Teddy's Law Tuesday

Legacy of Generations

My post from last year's Mother's Day:

Many of us have to depend on others memories for our stories of great grandparents. I never knew any of my great grandparents. I'm so thankful of Becky, my dad's cousin, writing a few stories about Rebekah Hart Thompson. We stare at old tintypes and black and white photos, trying to make some connection. I have a picture of David's Grandmother Lyon on my dresser as a young girl, around eight, I would think. She looks so spunky in that image with adult relatives, staring at the camera.
I know she had red hair and a temper to go with it, although, by the time I met her, as the red faded to a pure white, her temper had been tamed. I saw some of that indignation at the oldest great grandchild's wedding as Grandma knew Ray was to help in the ceremony. He had grown a beard for some local centennial, leaving him unrecognizable to her. She fumed through the whole ceremony at the impostor, her chin set and eyes steely. When Ray came up to her, she hardly acknowledged him, till he greeted her with, "Grandma."
As we journeyed to Emporium on Saturday, I thought how I want to write all the stories of our ancestors. The peace of the mountains poured into me. I thought of the lumbering business, in which, those many years ago, Jesse Skillman, Grandma's father, endeavored. My mother-in-law's father rode the rails, as a brakeman. The Nickler's, the Metz's, the Skillman's and Lyon's all have stories so worth telling.
I wondered, too, at the love story in the house we stayed at this weekend. My mother-in-law helping her husband with his coat. He doesn't want to be long without Ellen. They have lived in the house for sixty three years, will be married sixty seven this June. Dad's memory, destroyed by dementia, still knows his wife, yet all he forgets irritates her at times.
Their great granddaughter, Cassandra, wrote a beautiful tribute for her Grandma Ellen for Mother's Day. I dared anyone to read it without a tissue. I was already weepy this weekend. Cassandra is not the oldest great grandchild, but she is eighteen and privileged to spend almost every Sunday worshiping with her family and Sunday dinner, the old fashioned kind, at Great Grandma's.
In a few weeks at the Alumni Banquet, she will be a fourth generation to graduate from Cameron County High School. I remember when her aunt did it, twenty five years ago. Four generations, still living, all in the same town. She will have double, because, even though Grandpa Lyle doesn't know her or what the big dinner will be about, he will be there, along with her great grandma, two grandparents and parents, who beat the odds of early marriage by staying together.
Cassandra called her Grandma Ellen, an angel. I know blessings abound in this family because we are family, honoring God, family and country. Stories of love, endurance and hard work from the mountains that they call hills.
post from last year's Mother's Day:

Random Thoughts

I do miss writing here. I felt professional. I will pop in at times with some of my musings. Today is one of them.
Random or maybe not so random thoughts fill me as I'm doing more than just working. When I was asked to work a little more, my breath shuts off. I didn't want to feel obligated to the people. I don't want to see them abandoned, either. Oh, don't tug at my heartstrings.
A day off yesterday filled with life. Book sale at nine in the morning at the Community Library. I fear as I gaze over the fiction paper back shelf, my book will be there for fifty cents. I survey all the books and wonder about being reduced to a sale, which before I loved. I ponder why do we write? A charity sale strengthens the library and reading. I don't see my novel.
The library opened at ten. I build my legs taking the stairs, because of the rain, I think I won't walk that day. I stride over to the computer and look up Summer Triangle. It is there and it is out in circulation. That feels better than seeing on the shelf of new fiction or Local Author. I plead, "Write a review on Amazon," in my heart to the unknown reader.
I love reading, so I sit with my daughter's stuffed book pack, while she roamed the library. In my morning hurry, I had forgotten my reading glasses. Reading became less pleasurable, but still enlightening. I remember how much I love The Vindicator, Youngstown's  morning paper.
I make a lunch at home, eat it and find keeping my eyes open near impossible. I lay down for a forty minute nap. Then I dive into dishes and cleaning the kitchen. I think how Jesus healed Peter's mother-in-law. He took her hand and as she got up, the fever left her-Mark 1: 30-31. And then she prepared them supper. I have to get up to shake off the depression that lingers and grips our house at times. The sun came out, too.
Harrison and I took two walks in that many days, getting back in shape. This morning, I thought of poetry and story. We have enough teaching and preaching. As a writer, I need to reach hearts and feelings. I believe that is why the poetry flowed into me to flow into you. Also, Anita and Matt, in their blogs.
So I leave you with my bit of prose from my walk, "We found the shade of the pines, the only trees offering shade in early spring. The dancing sunlight over the soft brown carpet is the stained glass of the natural cathedral." Rest and fill your heart with Jesus.

Wordless Wednesday

Happy Nurse's Week

Teddy's Law Tuesday

Today, I see is also National Teachers Day. Thanks to the many great, inspiring teachers now and in the past. They have such an impact on young lives. In their jobs, they face more difficulty than ever before.
Let's pray for teachers that their eyes may be opened to abuse and neglect their students may be facing. Pray for their wisdom and discernment. Pray for their words to be points of light.
My friend is a teacher in one of our poorest communities in the Shenango Valley. She said last week this has been the toughest year with discipline and behaviors, even the veterans of twenty plus years state they have never seen such a "bad" year. She also noted that they don't pray together this year. In years past, several teachers took their Wednesday lunch break to fast and pray. They are thinking they may need to reinstate this.
I assume most of my readers believe in prayer, but for the sake of those who do not hold those views, I write this. Prayer mostly changes us. Our attitudes improve when we are in the presence of God. That positive attitude changes the atmosphere where we are. If a group is of like mind, greater is that change. So also a negative mindset affects the environment.
That is why we ask for prayer. We're not always bargaining with God- leave that to soap operas. I do believe God listens and wants to hear our thoughts a loud. So pray for teachers as a group. Pray for yourself for wisdom in observing children around you. If you don't believe in prayer, the thought that is planted in your head will make you aware of what you need to do.
Now, to my praying friends. Pray because you know it works.

They Will Come

They Will Come

by

Mollie Lyon

 

A plus B doesn't always equal C

and C, not necessarily followed by D.

Sometimes it can be I or E.

God doesn't have to follow the rules

He made us with free will

to make our plans

 leaving them in our hands

Depression rushed in

like a freight train careening,

pushing all else off the track.

After the wreck, don't look back

Don't even glance.

Pull on ahead

Waiting for another chance,

you are not dead.

Mistakes are life

or so it seems.

Causing strife

But Christ redeems

This is not what I had this morning in bed

I wish those words would come back to my head.

I like the big band sounds of Grapefruit Moon

I find I think in poetry often

with those smooth horns in the background.

Iggy's uncle will have that on.

A tribute to the Jersey shore sound

Another dreary morning,

with a broken lamp.

Why am I up so early,

staring at dead blooms and tight buds?

Bits of green and dull color

still cool, but a bit warmer

Spring is slow.

Slow in coming

So I feel with God's promises,

but like spring and summer,

they will come.

Lives Slip

Lives Slip

by

Mollie Lyon

 

Lives slip silently by.

Who knows what's

behind that hollow eye,

in dark recesses

lie past successes.

Gray heads bent

troubles for a time lent.

We can't see them now

under that vacant brow.

A sketchy obituary

read in the paper

tells some of the story,

but then it's late to know.

We can't reach in.

Sometimes we can't begin.

No one around to tell the story

and we find out too late

the story trapped

behind a precious one's fate.