Of Soap and Shells

My grandma passed away more than two months ago, and I still find myself waking and wondering if I can fit a trip across the state line to see her on that day. She left a void that will never be filled. 

Throughout the years Grandma gave me many things that I’ll forever hold close to my heart. Her cowboy boots, Granddad’s cowboy boots, and old love letters between the two of them written in the 1940s. Since her passing, our large family has worked to clean out her homestead, each family combing through years of memories, collectibles and “stuff”. 

Three generations have gone through closets, looked under beds and cleaned off bookshelves. We’ve taken oak dressers, beloved toys from our childhood, photos of champion Holstein heifers from the 1960s and record players with Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys still in the play position.

I took shells and soap. 

One day the kids and I drove to Grandma’s and began sorting through things that we might want to keep forever. In Granddad’s old room, Caroline dug eagerly (we were on a treasure hunt of sorts) through a filing cabinet and found a bag of seashells. She was elated; I was confused. 

My grandparents were not regular vacationers because they had livestock. When hundreds of animals depend on you for their food (or, their milking twice a day), you do not often leave. You can’t often leave. But there were occasions when Granddad would come in from the barn and tell Grandma to pack a bag, they were going on a trip tomorrow. Sometimes they went to Virginia to visit Charlie Potter, a man they ran cattle with on the rolling green hills of the Shenandoah Valley. Once they drove to western Nebraska and showed up on the ranch house steps of a college friend of mine, only because they wanted to see how farming was different in Nebraska compared to Ohio. And apparently, at least once they went to a beach.

I was surprised to find seashells amongst farm paperwork in a filing cabinet, but I was relieved. 

Because seashells meant he – and grandma – took a break from the work of the farm to enjoy themselves. Seashells meant that he traveled far enough to see new land and meet new people that would become a part of his life’s story. Seashells meant that at some point he rested in between the hundreds of decisions it takes to operate a farm, and maybe even put his feet in the ocean. I hope he at least took off his boots. 

That afternoon, I also took soap. 

I have a habit of taking the unopened hotel soaps (lotions, shampoos, coffee…..what is wrong with me?) home with me when I travel. I figure if the Wagon Wheel Inn outside Lusk, Wyoming offered the goodies, I might as well return home with a souvenir. I get this habit honestly, and while cleaning out Grandma’s house I also found a bathroom drawer (maybe two) full of hotel soaps. Pony Soldier Motor Inn, Urbana-Lincoln Hotel, and one bar that didn’t have a name, but did advertise “wall to wall carpet” and a “24 hour switchboard” – whatever that is. Each ancient bar represents places she’d been, while out on a great voyage off the farm. She kept those soaps, and now I will, too. 

To me, these petite hotel soaps represent the exploration of unfamiliar places where she need not cook for the family and hired help or wash milkers. She simply had to be open to the road, likely interpreting the map, and ready for the next adventure. At some point in her 89 years, these soaps represent her courage to leave the farm – and trust me, it takes courage to leave the care of your livestock up to someone else – and see another part of this beautiful country. Even if they did sleep at the Pony Soldier Motor Inn.

Grandma and Granddad left many legacies, but today I think about the lesson they’ve taught in soap and shells. 

No matter how hard you work, how little quit you have in you, or how hard you find it to disconnect – everyone deserves to rest. To step away. To take a break. To explore. Maybe it is a morning walk in the fresh snow when you can’t seem to focus on graduate school studies. Maybe it is a Sunday afternoon drive to see someone you miss. Maybe it is getting back to a hobby you’ve abandoned because life keeps you too busy. Or perhaps, it’s a cross-country adventure just to discover new land and unfamiliar faces. 

Go. 

The work will be here when you get back, but experiences don’t wait.

And if you do find a place that has something worth packing home, do so. You never when those tokens will serve an entirely new purpose. 

In writing this, our daughter asked what the tiny bars of soap were. I told her they were part of her inheritance. She appeared confused, but hopefully one day she'll get it. 

Irregulars

I miss Elder-Beerman, as I knew I would. My bank account, however, is much better because of the closure. 

One thing I always bought there were jeans. Elder-Beerman didn’t put Calvin Klein jeans on sale often, but when they did, I usually bought a few pair. There was something special – magical, even – about the Calvin Klein jeans sold at Elder-Beerman. Though I was nowhere near the size in real life, I could somehow always fit into size 6 Calvin Klein jeans from the downtown department store. I know well that there was something mismarked about this dreamy denim, but it was the only place in town where size 6 actually suited me. 

This is also likely why they were the ones on super sale: they were flawed.  

Faulty. 

Defective. 

Irregulars. 

Last week I had to work with a tent rental company to set up for an approaching field day. I had both children with me, and together we walked the field test plot with map in hand and marked the areas where certain size tents should go, what grass walkways should be left free, and how many tables and chairs to set up at each location. I thought this would be a fun day for the kids to join me, out in the middle of a corn/soybean maze on a beautiful July day. They were certain to burn some energy. 

I waved the three large trucks into the test plot field and parked them. Three men unloaded out of each one. I imagine the rental company has a high turnover rate, as I never work with the same group annually. The men that unloaded from the trucks were as different as they come: one was clean-cut, shirt tucked in and a belt, while the vast majority of the others looked as though they just rolled out of bed. Dreadlocks, tattoos, ripped jean shorts, cut off shirts, piercings, this small group had it all. Because I’ve been in this situation before (standing in the middle of a field, with no one around but truckloads of strange men I’ve never seen before), I thought nothing of it. 

But then there was Caroline.

“Mommy. What wrong wit dat guy?” she asked me in her outside voice while she pointed very directly. I wanted to cover her mouth and stick her back in the car, but instead, I squatted down beside her, getting on her level. Quietly, but firmly I responded, “Honey these are mommy’s friends. They are here to help me set up all these tents and all these tables and all these chairs. There is nothing wrong with him. He just doesn’t look like you.” 

She studied the group intensely as they began unloading supplies. I’m certain she was thinking, “Mommy sure has some shady friends,” but she never said another word about it. 

That afternoon lasted longer than it should have. My map was off by about ten feet so we had to change tent size for one location. They brought the wrong tent for one stop, so their manager had to drive another down from an hour away. But the team I worked with was very kind. They were precise and calculated, measuring everything twice before setting a single stake. They were efficient, like worker bees zipping around and wasting no time to raise the big white tops. They were respectful to myself and my kids as we walked every bit of that field with them as I described my needs for the event. 

I drove home that evening thinking about Caroline’s comment and her concern. The man didn’t look like anyone she’d been around before, with gauged ears, dirty clothes, few teeth and covered in tattoos. His lifestyle was obviously different from ours. However, his specific and special talents lie in working quickly and doing all the heavy lifting to help other people. That is not something I do on a daily basis. This man does. 

Then Sunday rolled around and things seemed much clearer. 

Sunday’s sermon was about how God has irregulars that play a special part in meaningful moments. In fact, God often chooses insignificant people to teach us some tremendous lessons. 

A quote from the sermon, by David Jackman, 

“The apparent unsuitability of the great men of God in Scripture is a recurrent theme which finds its peak in the selection of the twelve by Jesus...They had none of the pedigree or accomplishments which today would be considered absolute necessities.”

I believe that the blonde man that helped us set up for our event last Monday was one of those irregulars. He didn’t say much, he simply took instruction and got to work. I don’t know how long he’d been setting tents, what the row of bullets tattooed on his calf means about his life experiences or if he has any little ones at home, keeping him on his toes. 

I do know that he served as a wonderful vessel to have a brief, but meaningful conversation with our 3-year-old about not judging others who look different than us. 

Especially if they have a bleeding skull and inmate number tattooed on their forearm and they're holding a 12-inch steel stake. 

High School Reunion

I had my class reunion the third weekend of August during our rural town, mid-America hometown festival. While it was so good to see folks I haven’t since June 1, 2003, the greatest reunion I’ve experienced since that time has been the most unexpected.

I had no (known) enemies while I walked the halls of Hagerstown High School years ago. But if you asked me the person that I avoided the most, the answer would have been easy: Her name was Morgan. We didn’t run in the same circles (to be fair, I only ran if I was being chased) and when our 17-year-old lives did overlap, it was never overly friendly. I don’t remember specifically why we were never on the right path from day one, but I know I was never a friend to her, and vice versa. 

Fifteen years later, you can imagine my surprise when I began seeing Morgan in the waiting room each time I had a doctor appointment for our second child. As fate would have it, she, too, was expecting a second child. To take irony one step further, we were due on the exact same day: August 5, 2018.  

A lot can change in fifteen years. 

Over the last seven months, I’ve communicated more with Morgan than anyone from high school. I’ve found her to be a source of comfort (“Can you believe we’re in our last trimester already? The end is near!”), reassurance (“I asked my doctor about that and he said it is completely normal…”), insight (“I have a recipe you have to try…”), humor (“You will not believe what I did today….”), and company (“I hope I’m not waking you, but you’re probably awake, anyway….”). She has become the new friend I never thought I’d need at 34-years-old. 

I’ve learned to view Morgan as the kind of person who has been through a sleepless hell, only to walk out of the flames carrying buckets of water for those (that’s me) still consumed by the fire. I know she’s exhausted, but she always asks me, “Is Cyrus sleeping better for you?” That is kindness from a mother with experience. 

Motherhood is quite lonely, even if you’ve not technically been alone for four weeks, two days and seventeen hours (not that I’m counting). But I’ll tell you, having someone in the trenches with you makes it a whole lot better. If you look at Morgan and I’s paths to today, they’re drastically different in schooling, careers, relationships, and beyond. We've never once talked about high school or the years that fall into the 15-year gap since we spent 45-minute classes together. We only talk about today. Or, last night. I’m grateful that we had one similarity, strangely aligned more than a decade after high school. It’s been a fantastic, ongoing class reunion. 

And, a great lesson to remember when my daughter comes home upset with classmate. I'll now have a story in my back pocket that I can share...
"Don't be mean to her, she may be your lifeline down the road. Let me tell you about a girl named Morgan..."

I think back to my high school self and wonder now what began and drove that wedge between Morgan and I in the early 2000’s? We were adolescent girls, so I’m certain it was petty and brief. Unfortunately, it took me fourteen years and nine long months to resolve it. 

That reminds me of the old question, “Whatever is troubling you: in five years will it still matter?” I wish I would have asked myself that in 2003. That would have spared me a couple awkward visits in a waiting room in order to find a friend in Morgan. 

What I Learned from Polly

In recent conversation, I thought of a name I hadn’t in years. 

“Powell. Are they related to Polly Powell?” I asked my cohort.

“Yes, same family. How in the world do you know Polly Powell?” he questioned, back. “She’s quite a bit older than you.”

I thought back briefly to how I knew that name. 

“When I was young, like, your daughter’s age, she was fair queen and she stopped and talked to me at the fair. And that made my entire year. I hadn’t thought of her in a long time,” I explained to him. 

It turned out to be an association so simple, yet quite significant. 

It was true; I hadn’t thought of her in a long time, but she influenced me greatly. During a demanding week of schedules, obligations, heat and responsibility, Wayne County 4-H Fair Queen Polly Powell didn’t pass up an opportunity to visit with a young, impressionable girl. One she did not even know. She got down on my level and asked me a couple questions. I studied her crown and sash. She had perfect teeth. Some things you just don’t forget. 

A decade after Polly, at the age of 17, I was crowned queen over the fair. It was because of that brief encounter years before that I made a conscious effort to be aware of the younger people around me during that week. Who was watching me? Who could I say hello to? It really was incredible how one (very one-sided) conversation left such an impression. That entire year, I tried to be more like Polly.

And so, a lesson for those in the second half of their 4-H career about to spend a week at the county fair, or the ones who are getting organized to attend a national junior livestock show somewhere across the country: 
You're in a unique position to offer something very positive to those around you. 

There are little eyes upon you, who think you’re the best, the expert, maybe even an idol of theirs. Perhaps the greatest swine showman or steer fitter or wood worker or cake baker they’ve ever seen. They already know your name, probably your club or your state association. There is someone who would love to say hello to you, to learn from you, or someone who may just stop by your stall to watch you work. Let them. 

Meet them. Get to know them. Show them how. Teach them. Show them what kindness is. 

It is in those brief encounters that you may encourage a hobby, dream or livelihood. 
You may build a bit of confidence in someone who is lacking it terribly. 
You may bring a bright spot to a day where there hasn’t been sunshine in weeks. 
I encourage you to look around during the busiest of weeks and find someone who could use a brief “how’s it going?” from you, a possible mentor. 

Last Friday the Wayne County 4-H Fair Queen Contest committee hosted a reception for all sixty former Wayne County 4-H Fair Queens at Centerville High School. The earliest queen in attendance was 1959 – how awesome is that? I attended hoping to visit with gals I hadn’t seen in a long time, but also to officially meet Polly. I wanted to thank her for influencing my actions so many years ago. She wasn’t in attendance. I did take a look at the historic wall hanging they had on display to confirm just how old I was when Polly Powell was queen. It was 1992; I was just shy of 8 years old. 

Twenty-six years later, and I still associate very good things with a gal I’ve never met because she created an opportunity to influence a little girl.

Although I do remember the dress she had on that day in 1992 (ask me what I ate for breakfast - I have no idea) what was special about Polly wasn’t the fashion in which she wore her crown as a queen, but rather the way in which she used it to show kindness.

Three Things Every Day

I’m out of town on business this week.

I crossed a few states lines, two time zones and a great big river before checking into a beautiful boutique hotel. In route, I saw the St. Louis arch from afar and sent a photo to Cody to update him on my travels. While doing so, I took a wrong exit and ended up on a side street in East St. Louis. At the lonely end of a scrap yard. Where they dump the bodies. I was white knuckled during my 12-minute detour of dread, while visions of Dateline danced in my head.

On the way west, I actually crossed two extra state lines than what my GPS mapped, having crossed the same state line twice. It became painfully clear at mile 313: I don’t often travel solo in My Life, AC (after Caroline).

I packed seven days’ worth of clothes; I’ll be here three days. I packed 20 lbs. of jewelry that won’t come out of the bag; I’ll wear the same turquoise set for the duration of the trip. Three belts. Four pairs of shoes. Nail polish. Snacks. A book. At this point I don’t know if I’m at the Wildwood Hotel or an Extended Stay America.

The business side of my trip has been very good, but SEO goals and analytics are not why you’re here today. I hope.

One of the speakers said something very simple during our Tuesday morning session. I found it worth writing down. As I sat to write this week (in my big, comfy king size bed that I didn’t have to make this morning), I thought it worth sharing with you.

If you do three things well every day, you will make progress in different areas of your life, daily.

Maybe it is  cleaning the bathroom (not just wiping the toothpaste off the spout).

Maybe it is diving into your daily devotional and really reading the listed scripture, contemplating the afterthought questions and praying about the message.

Maybe it is focusing on communications and returning the two phone calls you’ve put off for some time.

Maybe it is cleaning up the barn in a way that you would be proud to show around a last-minute guest.

Maybe it is shutting your office door and diving into the tough project for an hour straight, giving it your undivided attention.

Maybe it is taking ten minutes to actually sort through the stack on the kitchen island and put things where they belong. (FYI: belts, fundraiser reminders, spare buttons and mail don’t belong on the kitchen island).

Maybe it is going to visit parents, grandparents, or a forgotten friend.

Maybe it is balancing your budget, taking a look at where your money is actually going.

Maybe it is reading an extra book to your child before you tuck them in.

Maybe it is going on a walk, run or skip (did you know it is impossible to skip and not smile?) to clear your mind for a few minutes.

Maybe it is clearing the refrigerator of bad contents and wiping down the shelves that you’ve not given thought to in a year.  

Maybe it is paying close attention to yourself when those red flag arise - and addressing them appropriately. 

Maybe it is sitting down with a cookbook and creative thinking to map out your meals for a week or two.

Maybe it is carefully choosing your words to change direction of thought.

By paying enough mind to 

three simple things 

throughout your day, 

you’ll no longer be carelessly 

going through the motions to maintain; 

you’ll be living with intent.

This time tomorrow I hope to be on the second floor of a farmhouse where I can hear a mousetrap go off in the basement. 

Some gals just don't sleep well in boutique beds. 

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.