (celebrity, politician, CEO) for that?" Not surprisingly, with his winning approach, he usually got the answer he wanted.

He had recently assumed the duty of choosing the name of a local pastor and a missionary for prayer by the congregation on Sunday mornings. That Saturday night I saw him perusing the ministry list, then heard him talking animatedly on the phone. He had recognized a familiar surname of a pastor and wondered if he were related to a minister he used to know by that same name and church affiliation in a neighboring town.

He talked so long and familiarly with someone, that after he hung up, I asked, "So he was related to your friend?"

"No! That list is out-of-date," he said, shaking his head. "The person I talked to doesn't eve live here anymore. He has a church in Kansas now."

"So what were you talking about so long," I wondered.

"Well, he knows a man that used to go to that church. In fact, this guy moved to that area and now goes to his church. Besides that, (the newcomer) knows (John) and (Bill) that I used to know well!" He proceeded to tell me of an inter-connecting string of people and events that was the topic of their whole conversation.

Howard had been on the phone all evening, it seemed, and we were just preparing for bed when the phone rang again. Another spirited, jocular, interchange ensued for so long that I went to bed.

"Why did he call back?" I asked when he finally got off the phone.

"That wasn't him, that was the other guy! The pastor gave him my number. You wouldn't believe all the same people that we know!" Yes, I would. Howard had lived around here all his life, going to school, having jobs, and meeting many people while working at the family grocery store.

Though I might have found my husband's effusiveness a little exasperating sometimes, I couldn't complain, for the qualities that other people liked about him are the same ones that drew me to him in the first place. I think most people would agree with me that when it came to Howard, "To know him was to love him."

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