Early in the morning on the warm spring air, scent drifts through the garden chores and speaks to me of Mom.
And I remember the bottle with the French name that sat on her dressing table tray. She taught us to take the tiniest bit on a finger and daintily apply it to wrist and neck. Muguet Des Bois Eau de Toilette.
I only pick a few Lily of the Valley blooms but they are enough to bring back her smile and her laughter this spring morning.
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I’ve been opening the genealogy files again and stirring memories. Holidays and holydays always stir them as well. I think my first awareness of extended family came at my Grandparents anniversary party. I was one of the youngest of their twelve grandchildren.
Anna was six years older that her beloved August. There is a story that her family wanted her to marry his older brother, but she preferred to wait on August. Such a good choice! They had 60 years together.
A tale told by tree light and candle glow
Somewhere I came across the thought that life is a play and we come onto the stage not knowing what has gone before or who the other players are and we are left to improvise our way into the story. It does seem like that, doesn’t it?
Recently I began reading Becoming Myself. Stasi Eldredge writes, “As a woman, your mother is your most potent role model. How she felt, what she thought, and what she believed had a direct effect on you… including… how happy [you] can be…”
I’ve written before that Christmas in our house was full of happy – gifts, family, food, Mama baking, cleaning, shopping, card writing, decorating… all these wonderful things I learned. But there was also Mama crying which left me full of sad and empty too. And I learned Christmas came with tear stains. It was many years before I heard a little part of her story and gained understanding which did clear some of the mist of Christmas Past that swirled around the holiday, but I had long since learned tears and sadness. My emotions at Christmas became a hazard to me; carols and songs carried the threat of sobs hidden among the lyrics like sad, malevolent goblins just waiting to overwhelm me. Knowledge and prayer brought a slow healing from those learned emotions.
A few days before Christmas I was busy baking cookies and Bing Crosby crooned “I’ll be home for Christmas” into my kitchen space. Like many other families, we have a number in ours who come for Christmas to this place of their birth, ‘only in their dreams’. And I thought of them as I slipped the pan into the oven. Then, as I waited on the oven timer, I was transported back into a dream I had a while ago.
Sometimes my dreams seem like full-length movies. There is no time or space in the world of dream and this one was beyond place as well as I dreamed of William. William, whose absence became presence in my life every Christmas season. William, an older brother who became known to me only in this dream I share now.
Frail and weary, William was carried by his dear friend and comrade from the battles. William felt heart-sick, having failed to overcome in the war. His friend comforted him, offering love and strength but he could hardly receive. His friend had some understanding; he had carried battle worn small ones home before, home to the loving embrace of their Father. Each tiny spirit reacted differently to the journey and he was concerned for William, so small and listless. He pressed the tiny one closer as the journey ended and carried him into the Glory.
William felt the change but could not seem to turn to its embrace. And then he heard, “William, dear son, welcome home! I am so proud of you. Well done!” William blinked and looked timidly into Eternal Love. “But, I failed to be born. I failed my mission to live earth life. I failed… “
“Dear William, you did not fail Me. You were brave and fought valiantly in your battles. You lived nine months in your mother’s womb. She and your earth father and your brother and sister loved you as they could and you will never be forgotten. My dear little child… “, welcomed Eternal Love. And William smiled into the radiance of his heavenly Father. He snuggled, resting in Love, growing stronger; aware of Father giving instructions to his comrade. His dear angel friend gathered William into his arms and bore him off to the chambers prepared for him where he would grow.
William came from the Glory and returned there December 23, 1942
As the dream memory passed, I thought, Oh! “I’ll be Home for Christmas” is actually my song and William waits for me to come home for Christmas! And in that moment, my simple kitchen became a ‘thin place’ and it was as if I could see through the veil and a robust and glowing man leaned through the portal, grinning – “You’ve got it, Sis! There’s no place like HOME for Christmas!”
And the timer sounded and the ordinary was all around and I felt my smile and a few gentle tears too as I blew a kiss. I’ll be home for Christmas one day, William, and I know it will be far better than snow and mistletoe and holly!
This piece may not fit your theology or thoughts on dreams and visions and that’s ok. Even if it was only imagination, I believe the Lord Jesus has continued the healing process in my soul through it all and I am grateful.
The Lord used Pastor Jack Hayford’s I‘ll Hold You in Heaven – Healing and Hope for the Parent Who has Lost a Child through Miscarriage, Stillbirth, Abortion or Early Infant Death to do just that for my Mom. I offer this as a resource which could be a blessing to others like her who carry this pain of a lost child.
From Psalm 139 RSV – For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.(vs 13) Your eyes beheld my unformed substance, in your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed. (vs16)
I can’t think that I will ever be a food blogger but I want to share the recipe that Mom used for her coffee cake. I like it anytime but especially in fall and winter when the cinnamon scents the house with warmth. Her recipe came from an old Spry Shortening cookbook. Spry is no longer made and Crisco shortening is what I use. It is fun to make these two cakes and give one away.
I found this link to the original recipe for “Queen Cake”. I have no memory of mom making it as a layer cake with the filling mentioned. By the time I came along, she had perfected it as single layer coffee cakes with this cinnamon topping:
4 Tablespoons granulated sugar
2 Tablespoons flour
2 teaspoons cinnamon
Then work in 2 Tablespoons room temperature butter with a fork till crumbly and spread over batter before baking.
I’ve increased the measurements a bit (Multiplied by 2!)
If I’m not giving one of the cakes away, I bake all of the batter in a 9 x 13 inch pan for 20 minutes and find it done. Be sure to test your cake!
And, as an older generation of cooks wrote, “I hope you have good luck with this!”
A number of years ago we had my Mom’s old home movies transferred to discs. When we went to pick up these time capsules revealed, they played party after party! The tech commented, “You sure had a lot of cake!” And we did! Every birthday was a celebration and cake was required. And candles. And ice cream. And off-key singing with gusto! Mom never forgot or was too busy to celebrate the ones she loved.
This morning I baked cake, an everyday sort of cake but one I remember best and bake often, Mom’s Cinnamon Coffee Cake and we remember –
And I write and call and encourage everyone to have a treat today, a splendid, memorial treat and celebrate. Happy Birthday, Mom! We remember you and all the good times!
Summer holidays always take me back to the river shore places… sisters and brother and cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents…fishing, crabbing, floating, sunbathing, picnics, grilling, ice cream treats… Today I thought I would share some photos from the past before mine, in the good old summertime!
Getting out into the countryside…I can see the water in the background…well dressed for the day’s outing! And yes, those do look like mugs of beer!
I love this photo of Great Aunt Annie. I never knew her but everyone spoke so highly of her kindly disposition, I’m sure I would have liked her very much. I particularly enjoy this photo of her in a row boat, so erect and holding her beaded handbag!
Dramatic entertainment circa 1919 – the Ladies Bowling Club Outing.
One of my grandfathers had a shore place on the Bird River. Nothing fancy…two bedrooms, living room, outhouse and a separate summer kitchen. Need water? There was a pump. Who needed anything more? Friends and family filled the place every weekend.
Another favorite of mine – my dad on the left in the only beach attire I remember – fully dressed, including shoes! Going fishing, crabbing? We would push the rowboat up to the pier and he would step down into it and off we would go. Never mind my sister and I had bare feet while he dropped the crabs into the boat bottom. They would scurry into the corners or under the seats while we sat cross legged fearing for our toes!
Watermelon! Cantaloupe! Cherries! Peaches! Plums! Blueberries! Blackberries!
All in the good old summertime! Enjoy your summertime!
I love the breaking open of a new day! Today was especially lovely to me and a wonderful morning for baking.
The coming of the Lenten season always brings up one of the few symbols of my German heritage that we enjoyed while growing up – donuts!
My Mom always made cake donuts covered with sugar or cinnamon sugar which I must confess we enjoyed well into Lent as her recipe made so many. My variation started last week when I mixed flour and water, added a little yeast, and set it to grow a lively sourdough starter. First there were pancakes and now donuts from its bubbling crock. A mere ten from my recipe, fragrant with nutmeg and covered with cinnamon and sugar will sustain me with thoughts of home.
My mother-in-law made “kreppels” probably from “Krapfen”, deep fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar, for her family. Although hers were plain, I remember the German bakery near home with rounds of fried dough filled with cream or marshmallow and dusted with sugar, a favorite for my Dad. I find myself smiling now remembering the explosion of cream in my mouth when I bit into the soft browned dough.
Donuts now in the freezer will satisfy us for some Sundays to come. And the mysterious fragrance of the starter will call forth more pancakes or perhaps some biscuits another morning.
My older sister once suggested to me that dying is like being born; for many there is a long labor into that next phase of life while others are delivered quickly. I pondered this unwillingly knowing that a loved one was moving closer to the time.
And now here we are at the birthing room to eternity. We hold hands, give hugs, speak love, stroke hair. We are present, loving, though our hearts ache.
Saying good-by to this woman friend, sister, aunt, sister-in-love is a hard work and I want to snatch her from it all and cradle her long. I’m so grateful that the daily skilled hands of nursing are those of an old friend who loves her well and who is spending herself to serve.
Folks gather, mostly women, caring friends all; they sing, read passages, speak love, hug, soothe, and make her comfortable. Hours pass and I am unsettled, my spirit restless like the flames that leap, at odds with the restfulness of the tulips.
I wait for my peace to settle in me, for rest to come. Time is slow and hurried together as I sit and rock and look out at the bare winter trees, dark and still. And almost I hear their tree-hearts beating strong and steady, deep and slow in this season full of memory deep within of growth and life past and hope future.
Time has no meaning now as she seems to hear us no more, but we speak on and sing to her spirit while snow falls in the night. And then in the early morning light while the snow falls gently, quietly, her warmth slips away carrying with it her voice, her humor, her laughter, her wisdom and she is free, free from her long, long walk with cancer.
January 24, 2013, a new life began for all of us and we hear her voice, her humor, her laughter and her wisdom deep in our hearts.
It has been about seven years since I stepping into the family history adventure. In this time I have met new family and said good-by to several senior members of these wonderful tribes. My life has been so enriched by the stories and I have grown interested in memoir. How I wish to come upon some long ago writings!
This year I found Spiritual Memoirs 101 and sometimes I even do the exercises!
This is a quiet time and so I’ve mused on the “Where Are You From?” Christmas exercise, one which you might find fun as we continue on through these twelve days of Christmas. So many are ready to put out the tree but for my family, we would still be in Christmas mode, and would stay so past Twelfth Night giving Dad a chance to celebrate his birthday in a festive house before boxes had to be fetched from the attic, packed and then hoisted up again.
I’m from twelve days of Christmas
I’m from sugar cookies rolled thin, Quality Street candy and candy canes too
I’m from homemade fruitcake, family dinners and packages sent ’round the world
I’m from Advent wreaths and singing O Come, O Come, Emmanuel on dark December mornings
I’m from candle lighted windows, frosty cold bedroom and a warm, cozy kitchen
I’m from prickly holly and an angel topped tree
I’m from red felt stockings hung down the stairs and secrets and laughter and Christmas tears
I’m from row house grandparents and Manger gardens with trains
I’m from Christmas movies and carols sung off-key
I’m from department store Christmas windows and market stalls of treats
What Christmas treasures have been mine! Like an amazing box of ornaments from a storehouse, each one unwrapped, the beautiful, the not so, some broken and ugly and all come alive again in memory. I sit here long years later, listening to wind howl, gazing into candlelight and feel the smile play on my face. For just a moment it can all real again, the crisp snap of a cookie, the pungent smell of sherry soaked fruitcake, the couch where I sat in tree and candlelight and longed for snow. I can feel the cold and crowds pressed in to see the wondrous animated scenes in the store windows and smell the roasting peanuts near the market bus stop and even warm my hands once again on the large bag of them I hold for the long ride home.
There were tears that stained Christmases too. Time and understanding have faded them gently to the background like the soft crumpled tissue that will cradle it all until another Christmas comes.
Susan Branch did a lovely post on houses today in which she likens a house to a bank into which deposits are made with the life experiences that happen there. Today I did some baking and listened to old Christmas music and thought about the immense comfort it brings, stirring memories of early home so deeply etched in my soul.
As I worked along, I could see again a Christmas eve. I sat on the steps behind stockings lined down the banister and watched as Dad painstakingly hung silvery tinsel from every branch while A Christmas Carol played on the radio. Sometimes I would be called to come behind the closed bedroom door to choose paper and ribbon for a gift I was to give.
I am grateful for the sweet spirit of Christmas past hovering near this cold, snowy Christmas Eve comforting in the loss of several friends who leave empty spaces in our lives this year.
My today house has many deposits in its walls. It is a quiet place this year but the laughter hidden in its walls makes me smile and decorate and enjoy living in this moment.
This nativity from our family room is special to me with its collection of animals and angels in great variety!
All are welcome at the manger.