Scary Halloween

Twenty four years ago, we had a very wet, gloomy October. I had just found out I was pregnant with Katie. We were moving into our house, but still living at my parents while they traveled south to Florida. David and I would go to the house, and I ended up laying on the couch sleeping. I couldn't believe how tired a little life could make me. I worked full time afternoons in ICU, also.
Halloween Day, the sun shone brightly. I got a burst of energy, dusting every thing that had been moved from one and a half years storage. I even wanted to walk to Taco Bell, but we decided we didn't have time.
Mom and Dad were back from their trip. Dad, already set up to treat the trickers. I love to watch the children trotting up the street. I felt great as I entered the living room to be with Dad. Then I felt something funny, wet and I discreetly went to our room. Blood between my legs. I panicked.
I called my doctor immediately as my pregnancy was only a month along. The nurse, an older, wizened nurse, calmly told me to lay down, right now. Only get up to the bathroom for forty eight hours. Oh, boy, I was scared.
We hadn't told my parents, or David's, either. His parents had planned to come the weekend to help us move and settle into our new house. We planned to announce our wonderful news at dinner on Saturday. I told David, "You have to tell my dad. I never stayed in bed this long, even when I was sick."
David looked at me quizzically.
"You have to."
I also knew my dad would pray. I wasn't a fervent prayer at that time. I was in one of those dips of doing things my way.
Ray and Kathy with their two boys still made the trip to the Valley to see her parents, her relatives  and us. I instructed David to tell them as well. I knew they would pray.
Jody and Megan came upstairs to see me. Megan's eyes round as saucers, in her costume, either a witch or Indian. Jody sat on the bed and talked. She had directed me to this obstetrician, so we chatted about the nurse and him.
The next day, my dad popped his head in the door, "So, you got yourself pregnant?"
"Dad, I wanted to."
"I know. What can I get you to eat?"
A few days later, I got a card from Ray's men's prayer group. Sixty men signed a card that they had prayed for me the next day after the Ray Lyon's had been here. That tan card signified a great power  to me.
After the initial complete bedrest, I was allowed to go downstairs once a day and up once a day. Mrs. Voisey, the doctor's nurse advised me, "Just look at the dust and say isn't that a pretty pattern."
I was more tired after that week of inactivity than if I worked hard. Going back to the unit was hard at first. The greatest moment was a week later, hearing the baby's heartbeat for the first time with the Doppler. The scare was over. I counted the prayers, but still had not become a praying woman.

Treats, No Tricks

Last day of the month for my donations to American Cancer Society and our local pregnancy center. Leave comments, e-mail me or even snail me, if you have my address, and I will donate to what you remark on- Cancer or Pro-life, at all stages and ages.  For Cancer- $25. Pregnancy Center- $20.
Treat me with yourself. No tricks today.

Gloria

All this storm talk reminds me of when I lived in Connecticut. We knew for two days that Gloria was coming. The night before, Dan Rather scared me. The stories of former hurricanes from residents who had lived there all their lives added to the drama. No advance warning, kids walking home caught in the hurricane in 1938, a little sister dying. And then there was 1956, too, catching them by surprised.
I taped my picture window in my apartment and the rectangular ones in the bedroom. The window had been an intake for the former textile mill. I had no worries about the old brick building. I called my dad for a pep talk. He assured me. Dan, visiting, got on the phone to tell me not to worry about anything Dan Rather reported, as he sensationalized stories, ever since he put a microphone in the middle of a hurricane. I mentioned tornadoes are side effects of hurricanes, since they had just suffered one in the spring, he didn't really have much more to say. Good luck, Sister.
I worked midnights at the local hospital and that night there were no sleepy eyes. We sneaked peeks at the TV when we could to see where Gloria was. I got offers to stay at people's homes, but I had two cats that concerned me.
Another Navy wife down the hall invited me to her apartment to sit out the storm and I could bring my cats. The walls of the next wing sheltered her apartment. I settled on her couch, thinking we watch the hurricane on TV. We did for a half hour, then as Gloria hit New Haven, our electric went out. Gloria ripped through the state quickly. Tree branches down and large power outages the only damage.
As I returned to the dark, empty apartment, listening to the radio. Calls of people wanting to know who shot JR, as the season opening of Dallas was missed that night. I slept on the waterbed as the heat slowly dissipated from lack of electric. The next day, the sun dawned bright, a beautiful late September day.
Around six PM a knock echoed through my apartment. The fire marshal with his hat, informed me the building had to be evacuated as a fire hazard. I couldn't have my part of the progressive dinner for the wives' club.
Another Navy wife invited me to her house, as our husbands sailed under the North Atlantic in the Daniel Webster. She lived out of town and I could bring my kitties. Princess, the Siamese, protected me by not leaving my side. Arthur, the Himalayan, hid out, we didn't know where. I thought he got out, we walked all over the neighborhood. Vicki, at our rope's end, let her tomcat into the house. He immediately routed Arthur out of the closet.
I got a call from the fire marshal that the electric returned and I could also. I slept in our guest bed because of the waterbed being very cold by now. The next night at my community college class, the professor noticed how shell shocked we all were. Many still did not have power. He let us leave early. I stopped at the grocery store to buy a few things. The lights flickered and then stayed out for a few minutes. The panic that gripped my raw nerves, then the relief flooding me as they came back on, I had never experienced.
The girls at work without blow dryers or curling irons displayed irritability with their flat hair. The week was rough until everyone's electric was restored. I did this without my husband, but I wasn't alone.

Youth Group in Eighth Grade

The next two years of youth group our advisers were the Tomers. We had great years with this couple. The first retreat was at Westminster Highlands in the winter. We actually stayed at Luther Lodge. The snow and different sleeping area with just our group created a cozier feeling of my camp experiences.The Walkers cooked for the weekend, as we centered all activities in the Lodge.
We also had a weekend at Crestview, another Presbyterian church camp the next year. Other youth groups shared the camp that weekend. The groups stayed in separate cabins, but we ate in the main dining hall and had a dance in big gathering building. I enjoyed preparing for the dance, with my blue jeans and blue flannel shirt. A Walton's sensation of stepping back in time filled my evening.
Part of these retreats involved more intense devotion time. We could talk more. The women that came along gave us advice as we laid in our sleeping bags after lights were out.
Mr. Tomer that first spring made a large, white, wooden cross with shelves. The youth group sold Easter lilies to the congregation to place in memory of loved ones passed. Easter morning, that cross filled with those trumpeting white flowers, overflowing onto the steps to the altar, the sun streaming through the stained glass windows caused the joy to bubble up in me.
At Christmas, we sold poinsettias in the same manner. The white cross again carrying the red flowers and filling the steps. This tradition lasted for several years. Not only did it add beauty to the season, and people could remember their loved ones, the youth made money and were involved in the worship.

The cross last year at Easter. Looks like they painted it, but still a statement.

Last Home Football Game

My baby girl is a senior. She has been in the band, three years playing the trombone, and now in a leadership role of drum major. I have truly enjoyed these football games. The band lifts spirits for the crowd with lively music and the fronts cheering. They also create a wind block if you sit on their right(or south side). As soon as they can they can they don their colorful bomber hats. As they take off their band jackets, hoodies, sweatshirts and varsity jackets appear. I love the hats the most.
The football games have been exciting because of their winning season, due to the fantastic coaching of the new coach. The players are small and fast. The long runs, yards of 60-80, for touch downs never cease to amaze me. Too often, though, penalties are called on the plays. But still, the team wins almost every game. Play offs are in the future again this year.
Last night as the couple that have sat near us all season, stood up to leave at the end of the game, the thought gripped my heart, we will probably never sit near each other again. Next September, the stands will have just a different feel. I miss the prior seatmates. The seniors that move on and parents find something else to do on a Friday night. Some parents keep coming out of habit and joy. This night will never be replicated.
The rain held off until we stood to leave. The dampness made me feel much cooler than I had. We sat under a sleeping bag all evening. I love how warm and cozy that feels, even though we really haven't gotten into the cold weather, yet. The hot chocolate raises the temperature of my insides.
We will have play off games. But these will be somewhere unfamiliar. The last home game holds a special place in my heart. Next year a different mix of students, band members, football players, parents and spectators create a feel for that year alone, although it will be very similar to every other year, still not the same.

First Year of Junior High Youth

Seventh grade meant I could go to the long awaited, coveted Junior High Youth Group. No more watching the cars pull into the church drive on Sunday evenings or young teens walking up that driveway. Now I, too, trotted to the Fellowship Hall at six o'clock.
Ron and Ann Gaines were the leaders the first year I could go. They lived out in the country almost into Lawrence County. Ron taught at New Wilmington high school, but their kids, Pam and Claude, attended West Middlesex. Their home hosted several parties. Tonight reminds me of the Halloween party-yes, we celebrated Halloween back then. We carpooled to their place, Angie, by the Rolling Stones playing on the radio, as we rolled past the Amish corn stalks stacked in their teepee fashion.
Part of the activities that night included a scavenger hunt. I'm not sure what we were all supposed to find, but with my friends, Bobby and Judy, we walked a distance from the Gaines' yard paralleling I-80 and turning down another road. Finally, we decided we better turn around. I guess there was some panicking as we were the last to return.
We sledded at their home, too, on a Saturday afternoon in January. They had a huge western Pennsylvania hill, not a mountain like where my husband grew up, but it was decent. Hours speeding down that hill, then trudging back up. Then cookies and hot chocolate in their basement. I felt like a teenager in the movies. I belonged to a large group of kids having fun.
The end of the school year, a bonfire party rounded out the year, as we didn't meet in the summer. I wore jeans with rivets on the sides.  The fire branded my legs with round burn spots from those rivets. It startled me when I got home and took off my pants. Noxzema provided the cure.
Being in Junior High Youth also gave us some gym time after our meeting and lesson. Our church possessed the old high school gym, a real boon to our youth groups. I learned to play pool(forget every thing you heard in The Music Man). I also shot some hoops and we seemed to always play a round of volley ball. There was a room off the stage, but we weren't allowed to hang out there on the couches. That room was designated for the senior high. We sometimes had meetings in there, though.
The leaders let us own the Youth Group. We had officers that we elected running the meetings. We took turns providing the devotions. My dad helped me when it was my turn. I did most of the work. We had books to help us, sometimes we did skits.
I loved our project that fall. We offered to do yard work. This year, my father couldn't work in the yard with all those leaves from the old huge trees. The group worked hard. I think the only other person in the church to take advantage of us was an old lady. We never did it again.
My first year of youth group I grew a lot. In one of the first January meetings, we were to write our sins on a piece of paper. Mine included swearing, smoking, telling lies, among some other actions, I'm sure. Then we burned them over a candle. I'm not sure if I was self conscious. I think some of the girls saw what I wrote as eyes rolled indicating they thought the worse of me. I think they missed the point. I seriously confessed and wanted Jesus to forgive my falling away from Him.
This pattern would continue for many more years. I would follow Jesus so closely, then slowly turn my head and heart to the distractions of popularity. I would confess, come clean, as they say. I would be on fire, then the flame would dim, but never go out. I never lost my belief. I always loved church. But I was not living for Jesus the rest of the time.
I'll write about my final commitment later. I believe this pattern is common, especially with kids growing up in America. Like I mentioned yesterday, children as they grow develop their faith. Jesus has to become real to them. They have to own their style and service. Parents, though, pray till their knees wear out and then some.

Getting Mouthy

About twelve to thirteen, I started getting mouthy. I agreed with my mother most of the time until then. I wasn't like my oldest sister, who could sit there when she was a toddler informing my mother, "You can keep on talking, but I'm not listening."
A late summer morning, either before seventh grade or eighth grade, my parents and I finished breakfast. I believe my mom said something like, "You can do the dishes." I guess I already made up my mind to do them, but the way she said it seemed to me like she didn't think I would do them. I sassed her back about being stupid or something. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed my dad raise from his chair, then suddenly sit back down. Due to his whiplash, he had tremendous headaches and dizziness. I knew if he had been in better health, I would have felt his furry with me showing disrespect to my mother.
That action gave me pause. I couldn't apologize, but I didn't say any more. I ran the hot water. The funny part of that morning, is I did love doing dishes in that kitchen. The window faced the east, the sun shining over our side yard, as the leaves from the huge maple danced around. I could watch people travel on Haywood Street. I turned on the radio that sat on a small shelf by the kitchen door, listening to the latest tunes. I think my favorite part was drying the iron skillets. I placed them over the gas burner, the flame rising to boil the little bit of water left from the rinsing. I knew I was done then, too. I finished a chore, the sink wiped out and dishes airing in the rack. 
I see this attitude in a lot of children. They want to be helpful, just don't tell them to do it or remind them. I blamed my mother that day for upsetting me. If she had just let me do the dishes as I planned, instead of telling me to do what I was starting to do, I wouldn't have been so angry. Ah, youth. If every thing could just go our way, there'd be no rebellion, yes?
I tried to learn from how I felt. I thought if I were more understanding as a mother, allow choices, the mouthy kid wouldn't show up at my house. I soon found that it doesn't matter how reasonable you are, that spirit of independence discovers itself with assertion. That really is how God made all of us. The teen years are a time of breaking away, finding oneself while it is still safe. Parents of faith probably have a hard time with this, because they have poured their beliefs into their children since the crib, maybe even the womb. We are given a free will and offspring must find their own faith, own way of worshiping and serving God.
I've been thinking of the Prodigal son parable lately. I think the hardest inaction for that father was to just let his son go. Sure he hurt when the son demanded his inheritance, basically saying, "Drop dead."  But watching his boy leave with no training, no knowledge of the world, knowing the son would get hurt, would maybe die proved harder. He would want to save his child all that pain, if he could.
We can't save our children from hurts. We find that out the first time they fall and cry. We can't make them think like us. They come with a built in personality. We give them rules, tools, guidelines and have to trust God with the rest. Remember He loves them much more than we ever can, and that is saying a lot.