Building Childhood Memories

I am pleased to share this guest post by Dana Hanley. Dana writes about faith, family, and particularly education at Principled Discovery. I encourage you to subscribe to her posts. They are always thought-provoking.

We have been listening to “On the Banks of Plum Creek” by Laura Ingalls Wilder. It is amazing to listen to her account of her childhood. Her family had so little…a rag doll and some paper dolls Ma had cut out of old papers were prized treasures. And yet they were so joyful.

Laura’s description of evenings of laughter and dance while Pa played his fiddle evoke a sense of longing for a simpler life in a simpler time. Her tales of running along the creek, chasing fish and pestering crabs cause the reader to pause and reflect on one’s own childhood.

Despite living in conditions most of us today would consider “hardship,” Laura provides such a vivid and loving account of her childhood that over 100 years later we can laugh at the antics of this little brown-haired girl of the frontier. Hours in front of the television watching the latest movie and playing the latest video game will hardly make such a lasting impression on this and future generations.

What memories will our children have?

I’m hoping mine will remember my husband taking time to read to them from “The Bible Story” by Maxwell before going to bed when he returns from a trip. And the post cards he sends them, and the letters they write to include in his lunch box.

I hope they remember breaking open the honeysuckles to get to the sweet nectar inside, and gathering wild plums by the creek north of town.

I hope they remember hiking down the creek at the dog run, balancing across the tree that fell over it, and the time that we all fell in and had to get in the car wet and muddy.

I hope they remember praying and talking and reading about God.

I hope my daughter remembers her excitement at her first “real” Bible.

I hope they remember popping popcorn and mixing it with M&Ms for an occasional family movie.

I hope they will someday sit in front of the fireplace with their grandchildren and have one or two tales from their childhood to share. Maybe even a few that their grandchildren request to hear again and again at every family gathering.

Storytelling seems to be a lost art in our current generation, but maybe that is because children have so little time to build memories worthy of repeating. Perhaps our children need more time when the most interesting thing to do is aggravate an old crab on the banks of Plum Creek.

Published in The Gift Of Family Writing by Jill Novak.

The Great Backyard Bird Count

I assume front yard bird watchers also qualify for the The Great Backyard Bird Count scheduled for February 13-16.

The site has all the information you need to start bird watching and a regional tally sheet of common birds.

If you don’t have a bird feeder, my son wrote instructions for a simple one created out of a plastic bottle: Building a Bottle Bird Feeder.

And Daisy of Laurel Wreath shares another good idea for Feeding the Birds (and her son).

Does your family feed the birds? What ways do you bring nature close?

For the Birds

Black oil sunflower seeds litter the ground beneath the ancient magnolia tree. The neglected bird feeder once again spills it bounty. It tempts birds back to delight our afternoons.

Behind the window, we peak at life outdoors. Meadowlarks dressed in their winter plumage of gray tinted yellow hop and peck. Yesterday a dove joined the feast. Today the chickadees return.

Little girls huddle close as we identify new visitors.

I think that is a nuthatch. Did you see him come down the tree upside-down?

Mom, he’s so pretty!

A squirrel bounces over to raid. Sweet Pea chases him away. To a squirrel this little girl is scary, but her scrunched eyes and pursed lips don’t have the same effect on me. I just want to kiss her.

We continue to watch and wonder at the majesty of the smallest creatures. Wings carry them. God sustains them.

I forgot to fill the feeder for weeks, yet these front yard friends return.

We welcome their reminder to slow down and enjoy the beauty of creation.

My Offering

A whisper during worship service reminds me of little brown-eyed faces framed by black hair. I see sticky grins of toddlers and missing-front-tooth smiles of elementary children. I feel their hugs. I sense their pain.

Children whose cries are ignored. Children who can’t imagine a canyon created by a river when the only canyon they know is etched in asphalt. Trapped by tall buildings and poverty. Pounding to escape.

Could I serve in a place like that again? Do I truly believe a tiny drop of love can crack massive walls erected by generations?

I do not doubt the efforts of loving my own three children. Motherhood is a worthy calling. I am grateful for the blue-eyes that beam at me every day.

But sometimes I wonder, is it enough?

Pouring my life out on a dirty kitchen floor somehow doesn’t seem the same as drenching hot concrete with my sacrifice. Yet this is where it continues.

My spiritual service of worship is a daily decision to lay myself on the altar as a living breathing offering. (Romans 12:1)

I can’t wait until I’m in the throes of tragedy to find what is acceptable to God. I need his mercy right now to sustain me in motherhood.

I need it to open my eyes to the little faces all around me.

Lost and Found

I step outside to find my lost student. After days of cold, the warmth of the sun touches my face compelling me to linger. The breeze pulls me farther out in spite of the open door.

My son paces around the swing set collecting his thoughts and scattering them again with imagination. I remind him we needed to finish lessons soon.

Then I glance down at my weed-filled garden next to the house. Boards and ladders smashed the tangled plants during a recent project. My eyes must deceive me. Is that a blush of red?

Two ripe strawberries peek out among the clover and chickweed.

Neglected plants dropped into the ground last year with hope, but barren for a whole season. Now roots spread beneath the rubble of leaves and sticks.

I pull weeds and unearth the harvest. Is spring really here? It is too early, but juicy red fruit reminds me of a promise.

My son and I share the large pink strawberry. Bite by bite we examine the seeds and remember:

As the rain and the snow come down from heaven,
and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,

So is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55: 10-11, NIV)

The tiny seeds we plant in the hearts of our children are watered by the Lord. In the barren seasons, it is easy to doubt. When weeds flourish, it is easy to despair.

Remember we can’t see underneath the surface. That is the magic and mystery of life. It comes from within, the realm of conscious tended by the Holy Spirit. And he’s been a gardener since the very beginning.