She Extends Her Hands to the Needy : Part 2 of “My Mother, the Proverbs 31 Noble Woman”
Her Potholders (Part 1 of “My Mother” the Proverbs 31 Noble Woman)
Mother’s Day causes me to remember my Proverbs 31 mother.
Today, I’m remembering her “gifts” (or lack thereof) of weaving and sewing fabric!
“she selects wool and flax . . . In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers . . . She makes coverings for her bed . . . she makes linen garments . . . ” (from Proverbs 31)
Mom had a sewing machine — a Singer, set in a darling little blonde cabinet.
The Singer was an integral part of our home, holding various places through the years. It sat in the front parlor, in the living room, or in the landing at the top of the stairway.
Whichever location, there it sat!
Mom seldom opened the Singer!
She rarely sewed!
All in all, the Singer generated one resulting product: potholders!
The fabrics varied. Potholders made out of worn chenille bedspreads, old curtains, or tattered towels. The stitched designs were more limited: X’s, O’s, or a combination of both.
Mom’s limited sewing talents were the brunt of teasing throughout the years! She smiled and received the ribbings with a chuckle. And in the end, my sister, Becky, and I both inherited her sewing talents and a few tattered potholders!
Meanwhile, her homemade potholders filled the drawers closest to her stove. They became burnt at the edges and dabbled with smidgeons of escalloped potatoes or the broth of pot roast, or an occasional pot of chili – which brings me to my next point:
Although Mom did not share the sewing talents of the Proverbs 31 wife, she embodied the traits of the noble woman. (Read more in tomorrow’s posting.)
Mother’s Day
I remember when her mother died. Mom’s heart was broken, and I thought I understood. Soon after, Mom and I and my daughters went to a Mother/Daughter Banquet to celebrate Mother’s Day. I was celebrating her – my mother, and I told her so. But Mom was not celebrating. Her heart was broken from the loss of her own mother, my Grandma Locke. And again, I thought I understood.
Nonetheless, I celebrated her — with my unfailing love and my joy in hers. I shared with her my thankful heart — for her tender care, for her prayers, for the heritage she was giving — and for all she would continue to give — to me and to my daughters.
When honoring a mother, a daughter’s joy cannot be contained. It is contagious to the mother. And it is healing.
And it brought some healing to my mother. On that day — that Mother’s Day — Mom knew that her own mother’s legacy had not died with her mother. She knew that it continued in herself and in turn, in me, and then, in my daughters.
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So today, Mom, I celebrate your memory, and I continue to honor you and the legacy you have passed on.
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Today, I celebrate my Grandma Locke who made sure I had eaten a good dinner and then let me delve into her massive sugar cookies dolloped with jam.
I celebrate my Grandma Nutt who had birthed twelve children and had dozens of grandchildren yet still had time to hold me in her cushy lap and sing to me.
Today, I also celebrate myself. I celebrate my daughters and daughter-in-law, and I celebrate my granddaughters. And I know the legacy continues. And it is quite healing.
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“No,” she says. “Send someone else.”
The young wife feels unloved by her new father-in-law.
She is of a different Christian denomination. Of a different family background.
She tries to please.
But she’s rejected.
She’s not good enough.
She is shunned. Her children are shunned. Her heart is broken.
The pain presses in to the depths of her soul.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
It’s years before the healing comes.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
The healing comes through faith – a faith only the size of a mustard seed – so small she didn’t know it was there.
Faith comes from hearing . . . and the message is heard through the word of Christ . . .
She reads. She listens. To the word of Christ. It speaks.
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The Word “penetrates . . . and judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.”
The healing comes through that Word of God – penetrating and judging her thoughts and her attitudes.
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The Word says, “You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self . . . to be made new in the attitude of your mind and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.”
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The Word says, “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make very effort to keep the unity of the spirit through the bond of peace.”
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The Word says, “Be imitators of God; be filled with the Spirit.”
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The Word brings healing and the healing brings love – love between a daughter-in-law and a father.
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The Word says, “Now you are light in the Lord. Live as a child of light . . . goodness, righteousness, and truth.”
No longer does it matter who was right or who was wrong – what had been said or what had been done.
Her soul is free from the pain. In pain’s place is love with its goodness, righteousness, and its truth.
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More years go by. Years of love.
The Word says, “Make the most of every opportunity.”
And at the end, she is chosen for the opportunity.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
It is a cold February day. The father is old. His health is worsening; he is giving up.
God speaks to her. Go, He says. Talk to him about Jesus.
“No,” she says. “Send someone else.”
But again, God says, Go. Talk to him about Jesus.
And so she goes and speaks to the father. And on that cold February day, the Son shines through the window of the father’s hospital room, as he confesses his faith in the Lord Jesus.
And the next day, the family gathers around the father and says, Goodbye,
while Jesus says, Welcome.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
Scripture from NIV:
Romans 10:17
Hebrews 4:12
Ephesians 4:23, 24
Ephesians 4:2, 3
Ephesians 5:1, 8, 9, 16, 18
And now it is a Wednesday . . .
It was a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April. The sun was shining. Evidence of spring saturated the outdoors and permeated the halls of Maple Lawn. As I neared her room, I saw the hospitality “cart” outside her door – a lovely collection of cookies and orange juice, coffee and fruit – a “notice” that the family would need sustenance – as we would watch and wait.
Several of us were there – my sister and brother, some cousins, my aunts and uncle. We went in and we went out. Heads slowly shook in sadness and in heartbreak. Aides and nurses came in and stood by her bed. They cried. We could do no more to keep her here with us. My mother was dying.
She’d put up a good fight. She wasn’t created to die, most obviously detected in her steadfast resolve and perseverance. God had originally made her for eternity. It’s the story of the Garden of Eden and of love and of perfection – of sin and of death. It’s the story of a body that should have been perfect and could have been perfect, but of course, wasn’t. It’s the story of a downward spiral of health problems and a broken spirit that just gave up, especially in the last month.
For years, she had plodded forward – literally plodded forward. Her crippled feet and shrunken stature, stenotic spine and withered muscles, cancered blood and arthritic bones impeded her once vibrant step, year by year, month by month, and day by day. Only one purpose kept her going – Wayne. She couldn’t leave him. He needed her. Til death do us part, they had said, and a promise is a promise. And the love grew stronger than the promise. So she loved him and served him until the day he didn’t need her any longer. And that day was one month before.
So it was a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April, one year ago now. And I needed that lovely offering of sustenance on the hospitality cart, as I watched and waited and sang to her and whispered sweet memories in her ear, and finally observed her right hand lift to meet His as the Lord took her home. And in the middle of that Wednesday, the promise of spring and new life was stronger than the heartbreak of holding my Mama’s broken, still body, and my sustenance was found in more than cookies and orange juice, coffee and fruit.
And now it is a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April, one year later. Today, I again need that lovely offering of sustenance – and I find it in God’s Word.
I remember my mother – and I think of faithfulness, of a promise, of unending love, and of perseverance. I cherish the memory of the one who gave me life – of the one who showed me, through example, her faith in God. I hear her whispering, “You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. . . earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Psalm 73:23-26)
This Nana has no regrets. Only precious memories.
I awoke this morning to an empty house – very empty! And very quiet!
No little girl stood beside my bed, looking at me and asking the usual Saturday questions: “Where’s Papa? At work? Can we get up, Nana? I’m not sleepy any more.”
I made only one bed this morning – my own. Jacob’s, Ben’s, and Kaylee’s had not been slept in.
I stepped into a clean kitchen and watched the CBS Morning Show instead of Saturday morning cartoons.
I leisurely drank coffee and fixed my own breakfast instead of Kaylee’s.
I rushed to the laundry room to start the first of many loads today, but I found only a few odd socks. I won’t be washing any laundry today.
Then I wrote my grocery list and found it to be very short.
I feel very strange and terribly lonely. The house is not the same.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
I’m remembering the last 13 months when the house was filled with dolls and Legos, backpacks and half-eaten granola bars. I rescued socks from between the sheets and I sorted outfits for each day of the week. The fridge held large jugs of Powerade and organic 2% milk; the pantry was packed with Honey Nut Cheerios and Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips; and the freezer was stocked with Cookie Dough Ice Cream.
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Laundry room hooks held fleece jackets and hoodies; its shelves were stacked with boots, shoes, and baseball cleats; and its hampers overflowed with dirty jeans and white t-shirts. Crumbs covered the floors under the kitchen stools; Happy Meal trinkets bounced from one room to another; and blobs of blue toothpaste splattered the bathroom counter.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
This Nana took on the traits of Mommy. (It’s an awesome combination!) And Papa added the role of Daddy to his character. (It’s a huge responsibility!)
The savings account dwindled.
The vehicles’ odometers soared as “The Road Less Traveled” became “The Road More Traveled” – back and forth between home and schools 24 miles away – three or four times a day.
Evenings were filled with baseball games, homework and baths, snuggling and lullabies. Weekends meant wrestling meets, visiting Mommy and Daddy, and going to church.
Nana and Papa forgot that they once went out to dinner, sat quietly and talked, and watched old movies on television. (They were too tired to remember such times.)
And yesterday, I sorted some last-minute thoughts and turned them into reminders:
“Kaylee, here are your little pink wash cloths. I’m packing them for you to take.”
“Benny, don’t forget to brush your teeth – morning and night.”
“Jacob, your baseball uniform is washed and ready for your first game next week.”
And last night, they took that long-awaited step from our house to their own house with mommy.
So today, as I sit alone, I’m remembering the last 13 months, when this house has been a refuge and a haven of unconditional love to three adorable grandchildren, and I’m feeling strange and lonely in this empty, quiet house – a house that is not the same.
But this Nana has no regrets. Only precious memories.
Dear Daddy,
Dear Daddy,
It’s been a year now since that sad Sunday morning when I sat beside you, singing, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus; there’s just something about that name,” while you took your last breath. Larry, Becky, Mama, and I, looked on, Mama holding your hand – our hearts breaking to let you go.
It was the greatest loss I’d ever known.
It was a day I had never wanted to live.
I knelt by your casket and sobbed. As the days passed, I thought I had cried so much that I couldn’t cry any more, but that didn’t happen.
The crying continued.
For a long time.
At about six months, I reached a turning point in my grief. I missed you just the same, but it didn’t hurt as much – I didn’t cry as much – and I found more joy in the memories.
But as this March 4 approached, one year later, that past Sunday morning became vivid in my mind again – like it was yesterday. My thoughts and prayers have been on my new grandbabies – two precious boys born since you left us – babies you would just love to see – babies you will love to meet someday: little Luke who Kristen’s youngest, and little Jackson, Matt’s youngest. I can picture you admiring each of them, pride in your face. I can see the tears in your eyes when you learn that baby Luke needs surgery. I can hear your broken voice in prayer, crying out to the Father you have trusted since you were young.
So toay, I reach in my jewelry box and lift out your wedding ring, sliding it onto my necklace chain. And I wear it close to my heart through these days of delivery and surgery and tumult and joy. And it comforts me to know my Daddy is near and that your prayers are still in a jar, going up as incense before our God. And I thank God for your faithfulness. But I mourn your loss.
So you’ve been on my mind a lot now, Daddy, one year later, and I’m wondering if or when the pain of losing you will ever go away. At first, a year ago, I thought, It won’t be long until I’ll see him again. The Lord will come soon. But now it’s been a year – a long year, and it seems like a long time before I’ll see you again, and I’m yearning for you.
I’m remembering a Daddy who made Christmas fun and who gave me beautiful Valentines.
I’m remembering a Daddy who brought us running when you emptied the noisy change out of your pants pockets on Friday evenings after work.
I’m remembering a Daddy who sat at the table late in the evening and ate Mom’s homemade bread soaked in cold milk.
I’m remembering a Daddy who worked all week long – then spent cold winter Saturdays cutting, hauling, and stacking firewood to heat the big house through the week ahead.
I’m remembering a Daddy who bought a new camera to take pictures of his daughter, the homecoming queen.
I’m remembering my tender-hearted Daddy who mourned the loss of his mother, and father, and brothers, and sisters, and brothers in law, and sisters in law, and on and on – a very compassionate man whose heart ached for those who were hurting, a man who wanted to do good for others – a man very much like Jesus. So I know you understand how I’m feeling now, Daddy.
Wayne Olen Nutt
June 26, 1924 – March 4, 2012
So, now, I will continue to miss you and mourn you, but now I will also delight in the memories. I will strive to carry on those special customs and traditions you began in me and in my family – the love of nature and the simple life – the love of family and neighbors and friends – and the love of Jesus and those He came to save.
I will watch Jacob mowing the lawn – your lawn – with the John Deere – your John Deere. I will watch Benny playing in the woods by your lane. I will watch Kaylee riding her bike around your driveway.
And I will watch the eastern sky – and as I watch, I will listen for the shout! – when our Lord will bring you and Mama with Him and catch me up to join you – and we’ll all be together again!
Goodbye until then, Daddy, and kiss Mama for me.
With love from your little blonde girl.
My greatest gift to Jackson is . . .
I have been reminded of your sincere faith, which first lived in your grandmother Lois and in your mother Eunice and, I am persuaded, now lives in you also.
2 Timothy 1: 5
There’s a new baby in our family and I am ecstatic! His name is Jackson Matthew Waligora. He is the youngest son of our son, Matt, and his lovely wife, Lynette. And I am his Nana! We are so happy and thankful!
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We welcomed him yesterday at 10:24 am, 6 lbs. 15 oz., 20.5 in., a beautiful baby who looks like his big brother and sisters and who has darling dimples on his face. When we went at the hospital, we took a card, a soft fuzzy lamb, and a balloon, but his true gift from us yesterday was a blue blanket that his Mommy had washed and ready to wrap around him.
~~ ~~ ~~
We have a tradition in our family – it’s the blue blanket for the boys – the pink blanket for the girls. Not just any pink or blue blanket – it’s a certain blanket – a waffle weave with satin binding – the Morgan or Bright Future brand.
~~ ~~ ~~
The tradition began with our youngest daughter. She had a spot (or “pot,” as she called it) on the satin binding of her pink blanket: the place where the the edges of the binding met. She rubbed the “pot’ between her fingers while she relaxed and slept. As the months and years passed, the “pot” wore and the beautiful pink faded to a dusty blush, but it was still her special blankie.
The tradition continued with my niece – then passed on to my grandchildren, each having his or her own blue or pink blanket, some cherishing that blankie, some indifferent to it.
~~ ~~ ~~
By the time our 11th grandchild, little Jackson, was due, the Morgan and Bright Future blankets were no longer being produced, but his mommy found the Boals Baby Blanket online. It was perfect! And so it became Papa’s and my special gift to little Jackson.
I want Baby Jackson to love that blue blanket! I want him to find his special “pot” on that satin binding and snuggle it and be comforted with that blue blanket for years!
But there is yet a greater gift I can give my Jackson.
The apostle Paul referred to Timothy as his “true son in the faith.” Paul was “filled with joy” when he was around Timothy and was reminded of Timothy’s “sincere faith.” And how did Timothy develop that faith? It first lived in his grandmother!
More than the blue blanket, I want to give my Jackson the gift of faith – “sincere faith.”
~~ ~~ ~~
God’s Word promises me that if I have a strong fortress, it will be a refuge for Jackson – a comfort and means of strength (much greater than that of his blue blanket)!
God’s Word promises me that if I delight in His commands, my children and generation will be mighty and blessed. (This promise make the blue blanket look meaningless!)
God’s Word promises me that if I righteously fear the Lord, my Jackson will inherit the land (Far greater than merely inheriting the blue blanket!)
God’s Word promises me that if I am righteous, my children will be blessed. (This gift of faith to Jackson just keeps getting greater and greater!)
~~ ~~ ~~
So I want to be a Nana who has a strong fortress in God, who delights in His commands, who fears the Lord, and who is righteous. And someday, let it be said to Jackson: I have been reminded of your sincere faith, which first lived in your Nana Kathi . . .
NIV References: 1 Timothy 1:2; 2 Timothy 1: 4,5; Proverbs 14:26; Psalm 112:2; Psalm 25:13; Psalm 37:25,26
Pouring out my heart, for Luke!
Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.
Psalm 62:8
In my Bible, in the margin beside this verse, I’ve written these words: “Ron read this to me, 12-28-08.” I don’t know why it was so special at that time. Were we going through a difficult time on 12-28-08? I think I made the note because it was so special to me that Ron shared that verse with me – because it spoke to him.
And today, as my heart is aching, that verse speaks to me.
Yes, I do trust in him . . . Yes, today, I have poured out my heart to him . . . And yes, today, I again find that God is my refuge.
Ron and I left the house at 8:17 this morning. I cried until we reached Jackson. That’s okay. I’m not ashamed of crying. It does not mean I don’t trust God. He understands and He allows it. In fact, the psalmist writes, “. . . pour out your hearts to him . . . ,” and crying is sometimes a part of pouring out my heart. My crying led to praying, and my praying led to praise, and my praise led to singing.
As I write this, Baby Luke is being prepared for surgery. Right now, I’m not singing. I’m crying again.
I’ve poured out my heart to God. It wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. God has told me to do so; He knows it’s best because in pouring out my heart, I find that refuge I’ve known for quite some time:
– the shelter in the storm, bringing warmth and the comfort of impending sunshine
– the arms that hold me in the midst of darkness, revealing the coming light of dawn
– the righteous right hand that holds me up and never lets me go
– the ever-present help in trouble, trouble like I’m feeling today
When I think of my little Luke in surgery, my gut wrenches and aches, but
I trust in Him
I pour out my heart to Him
and I find refuge in Him.
And He is ever faithful. (Psalm 145:13b The Lord is faithful to all His promises.)
He is in the palm of God’s hand!
The baby is born! My little Luke – my tenth grandchild! Luke, the “bringer of light”!
I praise.
There are problems. Luke has two holes in his heart and a duct that needs to close.
I praise.
And I pray.
I see answers to prayer. Those answers comfort me. They remind me of God’s love and mercy.
One hole closes – it is healed! The duct closes!
I see miracles! Those miracles strengthen my faith.
I praise.
I pray.
And I wait.
Luke grows. He gains stature, strength, and weight! He nurses well. He is strong and appears healthy, so healthy that when others see him, they don’t know he has a hole in his heart – a hole that has not yet healed.
I praise.
I pray.
I wait.
And I trust God’s promises.
I want that second hole to be miraculously woven, knit, and healed by God’s hand – His righteous, right hand. His holy hand.
The answer I hear is not the answer I want: God is going to bring about Luke’s healing through surgery.
Again, I realize that I am not the orchestrator of this healing. But God is. So I rest.
I praise.
I pray.
I wait.
I trust God’s promises.
And I rest.
It does not come easy for me to rest. I sing. I praise God. It helps me rest. I picture Baby Luke in the palm of God’s hand – His righteous, right hand – His holy hand. Whether Luke is at home in his cradle, nursing in his mother’s arms, or in the doctor’s care on the surgery table, there is no safer place for Luke to be than in the palm of God’s hand.
I praise.
I pray.
I wait.
I trust God’s promises.
I trust.
I rest.
And I thank Him.
I thank Him because he loves Luke even more than I do – even more than Luke’s Mommy and Daddy do. I close my eyes and I see Jesus with little Baby Luke:
“People were also bringing their babies to Jesus to have him touch them . . . and Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me.'”
