My wedding ring went to the shop a few weeks ago. It just needed a small repair, but it was going to take up to a month, and I didn't want to be without a ring for that long. I'm pretty proud of the man whose name I share and I'd prefer the whole world knows I belong to him, which meant I needed to rummage around in a closet and find my grandmother's ring to wear in the meantime.
My grandmother's ring. The ring I used to watch her twist around and around her finger. The ring she would let me try on when I played "wedding." The ring she left for me in a box lined with blue velvet, my name written in her wild cursive on a torn piece of notebook paper and stuffed in the lid. My grandmother's ring.
By the time I inherited it, I was much more mature than the little girl who used to pretend she was getting married. I was in fact married with a ring of my own. I also thought it was a little funny looking, not trendy at all. I put it in a safe place and didn't think about it again.
But, something happened when I took it out of the box lined with blue velvet. It wasn't funny looking at all. In fact, it was a tad bit trendy. And what's more, it was beautiful. It was still small and worn and not a bit shiny. But, it was beautiful. Because it was hers.
And for the last few weeks, I've caught myself staring at her ring on my hand. Staring and remembering. My grandmother has been gone for fifteen years, but I can still hear her laugh when she told one of her funny stories. I can still taste her cherry cheese pie. I can still smell her powder. I can still see that ring, twisting round and round on her finger.
Today, I got the call that my own ring is repaired and ready for me to pick up. I'll be glad to see it on my finger again. But, I'll put my grandmother's ring away differently this time. Because the older I get and the more I stand in one place and feel time rushing past me at a rate I can't control, the more I treasure my memories and the people I thought would be in my life forever, but rushed right past me to a place I can't see.
So the memories in a box lined with blue velvet will be waiting. Maybe for my daughter. Maybe a granddaughter. But, they'll be waiting. For someone to hear the stories of the laugh and the cherry pie and the powder and the ring. The ring twisting round and round and round.
I recently loaded up my kids and went to visit my grandmother. She gets tired pretty easily, so we don't ever stay a long time, but it was a sweet visit. All the children took turns sharing their latest accomplishments with her, we ate together, and we heard a few more stories from the treasure box of her memories.
And somewhere in there, I slipped away to my Papaw's study to do what I always do when I visit. I plucked one of his notebooks off the shelf and read through it for a moment.
My grandfather was a preacher. My earliest memories of him involve pulpits and Vacation Bible Schools, where he would let the children who brought guests snip a piece off his necktie. I loved visiting him at the church, getting candy from his secretary and even more candy from the janitor. I loved that he was always willing to travel good distances to witness the important events in my life, always being the one who gave the biggest hug and told me how proud he was of me.
I was the oldest grandchild in the family and the first to marry. It was Papaw who conducted our ceremony, and it was Papaw who sat us down for pre-marital counseling. I remember blushing furiously when my aging grandfather talked about the honeymoon with me and my future groom, but I have always been grateful for the wonderful foundation he helped us build in so many facets of our communication with each other.
I had only been married two short months when Papaw had a stroke. He would eventually recover completely physically, but would never fully recover in his ability to speak. For the next ten years, it would be a struggle to communicate with him. He was always able to convey love, but gone were the eloquent sermons, the heart to heart conversations, and the huge words he loved to use.
And then he was gone. Suddenly, and without a chance for many of us to say goodbye.
And that's why I love to slip away into his study and pick up a notebook. There are quite a few to choose from because he was a preacher in the days before computers. His sermon files aren't on a hard drive. They're all in notebooks, on the top shelf of the study.
A lifetime of sermons. A treasure of words.
When I read his writings, mostly typed, but with many handwritten notes in the margins, I can listen to his voice again. I can hear a heart that loved his God. I can recall his wisdom, the kind that's earned the hard way. I can remember his love for me.
And this last time, as I held a notebook entitled "Philippians" in my hand, I wondered what my legacy would be. What treasure do my notebooks hold? What am I leaving for those who come after me to remember and ponder?
My life is telling a story. I pray it's as beautiful as the one on the top shelf.
My birthday was last week, and it seems a little unreal that I am as old as I am. I don't mind, it just takes me by surprise when I say the age outloud, like life is flashing by so that I can't get used to one number before it changes to another. I have the most trouble comprehending my own age when I think about my childhood, which I do quite often, as my younger children are fond of asking me to tell them stories of my life when I was their age. But when I reminisce, it doesn't seem possible that those memories are three decades old. Those snapshots in my brain feel like they were taken just a month or two ago.
And I've discovered something. When I play the memories like home movies in my mind, I usually find the ones that are the most vivid involve one of three things: celebrations, vacations, and food.
The first two I understand. Those are the times the camera comes out, so the memories of the Christmases, the birthday parties, and the road trips to Colorado got rehearsed every time I looked at my scrapbook.
But, the third one. That's interesting to me. I don't have any pictures of food in my scrapbook, but I can remember every detail about quite a few dishes.
I can remember the way our house would fill with the smell of autumn when my mom baked applesauce cake.
I can remember it wasn't really spring until we went to pick raspberries and she made the most delicious jam.
I can remember our Texas salsa lasting through the winter after she spent an entire day canning it, driving my brother out of the house with the hot smell of peppers.
And it's not just our own house, either.
I remember Grammie's icebox pie. I can remember her explaining what an "icebox" was every time she made it. And the macaroni salad with pimientos that was always in her "icebox," too.
I can remember Meme's dressing at Thanksgiving, hard to forget since she was a little fond of the sage and it turned out green every year. And her biscuits with sausage cooked right into the top that were always waiting for us when we woke up at her house.
I can remember Grandma's broccolli rice casserole and the way we all fought over the last couple of spoonfulls. And her pecan pies that were full of pecans shelled by my Papaw from their backyard.
I can remember my Dad's Sunday morning eggs and the way he would hide a slice of Velveeta cheese underneath for us to "find." And the roast he made every Sunday after church, the roast he still teases me is the reason my husband married me.
So many memories centered around kitchens. So much love and so much joy, all around a bunch of tables.
And I wonder what foods my own children will be telling their kids about some day. What will they try to cook for my grandbabies, just because it reminds them of home and Mama and joy and warmth?
There's a lot of days I come home from the office and don't want to spend time hanging out at the stove. There are plenty of times I'd rather give up on meal planning and the grocery shopping and just eat out. But, even beyond the havoc that would wreak on our budget, there's another reason I keep at it day after day, week after week. I believe in the family kitchen, in its ability to keep a group of people who are going so many different directions all day long centered in one place, in its power to make a boy look forward to walking in the front door after football practice, and in the way it can hold the treasures of memory.
That's why I've made a few choices about how I will serve my family in our family kitchen.
1. Unless we're traveling, we don't eat out for supper much. That's our home time.
2. I plan out meals for a week at a time to try to reduce the "what am I making" stress.
3. I play music when I'm cooking. Fun music. Which leads to dancing. Which makes me smile. I cook better when I'm smiling.
4. I do my best to try a new recipe every week. Variety is the spice of life.
5. I have posted the best kitchen quote ever on the wall above my stove. And I read it often.
"There's no spectacle on earth as appealing as a woman making dinner for someone she loves." - Thomas Wolfe
One of the deepest joys of growing older is the ripening of old friendships. When you make a friend in your youth, it is a sweet thing. When that person remains your friend into your adulthood, it is sweeter still. And when you still have that friend as you grow old, it is precious beyond measure.
For who but an old friend can laugh with you over the outrageous mistakes you made in your young days, cry with you at the loss of your deepest dream, and at the same time rejoice with you over the answers God sends after a lifetime of prayers?
To know someone's strengths and weaknesses for decades and still call them friend. To have shared life together for season after season, both the good and the bad, and still enjoy one more meal gathered round the table. To look upon what someone has overcome and accomplished in their lifetime and find a complete lack of jealousy in your heart towards them, but only gratefulness.
This is old friendship.
Treasure it.
Is there an old friend in your life you need to thank today for the way they have grown with you and helped shaped you into what you are at this moment? Even old friends need to hear from your own lips how much you value who they are to you. Pick up a pen. Pick up the phone. And let them know you'll be around for this season they are facing right now, and the next one, and the next...
My husband turns thirty-seven tomorrow. I can remember spending an hour in the card section of the drugstore in college, debating on which card to give him for his twentieth birthday. We were just friends at the time, with a hint of something more. I wanted to give him a card that said "I notice you," but didn't want to be too forward and have it say, "I NOTICE YOU." And then there was how to sign it. Love, Mindy? Your Friend, Mindy? Sincerely, Mindy?
For a girl who always fancied herself to have the heart of Jane Austen, it seemed like a bit of defeat when I just signed, "Mindy," but it makes me smile now.
It was the spring of a relationship. All new. A little nerve-racking. Quite a bit of adventure.
I never could have understood then what I now know for fact-- that every year he has aged has brought me more to cherish, to honor, and to respect. I loved the college boy with all my nineteen year old heart, and yet I love the thirty-seven year old man with all of the heart of the not-so-far-behind-him-in-age, the one that has grown and changed and learned what true love is because of his presence.
It is, after all, this man who has laughed with me over jokes no one else would think funny.
It is this man who took the time to discover my wounds and then stayed to see them healed.
It is this man who has called me beautiful until I became it.
It is this man who has prayed for my children with the same heart of love for them that beats in my chest.
It is this man whose life looks more like Jesus than anyone else I know.
And it is this man who still takes my breath away when our eyes meet across a crowded room.
After our daughter skipped out of the room with her toothless smile tonight, I put my hand on my heart and told him I wished I could pause the passage of time and just live in this now for awhile. He grinned at me and said, "Why would we do that? It just keeps getting better."
My thoughts on his life, exactly.
