Tag Archives: Childhood

It’s a Beautiful World Colette….

Dear Colette,

It will be many years before you can read these words. Little one, you are just one day old, wrapped up tight, a perfectly precious bundle of joy. You are only just beginning to open your eyes, to peek out in wonder at the world that has been waiting so long to greet you.

It’s a beautiful world Colette.

It’s a world of color, and love, and hope, and family. Just down the road, there’s a two-year old boy just waiting to share his toys with you. He doesn’t really know much about you yet. He doesn’t really know that his little sister is sleeping peacefully in his mama’s arms. But you will grow up together, and he will love you.

Much too far away, out towards the east, there’s a grandma and a granddad here, who prayed you into this world, and who are yearning to hold you… their first granddaughter.

And even further away, in a country called England, you have a great-granddad too.

Colette…you may never get to meet him. But if you did, I know he would laugh with joy. And with a twinkle in his eye, he would scoop you in his arms, lift you high on to his strong shoulder, nestle you there, and sing you to sleep. And he would be so proud of you.

This is your family Colette. And even though we may be far away, and the distance in miles may be great, as long as we have love, nothing can separate us.

Sleep well with your mama, little one. I will be there soon.

With Love,

Grandma

Why a Dead Flower Pod Might be Better For Our Kids than an iPod….

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So his little four year old legs are pedaling fast, and his yellow helmet leads the way. I’m almost running with the stroller, trying to keep up. When suddenly, my grandson stops pedaling and jumps down from his bike. He has seen something that interests him, something so ordinary that most would pass by without a second glance. But not him.

He’s mesmerized by a dying flower garden.

Look at this Grandma! He shouts in excitement.

He’s holding a brown stem, with a fat pod at the top. It’s just a dead flower head. Most would think that all its beauty has long since faded. But he knows something different. He knows that inside that pod, a secret is hidden. Something is waiting in there. And no one knows how many seeds it contains. No one knows what color they are.

We stop. Because this is the beauty of being a grandma: we have time.

He collects. Lots.

Back at home, we spill the pods onto the table, where he proceeds to prise open each one, slowly and carefully. He will not miss a single seed. They all go into his bag.

His favorite ones are those that are perfectly black and round, like teeny tiny bouncy balls. And when one accidentally rolls on to the floor, he’s on his little hands and knees, searching for it like it’s missing treasure. He doesn’t stop until he finds it.

And while the world bombards our children with screens, and sounds; with toys that light up, and buzz and flash in their efforts to entertain, I get to share my days with one who is delighted by simple seeds, and mushrooms, and the sound of cicadas in the trees.

And I’m reminded of a dark summer’s night, long ago, when the evening sky was pierced with a zillion twinkling lights, and how that same little boy took my hand in his and said, in his wonderful three year-old way:

Grandma, look at the stars. Aren’t they marvelous?

And these days, these moments, these precious times, they are marvelous to me.

How are you fostering a sense of wonder in your children, your grandchildren, or your children’s ministry?

The Story of the Hippo Bucket

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Twenty six years ago, a grandma in a floppy hat was shopping In a little seaside town in Spain.

She wandered among the colorful stalls, looking for just the perfect beach toy for her newest grandson. She paused outside the toy shop where buckets and spades swung cheerfully in the Spanish sun and fishing nets stood to attention. And there, on the shelf, sat a little blue and yellow bucket, waiting patiently to be bought.

The grandma in the floppy hat picked the bucket up. It was a hippopotamus, whose nostrils made the perfect watering can. And she bought it for her little grandson.

That was the day the hippo bucket joined our family… just a little plastic toy that James, my son, loved to play with. Every day of our two week holiday in Spain, he would scoop up the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean Sea and pour them out onto the golden sand. Wherever James went, the hippo bucket went too. On the beach, in the pool, in the bath tub, the little hippo bucket accompanied him everywhere.

We snapped the picture of his little blonde head as he bent over the bucket, gripped the handle in his chubby fingers, and poured water from its nostrils.

Somehow, we made room in our suitcase to fly that bucket home to England. And for the next ten years, whenever we went on holiday to Devon, the hippo bucket came with us.

One day a big truck came to our home and delivered twenty empty boxes. We were emigrating to America and our sons were given just one box each, in which to pack their toys and games.

Choose wisely, we told them. Take with you only what is precious.

Into James’ box went the blue and yellow hippo bucket, where it sailed four thousand long miles across the Atlantic Ocean, on its way to our new home in Michigan.

And for the next twelve years it lay in that box, along with legos, and teddy bears, and a little yellow robot.

Until one day James had a son. And when that son was three years old, the hippo bucket came out of the box.

Now it’s my little grandson who plays with it on the beach, who bends his blonde head over the bucket, who holds it with his chubby hand, and pours water from its nostrils.

And suddenly I am the grandma in the floppy hat, my blonde haired son has become the father, and his smiling grandma who flew with us to Spain lies in a quiet graveyard in England.

Take with you only what is precious. My words echo back to me.

And even though oceans may separate; even though the waves of time roll incessantly in, erasing our footprints and stealing our yesterdays, I’m holding on to those precious memories and taking them with me…

And when I close my eyes, or watch my grandson play, I can still see that little blonde head, and his grandma on the beach, as the waves roll in on the shore.

Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. Dr Seuss

What Happens When You Let God Sit in the Teacher’s Chair, Instead of You…

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So I’m sitting in the teacher’s chair at Central Michigan University.

It’s my first time here- at Mission u, an annual event sponsored by United Methodist Women, where people come together to explore the mission of the church in the current world context. My role is to teach the children about Latin America.

They’ve already discovered and labeled the Amazon River, the rainforest, and the mountains of Peru. They know all about the Mayans, the Aztecs, and the Incas.

We’ve started to talk, a little, about how some of the children there have no homes, and no toys; how some have to work all day, and don’t get to play.

And now it’s time for the Bible Story. The children lie on colorful rugs at my feet.

Close your eyes as I read. I tell them. See the pictures in your mind.

I’m using a book authored by Barbara Bruce, a veteran Christian Educator who has written extensively about learning styles. The story we share is one of my favorites. It takes place on the hillsides of Lake Galilee when the disciples, in an effort to protect Jesus, try to send the children away.

So my little ones close their eyes. And lie. Their feet, adorned with the Caribbean jewelry we made, are still.

Take three deep breaths. See a hillside with many people. See Jesus sitting on the ground talking to the people….what does he look like? What does his voice sound like? See mothers come through the crowd with their children…how old are they? Are they quiet or noisy? Are they boys or girls?

Now hear some men yelling at the children to go away….how do the children look now? Are they frightened?

Now hear Jesus say ‘Let the children come to me; do not stop them because the kingdom belongs to such as these.’

Now see Jesus take all the children in his arms, hug them, and bless them. How do the children look now? How do the men look now? How does Jesus look now?

When you are ready, open your eyes, and slowly come back to the room.

I barely finish talking when up jumps one of our youngest. He cannot contain himself.

I saw the WHOLE thing! He says excitedly. I saw every page!

Well tell us. I say, laughing.

Well I saw all these children, playing on the hillside……in Peru.

I’m confused. This is the moment when, as a teacher, you feel like a failure. This little guy is mixed up. The story didn’t take place in Peru. The story took place in Galilee. But I don’t say anything. (Thank goodness.) I just nod, and wonder where he’s going with it.

And so all these children just wanted to have fun in Peru. And all of a sudden, these men said ‘you can’t play here. You can’t have fun here. Go away.’

And then Jesus comes.

Jesus comes and he says ‘no, that’s not right. The children can stay here. I want them to be here…because children everywhere should have fun. Children everywhere should be able to play. And Jesus hugs them. And that’s it. That’s the whole thing.

It’s quiet in the room. For a moment, I don’t say anything. The other children listening- they don’t say anything either. I look at my co-teacher as sunlight streams in through the window and we shake our heads in wonder…. at this eight year old boy, who has just demonstrated perfectly the upside-down kingdom of God, where a child becomes the teacher, and the teacher becomes the learner.

I am the one who is mixed up!

Don’t I know by now that Jesus is meant to be lifted out from the pages of the bible and moved from the hillsides of Galilee to the mountains of Peru? That Jesus belongs, not simply in a story, but in the streets of Haiti, and in the marketplaces of Mexico, and in the fields of Guatemala, where he yearns to welcome every child who comes to him?

‘Children everywhere should have fun. Children everywhere should be able to play.’

I’m back at home now, thinking about what I learned from an eight year old boy in the last few days. And I just can’t help but wonder…

When Jesus called the little children to him, was it really so that he could bless them, or instead, was it so they could bless him?

Wonderful Wigan

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John Wesley called it Wicked Wigan but it’s Wonderful Wigan to me.

I just never thought it was wonderful when I lived there. Somehow, in this little northern English town, the skies always seemed grey, the winters long, the sunshine sparse, and the opportunities bleak.

But it’s strange how I have grown to cherish a place I once couldn’t wait to leave; how on a sunny Monday morning when my lovely sister and nieces are playing in the brass band, their notes can make me cry for days long gone, and family time that slipped through my fingers.

This is what I think as I stand, listening to them play. Dressed in their smart black suits with white shirt and striped tie, they sit under the red canopy, their hair blowing in the wind. We gather nearby to listen – my sister and brother, my nephews, and nieces. I video the girls as they play. Later on we will walk by the lovely canal that weaves its way like a secret through the streets of industrial Wigan, and my nephew, Jake, will run ahead of us and back again, like I used to do when I was a little girl.

Fifty long years ago, those were my feet, that ran back and forth on this same tow path, laughing with my dad and my brothers and sisters as we fed the ducks and ate our cream cheese and spring onion sandwiches.

Once, when it rained, we sheltered under one of the little stone bridges that arch their way over the water and watched as the raindrops made ripples that spread from bank to bank. I didn’t know it then, but I was a lucky girl to have been born in this little town, and to be part of such a wonderful family.

But I know it now.

And this is what I think about as the notes of All Through the Night are carried on the breeze and through the streets of Wigan… the far-away town where I was born.

And sometimes, even though I am four thousand long miles away, I imagine I can still hear them.

Seasons Of My Childhood

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It is Spring. I am seven years old.

It is early morning and still dark outside my window when I hear Dad whispering in my ear.

Glenys, get up…let’s go swimming.

It’s Saturday! I jump out of bed and pretty soon we’re on the bus, going to Wigan Baths. The pool is huge and the water is cold but Dad has already dived in. Not me. I’m an inch-by-incher my dad calls me, and I take forever to get in the water.

But that’s not the only reason…. I am afraid. I can’t swim.

Dad takes hold of me and with one strong arm under my stomach he supports me over the water while I vainly flap my arms and legs. I look out over the deep end and vow I will never go there.

But then an amazing thing happens. I realize my dad has taken his arm away and I am swimming!

I’m swimming Dad, I’m swimming!

We both laugh and I know that next week, I’ll be in that deep end and I’ll be swimming under my dad’s legs like a little fish.

On the way back I savor every one of my Benson’s Cheese and Onion Crisps but I will still have room for the piles of crusty toast my dad will make for us when we get home.

It is Summer. I am eight years old.

I wake with the birds and see that Dad is already packing the boot of our blue Vauxhall Victor.

He crams my tennis racket down by the side of the box of beans and cornflakes and biscuits that we have been saving for our holiday and then the best part begins…..

We race into Mum and Dad’s bedroom and tip our jars of pennies on the bed. Whatever we have saved will be doubled by dad and spent in the little camp shop at Blue Anchor Bay.

And then we are off!

I curl up with my little I Spy book that will occupy me for most of the journey, and dream about days at Blenheim Gardens and Watchet and Minehead and Dunster.

Most of all, I dream about the day when it will be my turn to have The Big Ice-cream.

I will choose a Mr Whippie, with huge, soft vanilla and strawberry swirls that hang over the edge of the cone.

And me and my dad will play tennis and badminton and hunt for glow worms at night. And I know I must be the luckiest girl alive to have a dad like that.

It is Autumn. I am nine years old.

We are walking down to Roby Mill Methodist Church along College Road.

The pavement is strewn underfoot with a million brown, crunchy leaves. Dad leads the way and we scrunch, scrunch, scrunch behind him.

Fast forward a few months on that same road. Dad helps us find twigs and we race them in the rushing stream of rain that tumbles along the edge of the pavement.

Oh no! I’m in the doldrums! the cry goes up.

But it’s a funny thing….no matter how many doldrums our little boats get stuck in, Dad never wins. Always, one of us kids is the winner.

It is Winter. I am ten years old.

The nights are long and dark, but Dad knows just how to cheer me up.

Who’s ready for a Secret Supper? he asks.

We all cheer and a plate is produced with a quarter of a buttered Eccles Cake, a small piece of Kit Kat, half a Bourbon biscuit and a cup of Ovaltine.

When those nights get really long and dark, our suppers are upgraded to a Special Secret Supper, or even a Super Special Secret Supper.

As I nibble at the edge of my biscuit, I am reminded what a Super Special dad I have.

We curl up in bed and he reads The Lost World and I am transported to a strange forest where all kinds of adventures await me. And from my dad, a life-long love of books and reading is rooted in my soul.

Before I fall to sleep, we play Show Me and we take it in turns to find tiny images in the pictures. One day, I will play that game with my grandson….and my dad’s legacy lives on.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter…..seasons of my childhood spent with the most wonderful dad a girl could ever have.

Thank you Dad. I love you.

What a Wonderful Day…

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Can we get ice-cream now Grandma? comes the four-year old’s plea.

I’m not sure about that. He is already full of bagel and cream cheese and jam. But as I’m trying to decide whether this is a good idea or not, he has already begun to pedal those little legs towards the ice-cream parlor. Fast. And so I turn the stroller towards it too.

We sit in the shade of a big maple tree with our tubs of soft vanilla ice-cream covered with multi-colored sprinkles. There are three pretty flower baskets swinging overhead. Their petunias dance in pink, and purple, and red. It’s my grandson who points them out.

The brothers don’t talk much as we sit at the table- just two blonde heads bent over their treat in the sunshine, intent on savoring every last scoop. But then the four-year old in Grandma’s sunglasses starts singing, while the one who is not yet two joins in loudly wherever he can, and conducts in the air with his plastic spoon…

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-Ay,

My oh my, what a wonderful day.

Plenty of sunshine heading my way,

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-Ay.

The family at the next table stop talking. They turn and listen and smile, as I join in the second time around, and we sing it again.

And I look at these boys sitting in the sunshine, swinging their legs, and eating their ice–cream. And I want to capture this moment, and keep it with me forever, while the sun’s high in the sky, and petunias dance in the wind, and little boy’s voices fill the air.

Life is a gift.

My birthday was last month. I’m nearer to sixty now than I was to fifty. And I want to unwrap that gift slowly, and savor everything it holds.

Life is a gift.

My, oh my, what a wonderful gift.

Every good gift and every perfect (free, large, full) gift is from above. James 1:17 AMP

What Happened in a Little British Primary School on my First Author Visit..

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I look out over a sea of red. More than three hundred young voices are raised in exuberant song. Boys and girls are swaying and smiling. One of them glances my way to wave shyly at ‘the famous author.’

It is my first visit to a British Primary school. I’m here because my sweet nephew, Jake, carried his copy of Love Letters from God to school one day and showed it to his teacher.

I’m here to sign the copies that were bought for each classroom and to read the children’s favorite stories to them.

I’m here to inspire these young children; to encourage them to be the best they can be; to remind them that dreams do come true.

Because fifty years ago, I was one of them, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the assembly hall in my red British uniform, in a school not too far from theirs. I never would have imagined that one day I would be living in the United States, or have the enormous privilege of being an author. And so I’m here to inspire these young minds, and to help them dream of what might lie beyond the horizon.

I don’t really know what to expect on this sunny British morning – but I’m definitely not expecting this. ..

A welcome enthused with so much warmth that it makes me feel like JK Rowling;

a prayer written especially for me;

a trio of smiling girls who lead worship during assembly and then use their free time to patrol the school in order to check that everything is being done in a Christian manner. They form part of a wider group of children, known throughout the school as ‘ The Ethos Warriors.’

I don’t expect to see halls and classrooms so boldly and brightly decorated with stories and scenes from the book;

or wonderful children’s letters to God displayed on every wall.

And I am moved by what those letters say, and how their contents reveal their need for God.

I’m honored by the huge bouquet of flowers waiting to greet me on the ‘top table’ at lunch time, along with eight smiling pupils who have earned a place there.

And most of all, I am truly amazed and humbled as I witness the school’s ‘show case’ at the end of the day, where each class shares a presentation of work based on the book.

The youngest children wear the colorful animal masks they made and parade in two by two.

The oldest show videos they created based on the story of The Lions who Lost Their Lunch.

And in between, classes sing songs and perform raps; they read out their letters to God and proudly show their paintings inspired by the story of the Wind and Waves.

None of this wonderful work was I expecting.

I’m sitting on the plane now, flying high over the Atlantic Ocean, homeward bound to the USA. In my suitcase I carry a book, made by the children of Sutton Oak Primary School in St Helens, England. It is decorated painstakingly and beautifully with little colorful stamps, just like the ones my illustrator created for the book.

And in my heart I carry memories of wonderful, committed teachers;

of children being nurtured in a Christian atmosphere; of little ones learning every day about the One who made them.

And I know that God is wonderfully at work in the world, through words that I was somehow privileged to author.

Living in a Four Year Old’s World

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My husband can draw. My sons can draw. I can’t.

I don’t know how old I was when I discovered this sad fact. But one day, I realized that my pictures didn’t look like they were supposed to. So I gave up.

When my husband was a young boy at school, the only thing he remembers about his art teacher was the day he looked up to see him taking out a large, black, permanent marker from his jacket pocket as he bent over to ask my husband a question about what he was drawing.

What’s that Nellist? He said, pointing to his picture.

It’s a cloud, sir. David replied.

Oh, I see, the teacher sniggered.

Then he promptly took his big, black, permanent marker and drew a large, ugly arrow across the sky, accompanied by a label that read: A CLOUD.

Fortunately, my husband survived that scar. He is, in fact, a wonderful artist.

My grandson, at four years old, is a wonderful artist too. Totally uninhibited, he picks up the pen and creates life on the page. No-one has told him that rain is not purple, or that buds on one tree cannot possibly be multi-colored. He is not yet scarred by perfectionism, or skepticism, or the idea that he cannot draw. He simply draws.

In his picture, we are enjoying large blue lollipops together.

There’s the merest sprinkling of rain, but the sun is peeking out from behind the clouds, drawn by Grandma, as per his instructions.

And center stage is his masterpiece…. a tall tree in spring, like the one we looked at outside my window, bursting with buds, and perfect in promise. It fills the entire page from the green of the grass to the blue of the sky. And If you look closely, you can see the multi-colored buds curled, like they are holding a secret; waiting to be opened.

There’s a song in his picture. And color. And hope. And two cars, because his little four-year old world always has wheels in it.

And wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all live in that four-year old world, where buds on trees are multi-colored, and lollipops are huge, and there is no scarring, or labeling, or teachers with permanent markers in their pockets, just waiting to scribble on our dreams?

And I think everyone needs a picture like my grandson’s….pinned on their fridges, helping to remind them of sunshine

and new life

and the promise of spring,

even when there’s rain.

There are always flowers for those who want to see them. Henri Matisse

Saying Goodbye to Grandma

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It was very early this morning, still dark outside, when I heard the pitter patter of rain on the roof.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled ever so quietly. And then for a moment, there was stillness. I lay in bed with my eyes open and wondered about that. I wondered if, four thousand long miles away, my mum had opened heaven’s gates and stepped inside.

And she had.

She wasn’t my real mum, but she might as well have been. Her other daughter-in-law affectionately calls her Joanie, but she was always mum to me.

She made the best breakfasts…of bacon, and eggs, and tomatoes and mushrooms. She had a special plate that was just for me. And she always told me I ate like a bird.

It was her who came to stay each time I had a baby. She would knit them hats that were far too big, and bounce them affectionately on her knee.

When our four sons were young, it was always to her big house, in the sunny south of England that we would go for our summer holidays. We would pack up the car with our six bikes hanging off the roof and drive, like the Clampetts, for two weeks of fun at Grandma’s. And even though she scolded us when we tramped the red sand of the beach in on our shoes, she loved us being there. And even though it sometimes rained, we always remember the sunny days.

She would walk with us down the little stony path, through the woods to our favorite Elberry Cove, where we would sit on the pebbly beach and eat our crisps and salmon butties. Once we clambered together in a blow up boat and rowed around in the shallow waters. I remember her laughing in her floppy hat.

Sometimes, we would go out walking together at night. She loved big houses and when it was dark, you could see in peoples’ windows.

She was full of energy and life, and was often found to be doing her ironing and dusting at one o’clock in the morning. Even when she retired, she cleaned houses in her spare time, and even though she didn’t have much money, we always found a few pounds tucked away in the envelope whenever she wrote to us.

She could paint with two hands, and loved to water color. She could magically grow any plant from the tiniest shoot or seed; and outside her kitchen window, there was always a row of flower pots standing proudly on the little stone wall, spilling over with fuchsias, or sweet peas, or carnations. She talked to them every day, and always knew what they needed.

She loved to go for rides in the countryside, and was always the first to notice and name the yellows and purples of the wild flowers that danced in the Devon hedgerows. One day, she wrote about them in my diary.

And I think about time, and life, and how fast this one, precious gift passes us by.

And how we must snatch it, and hold on to each moment, and cherish the memories of summer days, and floppy hats, and wildflowers that dance in the hedgerows.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Mary Oliver