Mrs. Claus

~

I climb a lot of ladders for my job. Kids must think it’s cool, because whenever they’re around, and I’m up on a roof-top, they point and stare. I usually ask their names, and then say “Nice to meet you, what’s my name?”

They giggle and say, “I don’t know.”

“My name’s Santa,” I tell them.

They giggle a little more, and before they can say anything, I say, “No, just kidding…BUT I do work for him.”

“Huh?” Wide eyes get wider.

“Yeah, I check out the best places for the reindeer to land and stuff so Santa doesn’t get hurt.”

“Wow!”

I was reminded of this while pondering what I’d share with you today. You see, this week we’ve been honoring our parents. And Mrs. Claus is my mother-in-law, or at least I think she is. Or, maybe, she just works for him – Santa Claus; Papá Noel.

At eighty-five (she’ll be eighty-six Feb. 4^th) she has limited mobility. She can use a walker for short distances, but other than that – she’s either in a wheel chair or her recliner-type chair that elevates at the seat, to help her get up. Her hands are starting to show signs of arthritis and her eye sight is growing dim, yet, even though her body is aging, she’s still a wide-eyed-child when it comes to her soul.

With over a hundred and some ought grand-kids she manages to keep track of them all. And all year she sits and knits, spins and weaves some kind of Christmas magic into hats and scarves and baby blankets. And somehow, at Christmas, without even leaving her chair, she manages to have gifts for everyone. She has spent more time making gifts for others than many folks have been alive. She MUST be Mrs. Claus – or related in some kind-of-way, right?

She watches, too. With dimming eyes and one finger at a time she taps at a lap top and – like a mother-hen – she watches her brood banter on face-book.  

Although confined physically, she’s a world traveler in her soul. Sit by her side and she’ll take you places decades from here, with her stories. Like the first time she met the love of her life at Coney Island: Santa. No, just kidding – Henry Joseph DeVlaeminck. She’ll walk you through the depression and wade through life on a pig farm. You’ll ride her words to school with horse and sleigh. She’ll tell of the trials and laughter of raising fourteen children – the birth of some…and the loss of others. 

With a twinkle in her eye and a never fading smile, she’ll tell of how she saw Jesus in a dream and how she prays for others.

Her house in nothing fancy, but her Home is a mansion. Each day her house fills with family, including ex-husbands, ex-wives, ex-this and ex-that, once in you're IN. I’ve said it’s easier to get out of the mob than out of this family.  She’s soft spoken, just above a whisper, but she can move an army of adoring children with a simple word.

Maybe my mother-in-law isn’t related in any way to Santa. BUT – she IS related to the Greatest Gift Giver of all. And she works for Him. And, maybe her family isn’t anything like being in the mob with the Godfather and all that stuff. BUT – she is tight with God The Father.

And I am honored to share her with you today. Her kids call her Ma, but everyone else – whether related or not – calls her Gramma Mary. So, if you need a family, you can join ours.

Thanks for stopping by and as Gramma Mary would say; “Gramma misses you, come back and see me again.”

If you think you don’t have a family or a parent to honor…think again, you do.

Jesus asked; Who are My brothers and sisters and mother? And then answered; “But those who do the will of My Father.” Mark 3:35

Come…and be part of the family.

~

The Gift of Hospitali-tea

My mom Kate loves tea. LOVES tea. Begins everyday with a cup of strong, black tea with a lot of milk. Starts every hour with a cup of black tea with a lot of milk. Ends the day with tea with a lot of milk. When I walk in the door for a visit, she puts the kettle on for tea before the hug goes cold. Tea is part of my mother’s daily regimen, hospitality practice, stress reduction program, and cure for the common cold.

Perhaps tea drinking may not be spiritual enough for some, but Kate’s tea drinking is usually other-oriented. This is in part because of her Irish culture, but it is also my mother’s nature to be hospitable. My mom has an open door policy; when we were growing up, it endeared her to my friends and to my future husband. Had she been a first-century Christian, she would have made it onto the Apostle Paul’s “widow’s list” in 1 Timothy 5:9-10, because she “is well known for her good deeds, such as bringing up children, showing hospitality, washing the feet of the Lord’s people, helping those in trouble and devoting herself to all kinds of good deeds.”

Hospitality involves sacrifice of time, space and sometimes expense.

When we were in seminary, my mother put us up countless times, fed us her famous spaghetti and meat sauce (not bad for an Irishwoman) and yes, made us countless cups of tea. She patiently housed our pets, our kids, and put up with our comings and goings. She would have made it onto the Apostle Peter’s good list (if he’d had one) according to 1 Peter 4:9-10: “Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.”

My mother was instrumental in my coming to Christ, as was my father, who passed away in 2005. My father modeled grace, faith, perseverance and a sense of humor with the kind of jokes that made you groan. The scriptures were on his lips constantly, especially in the last two decades of his life. My mother, very much the rock and center of our home, modeled then and now an unwavering cheeriness (perhaps to a fault), perseverance, compassion and care for the sick (she has been at the side of many dying friends, putting feet and hands to her prayers) and the elderly, a loyalty to her church, her children, her friends and her siblings, and a passion for God.

Before you think she is perfect, I am happy to report she is human: Kate can drive me crazy, as most mothers can drive their daughters crazy, but she will be just as quick to retort I am the one driving her crazy, and to look at me aghast when I make my guest bed at her house with the ironed sheets (“Those were for guests!”), to begin her phone calls with the statement, “I am calling in case you thought I was dead,” and to end them with, “Well, I guess you are tired of talking to me now.” She makes me laugh and pull my hair out. She will probably pull it out for me when she discovers this blog entry, because for all the heavy dose of extraversion God gave her, she is a private person.

But back to the tea: when she was caring for a 97-year old last year, she made him a cup of tea. He sipped it and sat back in the chair, surprised. “What have you done to this tea?” It was the best cup of tea he’d ever had. Turns out that other caregivers had given him microwaved tea for years. Yes, Kate has the gift of hospitali-tea.

Take the best of both and become even better...

This is my dad, Jim, on Christmas this past year.

This is my mom, Shirley, the very same day.











The very fact that both of my parents were still with me this side of Glory was far better than any gift I happened to receive this past Christmas. Let me rephrase that...was the greatest gift I received this past Christmas.

I realize my time on Earth with my mom and dad quickly draws to a close. Granted, that final end may not come for another couple of dozen years, but I know they are both starting to wear physically after seventy plus years of living. There's a sadness in that comment that is somewhat buffered by the shear fact that bodily death comes to us all eventually, and my parents have lived fruitful, meaningful lives.

From my mother, I've inherited a sense of compassion and a jovial demeanor. She has always been the spiritual compass for our family, although I've been off her directed course more than a time or two in my life.  Mom was born into a large family (13 brothers and sisters) that epitomized the adage that we don't need things outside of God, love and each other. Her father was a Baptist preacher that died when she was just 9 years old. Hard to imagine my grandmother raising such a large family on her own, but every memory I have of her is covered with warmth and joy. My mom grew up fast, but she grew up knowing she was valuable far beyond what material things could give stature.

My father is, well, a hard man. He's the last of a dying breed of men that were taught to keep their emotions in check and to always be prepared for the worst life might throw at you. Still, I know beyond doubt my father loves both me and my sister because he has proven that time and time again in my life. He has lived life by the guiding principle that hard work can overcome any adversity. I get my work ethic directly from him.

Of the many stories that reflect the personalities of my parents, one of my favorite involves the day I graduated from high school. At the time, my dad was chairman of the local school board. His task on that day was to hand the diploma earned by each graduate to the principle who in turn handed  the document to the person. He would then shake the hand of the passing student. There were 277 in my graduating class that day. When my time came, he shook my hand and said 'good luck' just like he did the other 276 times. My mother was livid.

She couldn't understand why on such a monumental occasion, dad wouldn't take the time to hug me as a show of support and pride. I never expect it though. That just wasn't my dad. He knew I had a lot of hard work ahead of me. Graduation was an accomplishment...but it wasn't the expectation. It was just a starting point to better things.

Expression is just not a strong point with my dad. However, the day I graduated college and pinned the gold bars of a Second Lieutenant on my collar as a United States Marine, my dad hugged my neck and told me he loved me and was proud of me. To that point, the only other time I recalled hearing those words was 9 years earlier when he told me his sister was dying from cancer. That in no way takes away from the fact that he did love me very much. Actions will always be greater than words in his world, and I greatly respect him for that.

My mom and dad have both been a tremendous influence on my life. That influence will continue in the way I raise their granddaughters. All three will know everything I can possibly share with them about their heritage. Thanks to the example set by my mother, they will grow up attending a house of worship where hopefully they will learn to be disciples for Jesus.

My teenager already knows that my expectations for her are set high. She also knows that I love God and her more than life itself because I tell her every single day. That's the best of both of her grandparents she and her two younger sisters get to see in me.

Honor…Esteem…Respect

He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.

 And what does the LORD require of you?

 To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly

with your God.

Micah 6:8

The Scripture above has always been one, which I feel exemplifies my parent’s lives.

On their 50 th Anniversary, my oldest brother gave a toast, saying, “Our father is a fighter and our mother is lover”. I thought, “Wow, that I so true.”

He was a Public Servant, a Firefighter. He was the Assistant Chief

My dad was involved in labor unions, his whole life. I always believed he “fought for the little guy”. That was his intention. It was not to manipulate or strong arm people into “doing the right thing”... He was motivated, by knowing that workers could be exploited and their efforts undermined. He was a catalyst to bring fairness and truth into the testing process in the city he worked in.

He was a man, that was often admired but sometimes disdained.

We found out that there were many people who appreciated his courage and his stand in fighting for their fair rights. After he died, man after man, have told us, that although my dad’s manner could sometimes be intimidating, nevertheless, they respected him for his stand and his courage to face the “powers that be.” on behalf of others.

My mother was a good soul and giving was so part of her nature. I was often in awe as to how she put other’s needs first.

She gave in so many ways. In saying that, it could be money, but it was rarely that. She gave of herself.

She visited the sick and the elderly. She gave groceries and goods to people who were in need. She wrote encouraging notes to others, to let them know that they were remembered and important. She would lend a hand to strangers, whether it was to give them a ride (I know that seems scary to me now) or help them acquire goods that they needed for living. She was a member of her church’s ministry to visit the homebound. She not only went to their homes, but she went around town, to pick up those women, who were elderly and handicapped, so that they could visit as well. She often lent an ear to many. She was a good listener. She seemed to have a sense of another person being down and depressed. She did not give up on people. She would believe in the very best for them. I believe, in her own style, she too, “fought for the little guy”

Sadly, when my dad passed away, he did not receive the honor, in his city, to have flags flown at half mast. The hierarchy stubbornly denied him what he deserved. However, there was redemption for his memory.

As his funeral procession passed the last Firehouse that he served in, the crew of that shift’s firefighters, stood in front of the house. They were at attention, saluting him. They did this courageous act, despite the presence of the very Officer that denied my father his due. Our family will never forget that. And the “little guys” did not forget my dad.

My mother was remembered by many at her wake. We had a journal in which people could write about the ways that she impacted their life. There had been obvious things that we had seen all along. But,it was a thrill to know how she affected people, in personal and sometimes secret ways.

I visited the State Fire Academy after my father died. The man, who was the head of it, concurred on what I have told you about my dad. He said “I remember your dad, with that cigar sticking out of his mouth, speaking his mind for justice.  He would not mince words. He was not a touchy feely kind of guy, but we all had a respect for him.” Does that make you think of the Prophets of old?

They lived their lives, not for accolades, but to live out the Gospel.

 My mom had a funny thing she would say when someone complimented her. She would say “If I had a quarter for every nice thing you say to me, I would give you a quarter for each one!”

So to my dad… I say “Dad…when I join you, I’ll bring your trademark cigars!”

To my mom… I say “Mom, you’d better have some quarters ready!”

Linda Maynard

Worshiping at the Throne

I have written so much about my parents already it is hard to know where to start or what to add.  I thought about adding previous blog links and call it a day.  But no, I want to reflect in just a few words on my parents.

I was the mistake that wasn't suppose to happen.  I was the oops in their plan for life.  My father was nearly 40 when I was born.  He was a bachelor who remained that way in part because he was helping a sister and her children.  Once they were secure in Norway with family, perhaps it was then he thought of marriage.  A Norwegian immigrant, he found a young American from Pennsylvania who had come to Brooklyn New York to work as a domestic and help her former pastors who had also moved from small town PA to big city Brooklyn.  She was 19 years his junior, but love bloomed and they said I do.

Perhaps as newlyweds or during their earliest years of marriage.

Two sons came along quickly.  Their family was complete.  Or so they thought.  Then surprise, with the youngest son almost 10, another baby was on the way.  That was me.

I came into my parents life at a different time than my brothers.  When my brothers and I have gotten together in the past, they speak of a childhood I didn't know.  They speak of parents I didn't know either.  Particularly when they laugh at my dad's idiosyncrasies and "cheapness,"  I grieve and wonder.  Could this be the same dad that raised me?  Could this be the same dad that called me Lilla Venn and held my hand to explore all NYC had to offer?

Of late, I've encountered people who knew me as a child.  One thing they all comment on is my dad's pet name for me, Lilla Venn.  They tell me how much my dad loved me.  My dad died when I was 19 years old.  At the time, I had no idea how deep that loss was - now it becomes deeper and deeper every day.

My mother was laid to rest almost 2 years ago.  I miss her.  Some mornings I imagine the shuffle of her feet as she would get up and get her coffee in the morning.  God blessed her with almost 92 years of life and for the last 25 years of that life, she lived with me.

My mother's love for me was more complicated that my dads.  I wondered for many years if she loved me.  As she aged and mellowed, she told me often how much she loved me and appreciated me.  Those memories help fill the loss.

One night, a few years before she died, I was up all night working on a paper for school.  Prone to procrastination, I usually do my best work under the stress of an all nights (or at least so I think).  It must have been around 3 a.m. and I heard that shuffle.  She came to the dining room table and said

"I'm worried about you."
I said "Oh, I'm just working on a paper."
She said "You need some sleep."
I said, "I'm fine."
She said "I've been up praying for you.  I just wanted to tell you to get some rest."  

I smiled.

I was very blessed that both my parents were people of prayer.  I was very blessed that they brought me to church as an infant and kept bringing me to church.  There was never a time I didn't know Jesus.  Jesus was present in our home.  My dad would always be heard, throughout the house, whistling or singing a hymn.  My mother would sit with me at the piano and we'd sing Sunday School songs and hymns.

Now they are whistling and singing around the Throne.

This blog: No Room for Christmas Child, gives you another glimpse of my parents and my birth.  It has been translated into Norwegian and has appeared in an online Norwegian magazine as well.  My saga and my recollections of my parents are all over my blogs - I encourage you to check them out:  Sounds of Hope and Storehouses of Snow.