REMEMBERING....

Okay, so I'm a Mom Photoholic. The short hall between bedrooms and living room in my home is a portrait gallery, with family photos nearly all the years since our 1981 marriage. Yep, wedding photo, then with a newborn and then a second baby, all the way through their graduations, weddings and grandchildren. Some were taken by local photographers (like ones who long-ago worked out of corners of Wal-Mart, Penney's, and Sears!). Others came off personal cameras. My “recliner-rocker,” diagonally across the living room, has a full view of the “gallery.” Just about every day, from my recliner viewpoint, I look across and silently pray, “Thank you, Lord, for your faithfulness of 'family.'”

The last “family photo” was taken three months before my husband died. But that doesn't mean more “family chapters” aren't being written. Recently in reading Psalm 143, I paused at this verse:

I remember the days of long ago; I meditate on all your works and consider what your hands have done. (Psalm 143:5)

What's not being captured on a camera is still being captured in my heart.

In reading psalms, I'm mindful of the beginning attributions of many chapters. Psalm 143 doesn't have one but it speaks plaintively in verse 3 of being pursued by an enemy and having to “dwell in darkness” (likely meaning a cave). Obviously, David's referring to being pursued by murder-focused King Saul. But that verse is followed up by one beginning “I remember,” quoted above.

Despite his dire circumstances, David wasn't stuck in memories of “life the way it used to be.” He admitted feeling glum and weary of his negative circumstances:

Answer me quickly, O Lord, my spirit faints with longing. Do not hide your face from me or I will be like those who go down to the pit. (v. 7)

BUT....he quickly switches to hope:

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.” (v. 8)

The contrasts of hopelessness and hope, of dark and light, endear this psalm to me. I haven't had to literally hide in a cave from an enemy. (The closest I got to a “cave” were two “basement bedroom” living situations when I was still single!) But I've endured difficult life chapters with challenging people. At such times I understood and claimed David's closing verse in that psalm:

For your name's sake; O LORD, preserve my life; in your righteousness, bring me out of trouble. In your unfailing love, silence my enemies...for I am your servant (v. 12).

David may have had to dwell temporarily in caves, but he was no gruff  “caveman of old.” His outlook was “up”--to a heavenly Father—who knew exactly what was going on and had great plans for David. In time, He would answer as David prayed:

Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground. (v. 10)

Maybe that's a good description of my “family portrait wall” Year by year, the children grew older (as did their parents). We had good years, and bad years (like the year we were nearly killed by a drunk driver). But the photos continue to remind me: He has never forsaken me. And my heart is stirred to praise.

HOME

A few blocks away from us is an old house that was “flipped,” re-done inside and out, and quickly resold. Revamping properties is “big” these days as an investment, but it takes people with energy (and money) to make it happen. As we drove past it over the months of remodeling, it was fun to see a tired structure with a weedy lot turned into an asset to the neighborhood.

I thought of that when I saw this décor sign at a store:

Home is where our story begins.

Before investors came in to that house, it saw many “stories.” But today’s trend is “update”—an idea that is supporting numerous “this old house”-type programs on television.

When I try to connect the dots of this saying to scripture, I’m struck by this truth: a “home” is not just a place to eat and sleep. It’s connections of caring people. The Greek word for “home” is oikos which is also translated “family.” Paul used that term in his letter to his protégé Timothy, saying that children or grandchildren whose mother or grandmother is a widow (and, in those times, likely without financial resources) should “show piety at home and repay their parents” (1 Timothy 5:4 NKJV).

Said another way, if aging and difficult circumstances have left one’s parent in need, the children need to step up, if possible, to where their story began. I honor my husband for the sacrifices he made for his parents as they aged. His dad declined rapidly in his early seventies. His mother, who had never learned to drive, was nearly stranded at their rural home a twenty-minute drive away.

When a small rental house next to ours came up for sale, we scrimped for a down payment and moved them next to us. We also insisted his mother take driving lessons and paid for those.  She fussed and fumed, but survived learning. And when she received her driver’s license in her late 60s, we held a “graduation ceremony” for her, complete with a congratulatory cake and “graduation gown” (one I’d saved after having had to buy it for one of my degrees).

After her husband's death, she remained in that home under our watch-care (and increasing care) until her last year of life, when Alzheimer’s left her so disabled that I could not longer care for her by myself.

My husband parents lived many places during their lives, especially as my husband's dad's main career as a pastor meant moves between parsonages. Thus, my husband had many "homes" in his personal history until the family settled in this town, leaving full-time ministry to take over the aging maternal grandparents' orchard. But for more than half of his life, “home” has been our current house, which he bought with his teacher's salary, and to which he brought me as a bride.

This is where we began our “story” of marriage and family, and where our two children began their “story.” It’s getting old and frayed in places. We’re on our third kitchen floor and the rug has obvious trails of use, plus milk and pet accidents that soaked to the padding. But if walls (and rugs) could talk, oh—they’d talk.

The babies we brought home from the hospital are now grown and have homes of their own. But there’s a special charm in being able to talk to their children about “Nana and Papa’s home.” After all, it’s where their parents’ story began.