A Legacy of Jubilance

I've been thinking a lot lately about the idea of legacy.  Ya know, the idea of passing on something important of yourself, usually through something awesome you've made or created.  

If you ask folks on the street what they want their legacy to be, I betcha most of them would say something to the effect of, "Teaching my kids how to have it better than me," or "Raising a good family."  Noble, these.

But what about those of us who aren't sure that God will use us to be biological parents?  I meet with an amazing group of women from my church once a week and only two of the ten have tiny people who look like them. I have found an incredible sense of belonging among this group, but it always comes up in some shape or fashion within our conversations that most of us struggle with the desire to be married and have children. But the fact of the matter is, the number of women who are true followers of Christ far outweigh the number of men who are such.  The odds, as the kids say these days, are not in our favor.

Most days I'm okay with this!  I take heart when I read verses such as this from the 7th chapter of 1st Corinthians, "Sometimes I wish everyone were single like me—a simpler life in many ways! But celibacy is not for everyone any more than marriage is. God gives the gift of the single life to some, the gift of the married life to others." Sometimes when I read this, I feel as if Paul is nodding at me!  But other times - times when I hold sweet babbling babies or see a newly married couple serving together in church - I feel as if I just haven't gotten to that stage of my life yet.

I think I know a big reason why this idea of legacy has been dancing quietly in the back room of my soul for the last few weeks, and that reason is the twelve pounds of absolute precious joy that make up my nephew, Ford.

By the grace of God, Brother and Sister-in-Law brought baby Ford into this world in August of this year, and his presence in our lives has ushered my little family into a new era full of lullabies, Wubanubs, and the most adorable onesies and bibs ever created.  He is an absolute pro at everything except sleep (he just wants to stay awake and smile at the world!), and Mama, Sister, and I keep a running countdown of when we get to snuggle him next.

But you see, it's not just the presence of baby Ford that has me thinking about legacy. It's the spirit that I see in this little boy... it's the spirit of my Daddy.

My siblings and I are the most wonderful combination of the traits of our parents -- we're all stubborn, strong, and hilarious, and we all look so much alike that we've all been mistaken for twins at one point or another.  I love who we are and who we have turned out to be.  But there's a trait that was present in my sweet Daddy that I think the three of us only got partial doses of -- and that is jubilance.

Not baby Ford.  I can see in him, especially now that he is starting to "talk" (the babbling of an almost four-month old), the pure exultant joy over simply being alive and able to interact with those he loves.  This is the quintessence of what I think of when I remember my Daddy.

This Thanksgiving marks ten years since he went Home, and I'm in awe of all that has gone on in our lives and in the world since he's been gone.  Daddy would balk at smart phones, but I think he would love The Big Bang Theory.  He would be quietly worried and saddened over all of the war and bickering within our nation and the world.  He would love playing with my puppy, Stella, and he would ask for samples as Mama makes this week's batch of red velvet cupcakes (a new take on his favorite cake).  He would adore my Sister-in-Law, and he would get that red-faced look of holding back joyful tears if he could hold the next generation of his namesake in his arms.

I'm not sure what my legacy will be... maybe dozens of inspiring books on theology, singleness, and how much God loves us.  Maybe I will foster dozens of Loves who need a safe place to stay for a while.  Maybe I will actually get to be a wife and a mother one day. Whatever it will be, I know that it will be what God has for me because I've chosen to follow Him no matter what.  

The uncertainty doesn't bother me anymore.

But I'm so glad that I can now be certain that my Daddy's jubilant spirit is coming forth in the life of my nephew.  That legacy is such a joy to watch. And such a gift from God.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Hearts.

Well and Whole

I'm a '90s kid.  I grew up loving Nestle's Nesquik, I owned a pair of culottes (I didn't say I was a cool '90s kid!), and I aspired to be as pretty and as popular as Kelly Kapowski from Saved by the Bell.

I was also a dyed-in-the-wool good little Presbyterian girl who rarely missed Youth Group on Sunday nights.  My understanding of Christ was wrapped up in Advent Wreaths, and a tiny sip of wine every sixth Sunday, and in the Christening of sweet, milky-skinned babies dressed in long white dresses.

The first time I remember experiencing the presence of God in a tangible, identifiable way was when I was about seven or eight years old.  We lived in that old country house out on Blue Springs Road, tucked into the corner behind fields of cantaloupes, watermelons, and tomatoes, just in front of a dense copse of woods into which we were only allowed to venture a visible ten feet.

I honestly can't remember if it was Easter time or Christmas, but it was one of the two.  There was a sense of holiday in the kitchen, brought about by the smell of baking cakes and brown-sugar ham.  Mama stood barefoot on the mat at the kitchen sink, washing dishes.  I sat at the white-tile table, doing something that escapes my memory (drawing? writing stories?).  All I remember is turning to Mama and saying, in a voice more timid than usual, my first words of dialogue about my inner faith.

"Mama?"

Mmm hmm, she replied, hands soapy.

"You know how we've had all these special church services lately?"

Yeah?

"Well, I think I.... I mean, I'm not sure, but...."

She turned to look down at me, the embodiment of motherly love. What is it, Katie?

"Well, it's just that I feel like I can feel God.  Like, I'm closer to Him now.  It's like He's with us. All the time."  I looked sheepishly up at my sweet Southern Mama, unsure of what she'd say.  Unsure if this was something we openly talked about outside of Sunday School.  So much of my conversational skill at that time was influenced by topics chosen by my older siblings (who were around nine and twelve at the time), and I had never heard them talk about God in this way at home.  Of course we said blessings at every meal and we didn't take the Lord's Name in vain, but our innocent topics of conversation tended more toward who was the best Ninja Turtle.

The tension broke as Mama smiled down at me with a glisten in her eyes (were there really tears there? or has time painted my memory with emotion for nostalgia's sake?).  That's wonderful, honey.  He IS with us all the time.  I'm so glad you feel that way.

That's all my memory affords me now.  Just that snapshot of a few moments in a kitchen decorated with black and white cows (we lived on farmland, after all). Just a mother and daughter and chores and an afternoon.  But it was the earliest moment (to my recollection) that I spoke about my faith.

Fast forward a few years to those Sunday evenings at my local Presbyterian Church.  A tall, lanky man in thick, round glasses always carried Warheads (our favorite sour treat in middle school) and a tattered copy of The Message.  I can't think of my days in Youth without thinking of him (our Youth leader throughout adolescence) and what was then the newest and most radical translation of Scriptures.  I received my first copy of this version of the New Testament, Psalms, and Proverbs before Eugene Peterson had even translated the whole Bible.  Reading this "liberal" translation colored my understanding of faith more than I could've known at the time, and I know now that my experience with it is another definitive stamp on my '90s kid passport.

I was once again struck by the beauty of the diction in this translation when one of my favorite authors posted a verse from John 14 yesterday.  Verse 27 begins on the second line:

When I was a teen reading The Message, I didn't understand this verse.  I had never felt abandoned, bereft.  I had a wonderful family who loved me, fed me, hugged me every single day.  As I teen, I had nothing about which I was ever truly upset or distraught (save the typical adolescent romantic heartbreak here and there).

I'm sure - on one of those Sunday nights, on one of those Youth Retreats to wooden cabins or beach balconies, during one of those sporadic quiet times I had at my little white desk in my bedroom -  I  had to have come across this verse back then.  But I had no point of reference, no connecting experience to help me truly understand what Christ was saying to His disciples.

It has been more than twenty years since I made those first statements of faith to my mother, and I have since experienced the true depths of the words in this translation of the verse: abandoned (how else does a twenty-year-old child feel when her father dies too young?), bereft (when the guy who had said he would marry me changed his mind and said he didn't love me), upset (when life feels out of control), distraught (when the precarious scale of anxiety tips in the wrong direction).  So when I saw that verse again last night, I had absolute points of reference by which I could understand Christ's message.

What's more, my reading of this verse last night has been colored by a fabulous book I'm currently enjoying:

Set in 33 A.D., the protagonists of The Centurion's Wife are in search of the truth of what happened to the crucified prophet's body.  Leah and Alban are under the rule/employ of Pontius Pilate himself, and as they seek answers, both draw closer to Christ's disciples in the forty days before His ascension. I'm not done reading the book just yet, but I have come to truly love the heroine, Leah.  As she seeks the truth for her demanding Uncle Pilate, she interacts with the female greats of Scripture (Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Jesus, and my personal favorite, Martha of Betheny).  The snippets of conversations with Jesus, as relayed by these women to Leah, have given voice within my spirit to the Savior Himself.  Just as those church services made me feel closer to God as a kid, so, too, has reading this book.  The women in the story speak of waiting to see what The Lord will do next, but they know no matter what is to happen, they are now the torchbearers of the Peace of Christ.

The PEACE of Christ.  He leaves us with PEACE.  Peace.  Not worry.  Not anxiety.  Not fear.  Not timidity.  PEACE.

I knew peace as a seven-year-old when I voiced my growing faith to my mother.  And right now, at least in this moment, I know peace as The Lord weaves words and stories and translations and memories together in my mind and heart, reminding me that when I follow and trust in Him, I will be well and whole.

We don't have to wait to be WELL and WHOLE, Dear Hearts! God invites us to be so NOW.  

He invites us to come close and listen to the stories of His miracles.  We find these stories in ALL of the God-breathed translations of the Scriptures, and in all of the tender historical fiction novels rendered by a generation of Christian women who are devoted to creatively sharing the Message of our redeeming Savior.

God invites us to be well and whole by believing - by having faith that Christ Jesus died, was buried, and rose again so that the tragedies of this earthly life which make us feel abandoned and bereft, upset and distraught would NOT have the last word in our lives.  He conquered those things for us on the cross. And because He conquered, we get PEACE.

I shake my head in awe tonight as I close this, Dear Hearts.  I pray you will see the magnitude of this message of peace and let it transform your tonight and all of your tomorrows.

By His Grace,
K

 

A Short Letter to Daddy from November 23, 2008

Dear Daddy,

It's been three years since you left for Home, and still I ache everyday.  The ache isn't always the same.  Some days I'm really happy, and I ache to call you and tell you about the good things in my life.  Some days are frustrating, and I ache to hug you, to feel safe and loved in your big, belly-intruding hugs.  Some days I simply ache because I don't get to sit on the carport with you and enjoy the beautiful evening weather.

One-thousand and ninety-five days..... that's how many days we've lived without you now.  Amazing.  At least five hundred of those were tear-filled.  On two of those days I had breakups.  On two others we gave it just one more shot.  On one of those days, we all moved out of that big house in Raeford.  One day I graduated from college.  Another day I became a high school English teacher.  On many different days, Mama and I heard the call of the mourning dove.  One day, I stopped counting the number of days.....

You know, for the thousands of days before you left, you gave us enough love and devotion to last a lifetime.  I miss you, and I'm sad you're not here to share the holidays (and everydays) with us, but I'm grateful for every moment we had with you.  In between all of the aching, I'm grateful you were my Daddy.  Grateful that most of my memories of you involve full-bodied laughter and toothy full-faced grins.  Grateful that you're happy and pain-free and in the presence of our Living God.  And when we all get to Heaven, we'll have a million more moments and days with you that will be even better than what we experienced here on earth.

Keep leaving dimes for Mama.

I love you,
Katie Kelly (and her goo-goo-googley eyes.....)

A Memory for Father's Day

It's a sad truth that not all of us get to hug our dads' necks on Father's Day.  Some kids have dads serving overseas, some adults live in different cities or states than their parents, and some folks have never had positive (or even existing) relationships with their fathers.  And then there's the group of us who've joined, at one point or another, that unfortunate club entitled "My Dad Passed Away."  It's not a fun club, Friends, and if you're a member of it I want to extend my deepest sympathies.

But this is not meant to be a sad post.  It's not meant to make you feel sorry for me or for any other member of the M.D.P.A.C.  I simply wanted to bring you a memory that I wrote about once when I had my Daddy on my mind and heart.  I wanted to let you know that even when we lose someone, we can keep them alive by telling their stories, and by telling our stories that include them. 

I miss my Daddy, but I know this world is but a fleeting moment in the Bigger Picture.  I'll get to see him again.  Until then, I'll smile and remember him through stories like this:

Dancing with Daddy

                I was around six years old.  There was brown shag carpet under my feet, carpet that Mama fussed about the whole time we lived in that house because it hid dirt and bits of plastic that came off of our toys.  I loved the feel of that carpet, would lay on it for hours in my tent made out of old sheets and wooden drying racks.

                Mama and Brother sat at the piano, because he always had first dibs on that bench with her.  She had taught piano lessons when she was pregnant with him, which meant he was the one with the natural talent on the keys.  He has perfect pitch, and can play by ear, facts that drove me nuts for the four years I painstakingly tried to teach myself to play on that same piano years later.  They jubilantly pounded out the hokey notes of Heart and Soul, Mama taking the baseline and Brother the melody.  Mama switched up the rhythms and techniques, and as I write this I realize that it must be a very different memory for Brother – was that the night Mama taught him the baseline?  Was it as pivotal a night for him as for me?

                I can see Sister dancing with Daddy, hear her laughter as he directed her this way and that with the twirls and the turns of a shag dance (the only dance I ever saw him perform).  Her hair was shorter then, less curly.  Now, as a thirty-year-old, she has enviable corkscrew curls that are light and oddly manageable.  Then, as an eleven-year-old, she had yet to figure out her hair, and it swayed about her face in a fluffy, only slightly-unruly manner.  Does she think of this night still?  Does she remember this night of dancing with Daddy as fondly as I do?

                At some point, as we danced by the fireplace, in between the occupied piano and the tattered old recliner, Daddy spun Sister to be seated, threw out his hand to me (I had been happily clapping and sitting on the coffee table which had been pushed aside), and joyously urged, “C’mon, Katie! Your turn!”

                The memory goes a little fuzzy there.  I remember grabbing his hand, and giggling as he twirled me.  I can see his beyond-five-o’clock-shadow coming through in the evening hour, his hair flipping out of place.  At some point he stuck his tongue on the edge of his mouth like a boy in third grade would do as he works math problems.  The pieces don’t all fit together, and I can’t even see in my memory a full string of me dancing with him. 

                But I can feel it.  If I close my eyes, I can feel the rhythmic steps (maybe not so rhythmic in my case, since I was only six) of my bare feet on that brown shag carpet.  I can smell the cold radiating off of the old bricks of the fireplace beside us as he whips me around for another spin.  I can see Mama smiling down at Brother, and I can hear Sister laughing. 

And even if I can’t visualize my hand in Daddy’s, I know it was there.  It was there once, and many more times again throughout the next fourteen years.  Whenever I danced with Daddy, it was always a shag dance, and he always laughed and smiled through it all.  No stoic, proper, stuffy father figure for me.  I got one of the jubilant ones who taught me that dancing was about having fun.