I said I wasn't going to do it, but I did it anyway--brought my laptop to the retreat in case I want to write something. So, that is what I am doing, writing. And yes, there is WiFi here now. I am writing because of a box of photos I went through last evening. They are pictures I got from my dad a couple years ago. There are photos of Mom and Dad with various great-grand-kids, photos of birthday parties and anniversary celebrations, photos from events they attended as snowbirds in Arizona, and photos of Mom painting, as well as pictures of some of her landscapes (Dad's, too)
As I sit here at the retreat center this morning, there is only one other person up. Everyone else is still asleep. While they sleep, I stare back at the picture that has been staring at me all morning . It was taken at my grandparent's fiftieth wedding anniversary. There they sit at a table with a cake in front of them. A huge 50 is perched on top of it, and flowers decorate the sides. My parents stand behind Granddad, and my dad's sister and her husband stand behind Grandmother. Everyone has a smile of sorts on their face. The women are all displaying big smiles and white teeth. The guys just have relaxed mouths and a look on their faces that says, "Let's get this picture session over with."
These are the people who helped shape my life, people I knew from the time I was born, and people who, except for my 93 year old dad, are no longer living. But who were they really? I know they must have had their hopes and dreams, disappointments, joys and frustrations because they were real people, and that is what real people do. But looking at the faces staring at me from the black and white photo, I see six people who are practically strangers to me. That is sad.
It may be sad, but I think it is life. We experience it's highs and lows, and ups and downs without being very aware of those who exist around us. I knew my grandmother was quiet, liked darkened rooms, moved slowly, and loved the roses growing in her back yard. Granddad laughed robustly, adored my grandmother, gave me horehound candy, spent hours in his workshop in the garage, and snored. But who were they really? What motivated them? I have no idea.
The same is true for my parents and my aunt and uncle. I know some of their stories, some of their likes and dislikes, some of the things we did together, but I don't know who they were. At least that is true of me and my relationships with them.
Last week I was riding to a ballgame with by daughter and granddaughter. During the course of the trip, my granddaughter said, "Mom, I don't know you. I don't know anything about you. Tell me who you are."
Interesting comments coming from a fourteen-year-old, I mused.
Where am I going with all this? Nowhere that I know of. Do I need to know who those people in the photo really were. No. Would I like to know? Yes, I would.
I know I have mentioned this before, yet want to say it again. I don't want to leave this world without my family knowing about my love for them--love expressed through heartfelt words, not just kind deeds and thoughtful actions. I want them to know about the strength Christ gave me when I traveled through dark valleys, and the delight I feel at the sight of wild life, grand-kids, and sunrises. I am more than someone who cooks and welcomes guests; although, I love doing those things.
What I am fumbling around trying to say is this, "I am not my deeds and actions, I am my heart. That is what I must keep in mind about the people around me, too. They aren't just what they do or say. They each have a heart that can either be seen, or else hidden away.
Lord, let me see people's hearts.
Jan
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