The Diminishing List

From birth until my marriage at age 17, there were two men in my life. 

My brother, Tony, lived with my mother and me until he graduated from high school.  I wrote about him in a blog in February, when he passed away.  We had remained connected to the end…and beyond.  His loss is still very fresh.  

The other man was my brother-in-law, Norman.  He lived in the same Kansas town as me, was married to the only sister I was close to, and I spent a great deal of time in their company.  I called his parents grandma and grandpa.  When I had my tonsils out, Norman was the one who picked me up at the hospital and took me to his parents to convalesce.  And a week later, when I was pronounced healed and could eat anything I wanted, it was Norman who took me for a hamburger and chips. 

In my younger years, occasionally I was allowed to spend the night at my sister’s.  I felt loved there.  We watched Alfred Hitchcock and I Love Lucy.  Not sure mother ever knew that.  TV was forbidden.  Sometimes when they took a vacation, I tagged along with their two daughters.  He worked the late shift, so we would leave Kansas in the very early morning when he got off.  Our goal was to get out of Kansas before it got too hot.  The car had no air conditioning.  Boxes were placed between the front and back seats to make a bed for the three children.  

In high school, I was given driver’s ed using simulators.  When I received my Learner’s Permit, Norman was the one who took me in his car and let me learn to drive the real thing.  One time, after we returned home, I let the very heavy car door close on my finger.  He’s the one who drilled a hole in my nail to relieve the pressure.  He was like the dad I never had.  And when I married, he sang at my wedding.  

Ten years later, when his wife died and my husband left just a few months apart, Norman still lived in Kansas and I lived in Nebraska.  He would drive to my home and do the needed repairs.  I would feed him a home-cooked meal (it was his wife who had taught me to cook) and send him home with cookies.  

 

I received word last night he passed away.  Tears were shed.  

He had been in my thoughts quite a bit recently, since August 4^th was his birthday.  In his 90’s, he succumbed to the virus.  I reflected on his life and how intertwined it had been with mine in those early years.  But life passes quickly.  It has been probably 40 years since I saw him.  That does not lessen the impact he had on my life.  

The list of people left in my birth family is diminishing.  That’s what happens when you’re the baby and you get old.  

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Passing the Baton

As the youngest of nine children, the history and memories of my family had been deposited in the minds of my older siblings and my mother.  Since mother rarely talked with me, she didn’t offer much in the way of family history.  Some sisters passed away before I was of the age where I was curious about my predecessors.  Some sisters never lived in the same state as me and I saw them maybe twice in my life.   

That left me with two brothers who were like a vault of information.  Both of them had researched the genealogy of our lineage for generations previous.   I really didn’t care too much about the name of my great-great-great grandfather, which I think was Joshua Jehoiada.  But tales about names familiar to me were of interest.  

Both brothers were storytellers.  

Just listening to them was fascinating.  They embellished.  Their narratives were full of humor.  Unknown relatives came alive as they spun their yarns.  They both wrote books full of memories.  

One passed away five years ago and the other one in February.  

So, when I recently received an email from (if I’ve figured it out correctly) a great-niece, the realization hit me.  I’m the older one now.  I’m the storehouse of history and memories.  It’s surprising to me to be in this position.  I’ve been the youngest for all these years.  How did I get here?  And can I do it justice?  

I never knew of her existence.  

As the emails fly between us, it’s been enlightening to hear her side of the stories contained in my repertoire.  And we are just getting started.  

The baton has been passed…and I’m running with it!  

“But watch out!  Be careful never to forget what you yourself have seen.  Do not let these memories escape from your mind as long as you live!  And be sure to pass them on to your children and grandchildren.”  Deuteronomy 4:9 (NLT

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Purging

We gathered around a burn barrel behind the church.  As instructed, I had my one bracelet, some barrettes, and my roller skates.  We were to bring anything unholy and not of God…to be burned.  One person after another dropped items into the barrel.  As a lover of books, it was hard to watch as volume after volume was tossed into the flames.  Some teenagers had several bracelets, rings and necklaces.  A few, the horror of it all, had lipstick.  

Our church was being purified.  

My insides trembled as I wondered if I had remembered everything I needed to bring.  I knew the roller skates were evil.  When I turned twelve my mother had explained roller skating was a form of dancing.  I was now twelve.  God would be very angry at me if I kept any wicked article.  

Sixty-five years later, those sights and smells, shouts of praises and crying of children are permanently etched in my memory.  In the past few weeks, that remembrance has emerged again.  

I viewed a documentary called American Gospel.  

Transfixed by the scenes unfolding before me, I sat motionless as one hour and then two passed.  The true colors of pastors and speakers I admired were being revealed before my eyes.  I had read their books and our church had participated in their studies.  Blindly I had followed their precepts, without any research of my own.  

Their books and DVDs were available for purchase at Christian bookstores.  That meant they were alright, didn’t it?  

In one interview, a well-known pastor explained that going to heaven was easy and the road to hell was very hard to travel; just the opposite of what the Bible says.  Books written by people who say they died and went to heaven were compared.  No two views of heaven were the same.  One author has now totally admitted he made it up.  The “heaven tourism” books are big sellers.  

I have been purging my bookshelves.  Even though it pains me, I am no longer comfortable owning books written by what is known as a false teacher.  So, I’ve made a few trips to the dumpster. 

I’ve learned a lesson in accountability.  I am responsible for what I allow to enter my mind.  

“And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing.  Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable.  Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.”  Philippians 4:8 (NLT)

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