Hello, My Name Is...

            I recently returned from my 40 year class reunion which coincided with a family celebration for my mother’s 85^th birthday.  There were two events.  At one I wore a shirt with my RUARK 4 emblazoned on the back, at the other a name tag stating my name as Kathy Ruark Rohloff.

 I wore them with much trepidation convinced that one of my two worse fears would be realized.  1. That someone would recognize me.  2. That no one would recognize me.  After all it has been 40 years.  If anyone has revisited old high school photos you can understand my misgivings.

            Before attending the first event, a friend had counseled me to pay attention to eyes and smiles saying, “Those things never change.”

 My first encounter was amazingly simple.  I immediately recognized and was recognized by two former classmates.  We all agreed that 40 years had been exceedingly kind to us and we then shared basic facts on careers, addresses, children, and, of course, grandchildren.

            Turning I was accosted by a broadly smiling older gentleman who exclaimed, “I’m Denny Simpson! I was in the class two years ahead of you.” (It seems he had married a girl in my class.) He then enveloped me in a huge bear hug.

 I actively asked him pertinent questions as I racked my brain for just who this person was.  There was a definite twinkle in the eyes, a dimpled smile and as our conversation continued he began to morph and change before me. 

I mentally saw hair grow in and color to brown, a goatee magically appeared, and his cheeks thinned.  Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I saw Denny as I had known him 40 years earlier and cried, “I know you! I DO know you! You’re Denny Simpson!” 

His grin grew and then I sealed it.  “You were such a cutie!”

            The next evening many more connections were made.  Suzie’s bright red hair had softened to a rich auburn, Maureen was now a lobbyist.  My old badminton partner, pep rally poster maker, field hockey sufferer Kathy was a librarian in Georgia.  There were at least five couples that dated in high school and were approaching their 38 year anniversaries. 

So many conversations began with…”remember when?” or “I remember…”  The best was when Linda stated, “I remember when you dyed your bangs green with food coloring for St. Patrick’s Day.”  I have no memory of that, but believe that it dwells in the realm of possibility.

            Careers ranged from teachers, nurses, an oil refinery trouble-shooter, church musician, a golf cart customizer, to the mayor of Bourbonnais my hometown.  Although those that attended lived mainly in Illinois and Indiana, California, Texas, and Vermont were represented. There was one potential awkward moment when my sister’s former boyfriend who married the girlfriend of his good friend that dumped her for another girl he married was seated at the same table.  Got that?  The comment I heard was, “Boy! High school was a long time ago.”  We all shared a laugh.

 Hey, who woulda thunk? It came time for the class photo where we were called to assemble according to height.  Earlier in the evening as I scanned the crowd I kept repeating to Russ, “Are all of the guys in my class really this short or is it me?”  At picture time it became obvious that it was indeed true since I found myself standing next to the star forward of our basketball team.  Need I say that I shifted down a hill slightly so that other women were nearby in the photo?

            The photo shoot over, Steve, a former classmate from both grade and high school commented, “After last night I went home and told my wife, I saw Kathy Ruark.  She’s so tall; she must be 6’1”.”  ”Steve, that’s not true!” I laughed.  “I’m only 5’11”.”  Steve then threw back his shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and added, “Me too.”

            

Before I start I want to qualify that this pertains to all men that have been a father figure in someone’s life.  It doesn't refer only to those who have birthed children.

Father’s Day 2013

            At some time during the service today we will recite the Lord’s Prayer.  It begins with “Our Father” and we then pray to our Father who is in heaven.

            God in heaven has given to mere mankind the ability to be fathers and to therefore reflect to their children the face of God.  Our earthly fathers are the first images that we see of Him. 

            Fathers teach their children how to change a flat tire, bait a hook, throw a football, paddle a canoe, set a plumb line, make a perfect campfire, read a map, balance a checkbook, replace a window, properly tie a Christmas tree to the roof of a car, grill the perfect hamburger, parallel park, drive a stick shift, and comprehend calculus.

            Fathers love to play hide and seek and Legos and monster.  They wrestle, fill water balloons and throw them, ride bikes, ice skate, ski, swim, dive, solve puzzles, and read stories in different voices.  And what child doesn’t have a memory of having a better view while seated on the shoulders of their father?

            Fathers provide for their families by working day after day, year after year.  They bring home a paycheck that is spent on orthodontists and underwear and shoes and piano lessons.  Casseroles, soups, hamburger helper, quiche, and salads are consumed with rarely a thought of steak.  Well, not THAT often.  Their weekends are filled with home repair projects, soccer practice, and family time.

            Present at birth, they continue to mark major milestones in their children’s lives.  Losing a first tooth, entering kindergarten, receiving a driver’s license, prom, diplomas, an escort down the aisle at a wedding.

            Fathers teach their children to pray, and then pray with their children, and finally pray for their children.  Always.  They love the mother of their kids hourly, daily, and will continue that love until death. They exhibit faithfulness and patience and constant care.

            The fathers here are in different seasons of life.  Perhaps your children are babies or in the terrible twos; young and facing a world that is full of adventure and surprises.  They may be ill or troubled; lost and without direction, they may be estranged from you.  Maybe they are doing well, have survived the teen years, and you are immensely proud of them. 

This one thing is true, they are your children and you love them. This one thing you must do – reflect the face of God to them.  Be to your children, as He is to you.

God does not change.  God never turns His back on us; He never ceases to listen to us.  He never withholds His blessing, His love, or His forgiveness.  He is always there and always available.  May you be as unchangeable to your children.

And on this Father’s Day may all of you see your children rise up to be a blessing and to bless you.  God bless you.  Happy Father’s Day.

The Earth is Full- Enjoy!

I just downed some Tylenol, noted the appearance of three new bruises and multiples scratches on my appendages gathered from working in the yard, checked the rising temperature, and enjoyed the music of a choir of birds.  It’s spring and this a good time to be alive.

          For most of April I hope that snow will not be in the forecast except in higher terrains and that unpaved roads will dry out and be graded.  And when that comes to pass, then winter is truly over in Vermont.  It’s time to welcome spring with all of our senses.

          Sight –Daily, hourly the land becomes greener and early flowers are bursting forth to gladden hearts.  People are outside raking, weeding, planting, walking, jogging, biking, talking, laughing.  Pale, sun-starved legs and feet appear even while the upper half is covered with layers to be discarded through the day.  Yesterday, Trinity, 2 ½, saw her first dandelion of the season.  She picked it and ran to show Paacha.  “My lion!  Isn’t it pretty?” she cried.  Even though a dandelion is technically a weed, the first ones are a thing of beauty even when you are over two.

          Sound – Chain saws burr as dead trees are removed.  Snatches of music are heard from the opened windows of passing cars; many times the bass thumps and pulses at stop signs.  Chirps, caws, tweets, peeps, chatters, screeches, yips, are nature’s addition to the celebration.  We were awakened in the wee hours by the screaming of an animal near our bedroom window.  A tomcat on the prowl?  A red fox passing through? We were never sure of the origin, but acknowledged it as a sign of the changing season.

          Smell – Campfires, brush piles alit, freshly turned soil, worms, manure, sun warmed earth tantalize the nose.  Laundry dried on the clothesline, bedding and throw rugs aired outside bring spring into the house as does throwing wide the doors and windows.  Let it all come in, unless or until the farmer is spreading manure and fertilizer.

          Touch – Prickly nettles, sharp thorns, crumbly moist soil, dew-soaked grass, velvety moss are all encountered in any gardening effort as snow peas and root crops are gently worked into the soil   Bare feet linger on warm asphalt, scurry over gravel, massage garden soil, glory in zephyr breezes. Sometimes I find myself touching the earth believing that I can almost feel its heart beat.  And I whisper to the seedlings and bulbs, “Grow.”

          Taste – The first barbecue or Creemee or toasted marshmallow is just the promise of more to come.  And what a promise it is! Lunch eaten at a picnic table, dinner served outside on the deck, an apple munched while in the hammock and food never tasted so yummy.  Now is the time to add extra vittles on the grill and invite friends, new and old, to partake.

          This season is a gift.  It’s a time to look around and realize the truth that the earth is full of the goodness of the Lord.  May you gather in that goodness and benefit from it.  Happy spring!  

False Fire Alarm

I was calmly uprooting dandelion taproots when I became aware of 2 men in large black trucks speeding by and then conversing at the end of my drive.
I thought that perhaps they were going to take the small file cabinet I had at the curb with a FREE sign perched atop.
Then one truck squealed into my drive with the other pulling into the neighbor's.  I paused, looked up, and said, "Did you need something?"
The elder man growled, "We got a report of a pellet stove being on fire with smoke billowing out of the basement."
"Well, I have a pellet, it's in the living room, and as far as I know everything's fine."
"You better check it."
My neighbor joined me  as we entered to house to see the stove merrily warming the living room.
"Clearly," I said to the neighbor, "The stove fired up, emitted a lot of smoke, and someone panicked.  Not unlike when you called me last fall when it was running."
We both assured the ex-fire chief that all was in order.
Glad to know that the neighbors are on alert, now it they'd only help me pull up dandelions.

            Too Old to Die Young

            I recently had another birthday.  I am now officially too old to die young and I’ve resigned myself to missing a variety of experiences.

            I won’t be President of the United States and will never run for office, mainly because I’m not interested.  But it’s a relief to no longer wonder what it would be like to roam around the White House at night and sneak a nap on Lincoln’s bed.  And that recurring nightmare of being poorly dressed for the Inaugural Ball should cease.

            Rafting down the Amazon, climbing Mt. Everest, running with the bulls in Pamplona, snorkeling in the Barrier Reef, finishing the Boston Marathon, and skydiving won’t happen for me.  It’s a sure thing that I won’t go 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fumanchu.  I may, however, view these events on DVD while on my trusty exercise bike.

            The awards for a Grammy, an Emmy, and a Tony won’t be mine and poor old Oscar will have to go home with someone else.   Martin Scorsese and Tim Burton will remain unaware of my wonderful untapped acting ability; Brad Pitt and George Clooney will need another leading lady.   And, shucks, I won’t be auditioning to be the new Bond girl.  

             I won’t be the advertising face for Lady Clairol or Cover Girl. Pillsbury will not choose my recipe for its bake off, Publisher’s Clearing House won’t be writing me a check for two million dollars, and I won’t be able to imagine the feeling of winning the Vermont Lottery.  All Nobel prizes will go to someone else.

From the summit of 57 years I want to pass on some aging and aged thoughts that have proven true in my lifetime thus far.  If you pass up the deal of a lifetime because it is out of your reach financially, be prepared for an even better deal to come at just the right time.  Good things come to those who wait.

Sometimes you may have three equally great opportunities before you.  If you examine each choice and they come out the same, choose any.  You will grow in knowledge and experience on whatever road you walk and will end up exactly where you were meant to be.

Avoid ‘if only’.  You can get so consumed over what might have been that you will miss what is happening right in front of you now.  Embrace, grab, hold on to the life that you’ve been given and LIVE it honestly and with abandon.  You only get the one chance.

Think before you speak. Sticks and stones may break bones, but words bruise, sting, bite and become etched in the heart and memory.  Sadly, that’s why years after the fact some wounds still bleed.  In your relationships always speak encouragement into lives.  Being kind is always appropriate. 

Above all things, walk in forgiveness.  Forgive yourself; forgive others.  Don’t keep accounts of wrongs suffered and make it your aim to not cause suffering.  You’ll sleep better at night if you do.

As I begin my descent “over the hill”, I find that though the days are flying by I’m already beginning to move a little slower.  I’m saying “yes” to those things I’m meant to do, “no” to those things I’m not, and trying hard to know the difference.   And even if I’m officially too old to die young, I’m still young enough to create change.  In me. This year.