Can love come in a box…along with the wisdom gleaned from the road

“What does love look like? It has the hands to help others. It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like.”
St. Augustine of Hippo

(Meet Namar Nich, the latest member of the family / Julie Cook / 2016)

To quickly answer the question posed in today’s title…
…in a nutshell…
“no”
Love cannot come in a box….

Yet what exactly might come in a box you ask…??

Well…

Comfort can come in a box.
A little excitement can come in a box.
Sustenance can come in a box.
A brief moment of happiness or even a little joy can come in a box.
A small respite can come in a box.
A dose of fun can come in a box.
A bit of a diversion can come in a box.
Something new, old, borrowed or blue can come in a box….

And in our case, a little needed levity can come in a box…

Meet Gloria the Dammit doll’s new friends….they came, in a box, from China via LA
(yeah I was a little bummed discovering this crew is not a “Made in America” friendly clan)

However, sad as it may be, only one friend out of this foreign lot is going to be staying…
The others have places to go and people to see…
As in anxiously expectant homes already in need and waiting desperately for some comfort, joy, new, excitement, diversion, happiness, fun and levity to arrive…

Meet Namar Nich

Handsome little devil isn’t he?
Puffed out chest, beautiful mop of hair…
and those eyes….absolutely dreamy….

Gloria can hardly contain herself…you can see it in her face….

Notice that coy little smile of hers and see how her eyes just dance at the first sight of Namar…

What kind of name is Namar you ask…
Well if you must know…
My dad graduated from Emory University in Atlanta in the early 50’s, where he was a member of the
SAE fraternity. Upon completion of his degree from Emory, he then moseyed on over to GA Tech and earned another degree…this coming from a man who really didn’t like school…
but do you want to know what Dad did like?
He liked beer.
As I suppose most college boys, as well as most fraternity boys, do…they indeed like beer…
And in Dad’s case, it was an obscure Philadelphia brew of the day, Namar Beer.
And if I could guess, it was an inexpensive beer as we must remember dad is cheap a most frugal individual.
His college stein, that now sits proudly on a table at my son’s home, has the lovely seal of Emory University on the front and the name “Namar” elegantly printed on the back.

Years back, when I was much younger, I had taken dad’s mug out of his curio cabinet for further inspection.
I was really impressed with the whole college seal but as I flipped it around, reading the name on the back, I was greatly intrigued.
Assuming “Namar” was some deep dark secret ritual name from his time spent at college, I can remember asking him with stately reverence what it stood for.
With eyes sparkling wide, I anxiously readied myself for some marvelous tale as to the meaning of “Namar” when he causally replied…
“oh that was the name of my favorite beer…guess I drank a good bit of it as my friends nicknamed me Namar Nich…”

REALLY?

(a can of Philly’s best, Namar Beer…looks more like a can of motor oil…)

Needless to say one more tiny bubble burst in a long line of bursting bubbles as one more notch to Dad’s pedestal was knocked out from under the once loftier height….He’s now somewhere below sea level…but I digress…

And now you must remember that Gloria the Dammit doll had told me several weeks ago that she was tired. She has been working her fingers to the bones as life at Dad’s has been harrowing at best.
Gloria, my stepmother,….oh yeah, isn’t that the craziest thing, she and Gloria the Dammit doll both have the same name…anywhooo…Gloria, the stepmother, has been…well…not good….and when Gloria isn’t good and Dad isn’t good, which is how life has been as of late, Gloria the Dammit Doll is busy.

So I had promised to find Gloria a friend.
A helpmate who would help share in the load of balancing both the lives of my dad and stepmother….

So off to Atlanta the three of us went…

The journey was the typical harrowing adventure when traversing the Atlanta interstate system.
Pot holes litter the highway which provide drivers with the same sense of riding a roller coaster just at a speed of 75 mph or greater depending on one’s foot and the need to keep up with the traffic flow.
Bouncing up and down, thankful to be buckled in and praying not to pop a tire…

Yet there was a bit of enlightenment during today’s journey.

The first happened along by way of a homemade roadside placard that was situated on a power line just to the right side of the interstate.
A large painted wooden board announced to one and all:
“Jesus is coming…Be Patient”

I couldn’t help but chuckle out loud.

I mused to myself…that yes, He is indeed coming back…
and with the way things are going in this broken down world of ours,
I know that I for one have been more than a bit anxious as to His ETA…or estimated time of arrival!

There’s a lot of wisdom in that sign…
He’s coming…it isn’t a question of yea or nay…He’s definitely coming…
Rather the concern is all in the timing…as to when exactly He’s coming…
and I can assure you that it won’t be in my preferred time frame that’s for certain—

Timing is God’s and God’s alone…and I am behooved to be mindful of such.
God’s got this…I don’t…which is often far too obvious…
I just have to trust knowing it’s all in His hands.
Not an easy task, especially with my current life in Atlanta,
but it’s not in my hands…it’s all in His….

And as I continued driving over to my life in Atlanta that is totally out of control and certainly out of my control, I am sweetly reminded that God’s got this….suddenly a wonderful sense of comfort washed over me… as I continued racing toward my destination with both Gloria and Namar in tow.

The second little life lesson gleaned happened one interstate over while I was driving past a tanker truck.
Glaring for all to behold, printed in bold black letters on the back of the tanker was the sign “if you’re getting passed on the right, you’re probably in the wrong lane”
Luckily for me I was to this guy’s left.

And here we have life in a nutshell…life by way of the world’s standards…
“hurry up or get over because the world is ready to pass you by…”

Both moments dealt with time…
One being God’s time,..or better yet, God’s timing…
while the other focused on the time of this world.
Both of which play into the craziness I call this life of mine…
with the single important factor being….
which of these two times will I abide by…??

I think I prefer the former of the two….

More to follow on life with the new couple, Namar and Gloria….
and of course the older couple…Mr Mole and Mrs. Loon

“For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end—it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay.”
Habakkuk 2:3

Happy Father’s Day

“I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.”
Sigmund Freud

I have been fortunate in my lifetime to witness first-hand the protection and love of several “fathers” throughout my life……
I want to wish those father’s in my life a most joyous day.

First to my husband who is most blog shy–but I did manage to sneak in this picture of both he and our son taken 23 years ago… May it be known that he has been, and continues being, a marvelous father to our son–our only child. Our son is almost 25, soon to marry and it is because of my husband, his dad, and that of the constant love, positive influence, support and guidance that he has received over the years from his dad that has allowed him to grow up to be the young man he is today.

Secondly I want to wish my Dad, aka, Mr. Mole, Pops, a delightful day. He doesn’t read this blog nor does he know what a blog is, but I want him to know how much he means to us…..we owe my dad a great deal for all of his support he has showered upon us over the years….This picture was taken about two years ago at Christmas. He was proud of his new hat. Today he’s a bit thinner, more frail and much more forgetful, but still a ravenous chocoholic 🙂

Here he is as a student at Emory University 1950–at a time before he was a husband or a dad….

It is to one of the most important men in my life, my surrogate father, a spiritual father, that I now wish to honor and recognize. A man who stepped in to fill all the holes, which sadly, Life had torn open in my world at a critical time for an impressionable young woman. I am who I am today, in large part, to my Godpoppa—The Very Reverend David B. Collins, dean emeritus of the Cathedral of St Philip in Atlanta.
A 30 year old most memorable moment, caught for all eternity….

And as he likes to remind everyone, he was a navy man (WWII Naval officer) before he was a priest—-home on the sea always…

He will turn 90 this year— a remarkable feat indeed…

And lastly I want to remember my own Pop, my grandfather. His death in 1967 was very premature but the memories I have of him are so very special. One day I will write about this remarkable man but for now, Happy father’s day Pop…(my uncle is the older boy with my own Dad the little one…..

Happy Father’s Day to all four of these most precious men—my heartfelt love to each of you.

Mr. Mole, Continued Forgiveness and Grace

(photograph: my dad circa early 1930s)

My Dad.

There is a great deal of emotion wrapped up in that simple statement. Good and bad. There is also a good dose of guilt and regret. I am not a “daddy’s” girl. My dad was never that oh so strong and ever protective figure. I spent, or I should say, wasted a great deal of energy and time regretting and resenting him over all of these many years for not being that strong male in my life. That’s not to say however that he was not there for me—on the contrary, I have always had a dad in my life. Thankfully, I still do.

My parents were never divorced or separated, except for the when my mom quietly gave up her battle with the cancer in 1986. They had married in 1953, adopting two children over the course of that marriage. My dad, being a big kid at heart, was probably the “better” parent when we were little as he doted on us at Christmas and birthdays, being most extravagant with gift giving, even though it was never affordable for him to do so, and enthusiastically enjoyed taking us to every Disney movie imaginable. Oh to be a child, in the very early 60’s, getting to go see a full length animated Disney classic at the oh so magical Fox Theater in midtown Atlanta.

A family movie night, at home, consisted of an elaborate production of setting up a screen at one end of our home’s small hallway, lugging out the 16mm projector and setting it up at the opposite end of the hallway. Woody Woodpecker was the featured film and I never tired of watching, albeit it silent, Woody getting into the same troubles view after view. I knew that obnoxious call of his from television. It was perfectly fine not hearing him on these occasions. My brother and I would lie on our stomachs with heads propped up on hands and elbows with feet tangling up in the air. Nice memories.

But if you ever read my post Forgiveness One Step At A Time, you will recall that this oh so bucolic scene of family bliss was not the norm. There was the dark umbrella of mental illness, which hung over my small family like a cloak of death waiting to claim it’s latest victim—all the while as my brother would eventually bring the very concept of “family” in our world, to its knees.

I spent a lot of time being angry with and at my dad for not being stronger—for not doing more, for being frozen with inability. For what so many today crudely say of those lacking in tenacity or a certain strength, “for having no balls”– for not taking the bull by the horns and for not working harder at saving our crumbling world. Instead he stood by watching rather hopelessly, wringing his hands all in ill effect. It seems now it is easier for him to lament that he drove my brother to madness… which is so far from the truth.

My dad has allowed himself to be a victim of my brother’s illness, and all these many years later, he constantly pulls out a picture of my now deceased brother, at a much younger age, telling any and all who will listen as to how he drove Ed to be what he was. This, always sending me in a silent fit rage as I and others gathered around continue the litany of “no, that is not true, that is not how it was”…… talk about frustration….

After my mother’s death, my father, who was not one to spend a dime except if it was your birthday or Christmas, slowly began to divest himself of some his tightly guarded and secured assets. I think there was a sense of silent guilt that my mom had not always had the new and improved things or appliances. No house updates, no upgrades or remodeling for us. No fancy vacations, luxury cars, private schools, or extravagances of any sort for us.

We were, however, never were left “wanting” as we had what we really needed. Unfortunately however my Mom was only allotted $50 a week in order to buy groceries, clothes and basically handle a family of 4—leaving very little if anything remaining for herself– no lunch with friends, no trips to clothing stores or fun afternoons out with the other moms. She was a stay-at-home mom, but always, one, who I sensed as very unhappy—a very sad unhappy woman.

It was my friends and roommates in college who gave my dad, unbeknownst to him, the moniker of Mr. Mole, as it seemed my parents never went out for adventure, movies, ball games, etc.– never venturing far from our home, which they dubbed the mole hole. The name stuck and my dear old friends always lovingly ask today how is old Mr. Mole? Only adding to that sense within me that we were not an average family…compounding any growing resentments I was already harboring.

My dad, however, has since become very generous and kind the older he has become, not that these are traits he ever lacked— old family friends always talk about how nice a guy my dad was—and that may just have been part of the trouble—he simply was too nice and naïve a guy. I feel today that perhaps he, after losing mom, after my grandmother’s death, after he retired, after becoming a grandfather, having since remarried—thought deep down that now it was “ok” to spend a little of the tightly hoarded savings and to enjoy the little family he has remaining around him—to dare to actually enjoy and live life—all however in a very conservative small way—not being able to stray too far from those silent voices that haunt him.

If it were not for my dad, my son, his only grandchild, would not have certain opportunities that he now has and enjoys. My dad has helped to take care of and provide for my small family in ways that we could not necessarily do for ourselves and we are truly indebted to his generosity. It is now that I can see and appreciate his early frugal ways as they have helped to make life today a bit easier for all of us. My son has a very close relationship with his grandfather as they are “partners in crime” and for that, I am grateful.

I believe that it is not until becoming a parent and being able to put time and space between one’s self and that of one’s own childhood that a type of healing can finally begin to coagulate. I know this is true in my own life. All of the energies I wasted being hurt, regretting, and simply being mad that I didn’t have a strong dad have, thankfully, finally melted away. God’s Grace of healing has slowly been at work in my soul—for which I am truly truly thankful.

I have indeed been blessed, on the one hand, of having that sort of relationship a growing girl needs with a strong leading male figure, that with my godfather—a long since retired Episcopal priest. He has been that stronger male in my life– the one who I could run to with all of my worries, fears and regrets….the one who has often picked up all the emotional pieces of my life—I owe him a great deal as well. And I know today that I have been actually doubly blessed. All this coming from a once very angry young woman.

It has not been until I have seen up close the mistakes I have made as a parent, the poor decisions, the things I regret, those mismanaged moments of my own parenting– as a mom, that I have finally afforded myself the ability to “forgive” my dad and to forgive myself as well. As any parent will tell you, there are no owner’s manuals given out in hospital at the time of delivery. We simply do the best we can do with the resources we have, or don’t have, and hope for the best.

I hope one day my son will be able to look back and forgive all the mistakes I have made along the way in his upbringing. As parents, it’s as if we simply walk a minefield of error…screwing up here and there, but always hoping for the best. Humans are resilient and this is a good thing.

And perhaps in all of this, age is an issue—in my case, thankfully, it is the mellowing with age that is proving a saving grace. My dad never knew I was always angry with him or resentful, that was more of an intrinsic battle I was waging— but it is certainly nice to be able to shed some of its weight. Does he continue to frustrate me? Definitely! As he’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, his childlike nature is simply being compounded. He is manipulative in a very passive aggressive manner. He has elevated my deceased mentally unstable brother to the level of Saint—but even that, thankfully, I am learning to let go of…

So at 53 I am getting to a place of some peace—or that is, until the next crisis rolls around 🙂 I can also say a latent “thank you” to my dad, for all that you have done and continue to do for us. Hopefully God’s work in me is on going, as I know it is, just as my previous post stated– forgiveness one step at a time—forgiveness for others, forgiveness of self– Thank God!!

I am a true believer in God’s Grace, as I am indeed a product of that Grace. I believe in healing—on a grand scale and on the smaller more subdued scale—the healing that takes place in my own heart is that of a gradual slow trickle—and that is obviously the way I need for it to be—even though I would often prefer being hit over the head and suddenly being a perfect person—but who is that perfect person? I’ve yet to meet one…
May God bless you as He continues blessing and healing me—-
Here is to Mr. Mole, my Dad.