Down the Aisle

My cousin got married last weekend in one of the most beautiful, elaborate weddings I’ve been to. This, of course, coming from someone who used a pair of tree pruners to cut branches off her favorite tree at the farm to create her wedding bouquet. So when my cousin, Joan, asked Caroline to be the flower girl I’ll admit I was a bit apprehensive. 

A lot of coaching and bribery goes into getting a three-year-old down the seemingly endless aisle of an enormous Catholic church. At the rehearsal, I picked a place to sit during the wedding and kept reminding Caroline that when she got to the alter, she needed to take a left, then another left, and I’d be sitting in the pew waiting for her. This is confusing for someone who doesn’t know left from right.   

So, during rehearsal, I found a statue of a saint that she could identify, walk to, and there she would find me. It happened to be a Saint with a dog, cat, and mouse at his feet, which confused me greatly, but Caroline thought it was absolutely wonderful. We decided that I’d sit next to St. Martin de Porres, patron saint of people of mixed race, barbers, veterinarians and more. I have a real knack for getting Caroline into situations where she only asks a lot of questions, and this saint selection was one of those situations. I instructed her to not worry about St. Martin de Porres’ physical traits and pets, just focus on the puppy and kitty and getting down the aisle. 

The rehearsal itself gave me confidence that she knew what she needed to do, when and how. But could she walk a quarter mile down the aisle in a fluffy white dress with hundreds of strangers looking at her? Time would tell. 

We arrived at the downtown Indianapolis church Saturday afternoon just in time to get dressed in a dark, quiet corner. Once the fluffy white dress was on, Caroline was a magnet for attention and that really bothered her. Every time someone would say hello or tell her she looked beautiful, she hid behind me. My confidence that she would make it down the aisle was waning.  

We tried to stay out of the way as parents of the bride and groom welcomed guests. We sat by the Holy water font and Caroline asked why everyone was washing their face when they came in the church. Of course, we didn’t have time to go into a full explanation, so I quickly told her they probably had a snack on the way to the church and they needed to clean up. She begged me to carry one of her horses down the aisle with her. I figured that if it got her to her destination, we could do that. So with her petite rose bouquet, she also held a brown pulling horse figurine in her tiny hands. 

The gorgeous bride arrived, and Caroline was quite intrigued that she had a group of princesses behind her holding up her train so it did not drag the ground. All of a sudden, mere minutes before she was supposed to walk down the aisle, Caroline had a mini-breakdown that her flower girl dress did not also have a train. She began walking around with her knees bent, looking behind herself, hoping it would make her dress drag on the marble floors. “Great,” I thought to myself. “She’s going to walk down this aisle appearing to be crippled just so her dress will drag the floor, and everyone is going to wonder why Joan asked a toddler with a mobility problem to be the flower girl.” 

Some clenched-jaw instruction convinced Caroline to stand up straight and tall just in time for her debut. 

The grand doors opened, and I whispered to Caroline that I’d meet her at the puppy and kitty. 

Do you know when honey gets crystallized and thick and you can’t get it to drip out of the jar? 
That’s how slowly Caroline walked down the aisle. 
Do you know when you’re late and a train stops over the tracks, only inching along for twelve agonizing minutes? 
That’s how slowly Caroline walked down the aisle. 
She actually walked so slowly, and carefully, down that endless aisle that the pianist had to play her song a second time. 

But she made it down the aisle. No tears, no turn arounds or panicked yells for mommy. I became the proudest mother in the world, and I was sitting in Saint Mary’s Catholic Church! 

In the thirty minutes that followed, Caroline asked a series of questions which included but was not limited to:

• Why did the Priest show up in a white bathrobe?
• Why did Uncle Rex, who was seated behind us, have his eyes shut when we weren’t saying a prayer?
• Why didn’t I bring her cold milk for doing a good job?
• Why couldn’t she lay down on the kneeler inside the pew?

I’m so thankful it wasn’t a full Catholic mass. 

We made it through the rehearsal, wedding, and reception without any catastrophes, and when you’re dealing with a three-nager, that seems to be a major accomplishment. On the way home I looked in the rearview mirror to see a sleeping toddler in a puffy white dress with barbeque sauce down the front of it, holding her brown horse. 

I guess it is true: 

You can take the girl off the farm, but never the farm out of the girl.

As a side note, my sweet niece Marlee wore this dress at our wedding on August 10, 2013. You may have read about her here. 

And six years later to the day, Caroline Jean fit into it perfectly. 

Kitty's Special Music

Hello. Welcome to this week's confessional. Something has been on my mind.

When I was in high school I went to a small church tucked inside the confines of a tiny Indiana village. I say village because it was too small to warrant a town; it had only three streets. 

General store next door

The old church had many empty pews on Sunday morning, but you could count on the same familiar faces being there every single Sunday. It was a small, but dedicated, bunch. 

I went there by invitation from a friend. I knew no one on the first Sunday that I joined them, but by the time I moved to Purdue I knew nearly everyone. I'm not saying that to brag; there were maybe 20 people in the congregation. They taught me not only the words to, but to believe the message in, Because He Lives. 

Alabama sings Because He Lives

My friend and I brought the average age down greatly. We were 16 and 17 years old, and many of the others could have very well been our (great) grandparents. You can imagine the joy on their faces when we'd come through the doors. One woman in the church even bought my monthly devotional for me; the one where the Peril of Prosperity entry came from. Twelve years later and I still carry it around. 

Though I haven't been to that church in more than fifteen years, there is one woman I remember well. 

Her name was Kitty. 

Kitty would always come in on two wheels on Sunday morning, barely beating the clock that hung at the back of the church. She played the organ beautifully and took full advantage of the acoustics in the tiny rural church. She sang loud as she played, and rarely seemed to look at any kind of music book in front of her. When the service was over, Kitty seemed to leave as quickly as she'd arrived. 

Often we would have "special music" by Kitty. The minister would actually say it that way:
"This morning we'll now have special music from Kitty."
Kitty didn't need a microphone. She was quite small but her voice was large. And high pitched, with a hint of scratch in it? Is scratch a musical term? It is hard for me to explain in writing, but some how Kitty's singing actually reminded me of a cat.

My friend and I always kind of giggled to one another, and maybe participated in an elbow jab to the ribs, when the special music started. We always knew where it was headed. 
 
Kitty's music was special, indeed. 

I admired Kitty for standing in front of a group and belting out her love for Jesus. It was true. And real. And quite loud. 

I was reading the paper last week and saw a face I hadn't seen in years. 
In the obituary section was Kitty. 

I read about her life and dedication to her family, community and church. She was an organist at church for 47 years, but not the one I went to. She was an organist at the tiny church I write about for 20 years. Finally, I understood why she'd rush into our church service then leave so quickly; the woman served in many capacities on Sunday morning. She also created and directed a community choir. She was in charge of Good Friday services. Kitty was a faithful servant through music. 

I sat back in my chair after reading about her life, and thought about my short association with her. 

I felt shame that I giggled at Kitty's special music. Because Kitty's special music was how she used her God given talents to to serve and love the Lord. Her special music was how she shared her gift. Who was I, at 16 and barely able to tap out Mary Had a Little Lamb on a keyboard, to smirk each time she sang? If I could go back in time, I would rewind seventeen years and stop Kitty after church to thank her for her special music. 

I learned from Kitty last week, by reading her obituary.

God gives us certain talents, gifts. Things we can do, create, extend or give away to others that no one else can. Edwin Elliot once said, “By being yourself, you put something wonderful in the world that was not there before.” I believe that very much. There will never again be music in that church like Kitty's. 

Use up those talents and gifts. Every single one of them. Wring them out and get every last drop. Find those things that make you uniquely you and extend them to the best of your ability. Worry not what others may think of your volume or boldness or the ways in which you give. Sing it, live it and scream it to the rafters.

I've heard that the meaning of life is to find your gift, and the purpose of life is to give it away.

Kitty did, every Sunday. 

936

When you realize how little time you get, 

you do more with the time you have. 

Beside a layer of dust, relics of our late (incredibly admirable) granddads and an ancient photo of our homestead, there is a jar of rocks sitting on a side table in our living room. 

Frankly, I don't pay much attention to the jar, until I hear Caroline moving it around and then I move quickly. A jar of that size and weight could surely hurt a girl so small. 

But when Caroline's activity forces me over to that area of our home,  the jar - and all that it represents - tends to hit me square on the chin. 

You guys. I need stitches.

The glass jar is filled with 936 rocks.

936 rocks represent the number of weekends you have with your child before they go to college. 

Our church gave us this jar and asked us to remove a stone each weekend, so that we can recognize the number of weekends we have left to teach and guide our daughter before she frequents a space where we aren't always around.

When you realize how little time you get, 

you do more with the time you have. 

I thank you for reading this blog right now.  Sincerely. 

You are supporting me in more ways than you know. 

But I want you to put down your phone, close your iPad or shut down your computer and look around you. 

(but not until you read this next part!!)

Time is so limited. 

Time is so, so, so, so, so limited. 

With those we love, and those we need, and those we miss in a way we didn't know we could. 

If we have 936 weekends with Caroline between birth and when she moves to college, and we received this jar less than two months before her first birthday, and I'm writing this more than a month later................I think we basically have 3 weeks left together as a family before I have to do her first college visit. 

But I'm not good at math, so that may be off a bit. 

The point is: time moves really quickly. 

And I know that days are long and you dread the Mondays and you crave the weekends but each minute of those long hours comprise your life and the time you have left with the really amazing people that make up your story. 

I haven't taken a single stone out of Caroline's jar. 

Honestly, I think it would give me anxiety to see the bottom of the barrel. 

I cry when the I see the bottom of the Rocky Road tub - add babies to this deal and I'm DONE. 

Instead, I skip blogs, I skip sleep and I use more dry shampoo than a 32-year-old mother should ---- it saves me time, darn it. 

But I don't miss first words and first touches and first bruises (we have a lot of those these days). 

Today I want you to put down your phone, close your iPad or shut down your computer and look around. 

Nothing on this screen is comparable to those around you. 

936. 

When you realize how little time you get, 

you do more with the time you have.

Quit lookin' at my rocks. 

Go love your own.