Recently, I had an opportunity to share with a crowd a memory I had of my father.  The story went like this:

I was a girl scout.  We had a Daddy/Daughter Swim Olympics.  Not being a very good swimmer, I was nervous.  My Dad, however was a great swimmer so I placed my confidence in his ability. 

The event’s climax was a diving contest for the Dad’s.  Each were asked to dive, off the high dive, into a target.  When they announced the event, I heard my Dad give a low groan.  “Oh, man” was all he uttered.  At that moment, I saw reluctance.  I never knew my Dad was afraid of heights … or at least diving off the high dive.  The look on his face was enough to communicate the full extent of his feelings

I treaded water in the shallow end while my Dad climbed the stairs of the high dive.  The whole time his legs carried him up the rungs of the ladder, I kept thinking he might bail at any minute.  His exterior did not reveal his inward trepidation.  When he reached the top, he simply walked the plank and … dove.  He dove off.

As his body floated down toward the target, I felt I couldn’t breath. When the water covered his submerged body like a liquid blanket I held my breath … waiting for the bubbles to part and my father to emerge.  When he did, I went limp.

 

My Dad is from a town named Arkansas City, Kansas.  Just across the Oklahoma border, it's pronounced "ar-kansas-city" and not like the state "Arkansas".  If you pronounce it like the state, then you are definitely not from around those parts.  You might be from "the city" which is local dialect for Oklahoma City.  If, however, you refer to the town as "Ark City" then you are a local born and breed.  It's a thing.

Every year the town embarks on a tradition of hosting "Arkalalah".  Now, before you think this to be a po- dunk festival, stop right there!  I "googled" the history of this fine event.  Straight from their very own website, here it is:

The History of ArkalalahIt all began in 1928. The big depression was on the way and everyone was blue and discouraged. John Floyd, Clyde Boggs and "Pat" Sommerfield decided something new was needed for the town - maybe a fall festival of some kind to help the morale of the people. A citizen's meeting was called, committees appointed and the first Arkalalah was off to a flying start.  A prize of $15 was offered for a name. Mrs. J.W. Moore wrote "Arkalalah" on a strip of paper. Ark, for the town and alalah, the Indian word for good time. http://www.arkalalah.com/about.html

We walked the streets of the festival, watched the 82nd annual Arkalalah parade, laughed at the lame jokes told by the local town radio announcer as he MC'd the event and spent lots of hard earned cash on large portions of fried foods.

After the days events, it inspired my Dad to take us (my Chris, Parker, Libby and Mom) around the town to see his childhood stomping grounds.  Most of the buildings no longer stood.  We saw them only through his memories eyes.

As we drove about in the country, I was reminded that these were the paved and unpaved roads that I drove as a 13 year-old-kid.  My grandmother never obtained her drivers licences.  And, since I would soon have mine, she thought I should try my hand at driving.  And, drive I did!  All over that countryside, with little training and no licence.  We delivered Avon.  We picked up milk from a local dairy.  We popped by old neighbors just to visit.

Floods.  Floods of memories.

• The old barn that stood as a reminder of where to turn down the dirt path to my grandparents home place. 
• The white one-room church that my parents got married in.
• The cemetery on the hill where my grandparents where buried.
• The field I would help my grandfather plow while sitting on his John Deere tractor.

In that 8 hour day, I took trips down memory lane.  It was good for the soul.  It was better because I shared them with my family.

Still smiling,
christina

Webster’s dictionary defines “Pilgrimage” as: a journey of a pilgrim; especially: one to a shrine or a sacred place.

As I journeyed back to the place of my birth, I felt as if I was visiting a sacred place. Time is such an odd bedfellow. It tramples memories and pasts at break-neck pace, yet the present seems to confound the amount of time that has truly passed. As I stood on soil that hypothetically could have been ground my 19 and 21 year-old parents could have trod … I felt a sacred connection to them. Past and present collided.

From my Dad’s memories, I calculated what I believe to be the house he and my Mom lived in for the first year of my life. I imagined them laughing together. In my mind’s eye, I saw my pregnant Mom walking down to the nearby pastry shop. I had visions of my Dad driving their tiny Fiat toward Vicenza, the Army base 2 hours away from their home and my birthplace. I tried to envision life 43 years ago. It was sweet … and sacred.

There is a certain truth about getting older. There is a deeper sense of who you are … and where you come from. Having never seen where I came from, it was a missing piece that I wanted to put a picture to …create a memory of … to wrap my head around. Now, I’ve done that.

I am left now with quite reflection as I pictured and empathized with my young Mom. I could physically see places she would have seen. I got to experience the vibrant hospitality of the locals. I got to drink in the culture of that quiet and charming place.

There is sacredness to seeing the place where it all began for me … and my parents. There were no lightning bolt moments, no rockets, and no fireworks. But, somehow just being there, I have a bigger picture of myself … and of my parents.

Perhaps one of the most profound things that happened to me was the day our friend, Pam, took us to a local vineyard. While there, we met several Americans who live and have lived in the area for many years. They were having a brunch with the vineyard owner and quickly extended empty chairs and plates for us to occupy. As we talked and discovered one another, they knew a very prominent local figure that was born in the same village I lived. As I exchanged some basic geographical landmarks my Dad could remember, they knew the places of which I spoke. As we were parting company, one of the older men, Don, grabbed my hand and said, “Welcome home.” It was profound. This place I never knew felt like a place of “home”. When he uttered those words, I felt so moved. My head instantly fast forwarded to a day that will someday come. One day, I will enter my true home, one that Jesus has prepared for me for a very long time. As I enter this place, I know I shall see a baby Chris and I lost, I will see my Mom, and then I know I will see my Jesus … face to face. What a deeply intense moment that will be when He grabs my hand and says to me “Welcome home.” I will finally be at a place I’ve never been but was always meant to be … I will be home. Home will be sacred … and I will be complete.

Reflecting,
Christina

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Good news about my Dad. After many tests, pokes, and prods, he is fine. With some minor instructions about watching cholesterol and weight, he has recovered at home this past week and will begin work on Monday! I’m so thankful for the good report. I’m so thankful we are not journeying down another path.

Speaking of weight, I just have to say something about what happened this week. OK, for the sake of a good story, I will subject myself to humiliation. Be prepared for what lies ahead.

I am a simpleton. I do wear makeup (it would be too cruel a joke to play on the rest of humanity if I didn’t) but not anything extreme. I wear simple lip shimmer, my favorite being Burt’s Bee’s lip shimmer (Rhubarb) which, alas, I am out of and cannot purchase here (giant hint!). However, the other day I was feeling, in a word, ugly. The weather was gray which seemed to match my face. I felt I needed some color. So, taking a risk, I chose colored lip stick that my Mother-in-love Shirley gave me over the summer, and I might add, said looked beautiful on me.

Thus, the story develops. Libby was at a friends’ house. Too bad it wasn’t an Austrian friend’s house, for perhaps they would not have understood her English well enough to know the deep scars she unknowingly inflicted on my vanity. It had been a long day. However, wearing my colored lipstick and feeling “pretty” I ever so confidently walked into these fellow Americans' house to retreive my beloved youngest child. Libby, being the outspoken, quick-to-say-what-she-thinks kind of girl, proceeds to say, “Wow Mom! Where’d you get those lips?” I slinked out of their house and haven’t been back since.

If that wasn’t enough, this past week Libby let another precious word bomb drop on my vanity. Praise God it was just in front of the Elledge 5, but a bomb none-the-less. As many of you know, I have to take medication for anxiety. The meds keep me “normal” (no comments please) but have one little draw back – weight gain. I deal with it, don’t like it, but there you have it. One night at dinner while it was just us girls (Addison, Parker, Libby and myself) I felt like sharing my struggle and feelings about the weight as a way to try to show them beauty isn’t what the media pushes but what lies within. I told them I felt that God wanted me to exercise and even though I didn’t really want to, I wanted to be healthy and obedient to God. However, again, I wanted to communicate being “pretty” comes from within … from the heart. So, I made a comment that even though I was chubby, I wanted to be beautiful to God.

Several days later, as we were preparing for dinner. The girls were putting homework away, there was hustle and bustle and I flippantly told Chris I had exercised that day. Libby, out of the depths of her heart says to me … “Mom, it’s ok that you are chubby. We have all just gotten used to it.” Gulp. Gasp. Enough said.

So, what’s the point of this blog? True beauty and confidence comes from within … from a place God grows. I gotta go … apply more lipstick and exercise some more!

Chris and I started back to school this week. This is our last week of formal classes. We are completing our B2/2 level and will then take the B2 competency test in May. When we started this process of language learning it seemed like such a far off goal … and my faith in achieving it was … shaky. Now, after all these months of learning … I look back at this process of language learning and my faith is still shaky! Ha … you think I’m joking! Actually, it’s amazing … nothing short of a miracle that these two people have grasped a new language. There are all sorts of statistics that say learning a language past a certain age is very, VERY difficult. Let’s just say, Chris and I (Chris more than me) way surpass that “certain age”. Again, what God has done with our lips and vocal cords is truly nothing short of a miracle!

Speaking of school, (don’t you just love this smooth transition), Parker was a creative genius (she is just like her mother) this week. Not saying she isn’t always but this week her creative juices were at an all time high. Every year her school has a “Book Fair”. The week culminates in the elementary students dressing up as their favorite book characters. Parker chose “the pig” in the book If You Give a Pig a Pancake. Her paper outfit was designed and decorated with a little help from a friend. She did an AMAZING job!

This week we got to experience one of those moments that shake your foundation a bit and get you out of “normal” life. My sister called late one evening with the news that my Dad had to be taken to the Heart Hospital in Oklahoma City. He is still in the hospital but doing much better. They (don’t you always wonder who “they” are? In this case, the staff at the OKC Heart Hospital.) will do more tests on Monday.
Its funny how one little phone call changes a moment. I was lying in my bed (yes, I’ve become a granny) at 9:15 p.m. watching my usual episode of The Andy Griffith Show before falling asleep. After the phone call, Andy was put on pause while I began to do what all girls do when they don’t know what else to do … cry! We didn’t know many details, only that he was having difficulty breathing, but in my mind I fast forwarded to him passing away, me being an orphan and various other extreme situations.

After my girlish bout of the water works, I whispered prayers of help to my heavenly Father. Funny how talking to my heavenly Father about my earthly Father seemed to make everything OK. I still shed a few tears when my over active imagination kicked in about worse case scenarios, but when I snapped out of it I kept hearing my heavenly Father tell me that He was with my earthly Father … that He was holding his hand … that He was right in the middle of the situation. What could I do, anyway? I am a million miles away. I am not a doctor. I am … nothing.

Why is it in crisis our flesh kicks into super human ability mode and we strategize over what we think we can do? Really … can we do anything? It’s in those moments we have to settle into our humanness and do … nothing.

In doing nothing, it’s there I discover the something I can do …surrender. Surrender that we have no control over anything. Surrender that we are not infallible. Surrender that ultimately, life has a cycle … and must come to an end. Surrender that if we trust what we say we believe, surrender is when we really do what we were meant to do … activate faith in a loving Father who is the only One who is capable of having everything under control.

So, my white knuckles of gripping my life too tightly have once again been tested. While I stretch out my fingers and let the blood begin to flow I feel somehow drawn to be stiller … and talk to my Dad more … both of them!