The Man Who Married Me

Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Man Who Married Me. No, not that one. Elbert Cole married me and Andy on June 30, 1984 at Central UMC in Kansas City. I always wanted to be like him as a pastor. He had amazing gifts in relating to people. When he was talking you, you felt like you were the only person in the whole world that mattered to him in that moment. He had a wonderful gift for names, faces, and details of life. As Andy’s own father was in failing health, Elbert would offer words of comfort and advice. Andy would say that Elbert was like a father to him at many times. Elbert was well known for having started the national Shepherd’s Center, but I’ll always know him for his genuine concern for individuals.

I always felt a special honor that Elbert married me. To be married by a man who was such a spiritual giant was a gift. And, almost 26 years later, I can say that Elbert did great work in creating our marital bond.

I learned yesterday that Elbert died on Tuesday, at a ripe old age. I am so grateful for his life and ministry. I always wanted to be like him. I still do.

Last Supper

As I sit at my desk in my office, the aroma of dinner is wafting tantalizingly around. Tonight is the last of our regular Wednesday night meals for this school year. The meals will resume in September, but I won’t be here to eat them.

Perhaps it’s the smell of pork loin and baked potatoes that is making me feel a bit of sentimental melancholy. After all, my family did not always eat dinner at these meals. Our busy schedules, plus Andy’s hour-ish commute from his office, meant that we often ate dinner at home on Wednesday night long after the dishes were done and put away at church. But I have always enjoyed walking around and talking with people on Wednesday nights. They ate, a captive audience, and I got to talk and connect with people. It is also the main time during the week that we welcome our neighbors who are in need of a free, hot meal. It’s a great time to see people.

In reality, it’s not the food I’ll miss. It’s the people. There are some lovely “hello’s” in my future, but, right now, pork roast smells like “goodbye.” And I am convinced that God is in every goodbye and every hello.

Azaleas

Azaleas. I grew up with them in Atlanta. Each spring, I would be amazed at the abundance of brilliant blossoms from these towering shrubs. Our backyard was filled with white and pink azalea bushes, many of which were taller than me. We had some lipstick-red azaleas by the front door of our house, but they were smaller. I loved all of those azaleas. When Andy and I moved into our first house in Kansas City, the first thing I did was plant azalea bushes.

They promptly died.

I tried a few more times, but I learned that azaleas really don’t thrive in this Midwestern climate. Last weekend, though, when I was in Arkansas, I found the towering white and pink azaleas of my childhood memories! So now I have a picture of adult me in front of taller-than-me azaleas, to bookend my childhood azalea pictures.

I left those Arkansas azaleas behind with some regret. And then, yesterday, as I was walking into church, I saw lipstick-red azaleas blooming profusely by the front door of the church. They were planted by a gardener who knows about growing things, so they will have a better chance of surviving this Midwestern climate. And they are protected by the church building itself.

Azaleas in Arkansas and points farther south are one thing, but brave azaleas in Warrensburg are another thing entirely. The assurance of God’s love and grace in good times is one thing, but that same assurance in challenging times is another thing entirely.

A Rainy Day in Boxland

Andy and I spent a rainy Saturday afternoon down in our basement storage area, in the area we call “Boxland.” Those were the boxes of various stuff that we moved with us 5 years ago and have not touched. “If we haven’t used it in 5 years, we don’t need it” was our motto, and we made great headway. The boxes of sentimental things were sorted and consolidated, and we were even able to get rid of some things that have become decidedly less sentimental over time. (I discovered I still had some old letters from old boyfriends, even though I’ve had my current boyfriend for over 26 years.)

We found some real treasures, too. My 3rd grade Bible, presented to me at Northside UMC in Atlanta. Andy’s “last will and testament” that he wrote as a senior at Nevada High School, bequeathing funny things to the debate team. Pictures from important points in our life together.

So we packed those precious memories away, this time in waterproof bins. I’m already looking forward to a rainy afternoon in a dozen years or so, when we stumble onto these treasures again, and remember together once more. Who knows what memories we’ll add by then?

Happy Earth Day

I saw an amazing sight a few weeks ago as I drove along 50 Highway. Just to the west of Powell Gardens, I saw a bald eagle perched in a tree. I had never seen one in the wild before, but, as if to confirm that I really did see what I saw, I saw it again a few days later. A real bald eagle. Right on 50. Amazing
I grew up, you see, in the age of DDT. In case you don’t remember, in the 1960’s and 70’s, the then-popular pesticide DDT was killing off the bald eagle population. It thinned the eagle eggs, killing the eagle chicks. The national symbol was a greatly endangered species, and I grew up with little hope of ever seeing one in the wild.
The act of banning DDT, in addition to statutory protection from hunting, had a dramatic effect on the bald eagle. Slowly, the population began to recover. The bald eagle became one of the few species to fight their way off of the endangered species list. And so, a few weeks ago, I saw something I never thought I would see in my life. A bald eagle. In the wild. In Kingsville, Missouri.
Happy Earth Day. Never forget that we truly can make a difference in our planet. God has given us such a beautiful and abundant world to inhabit. Live in it as gently as possible, so that future generations can enjoy the same gift of God.