I was about age seven or eight when my Grandma Barrett (my mom’s mom) still lived on The Farm.  Grandpa Barrett had died before I was born, so Gramma lived in the quaint old house, and tried to maintain the timeworn place as best she could.

Due to her gentle manner and loving ways, Gramma was my favorite!  She consistently wore an apron over her dress, and seemingly  her soft, silky white hair was forever pulled back into a small bun at the nape of her neck.  She  rarely conveyed her love verbally, yet I always sensed her love and assuredly knew her acceptance.

My mom would occasionally drive out to visit her. While there my older brother Dan and younger brother Larry and I would help with various age-appropriate chores.  Often on these visits my Gramma would ask me to gather eggs for her from the chicken coop.  On this particular occasion, I invited my little brother to join me.  Only eighteen months younger than me, Larry was always my willing partner in whatever mischief I conceived.

The sun was bright and the morning held great promise, as we skipped toward the chicken coop to gather the eggs. After we filled our basket with both brown and white eggs, I suddenly had a brilliant brainstorm; and without any forethought I called out…

“C’mon Lar, I have a great idea!  Let’s take these eggs and do something fun with them.  I know Gramma won’t mind.”

Innocent and unaware of the foolishness of this scheme, my little brother cheerfully followed me through the door and around the corner to the back of the chicken coop. Positioning ourselves a few feet away from the wall, I grabbed an egg from the basket, wound up like a professional pitcher and sent the first of multiple eggs slamming into the wall.  The wide-eyed look on my brother’s face revealed what a jolt my behavior was to him!

“Here, you try it,” I said, handing him a large, brown, already-cracked egg.

Hesitantly he took the egg from my hand and timidly flung it toward the wall.  When his egg hit the mark, I giggled and clapped as if he had accomplished some amazing feat.  From that point on, we lost ourselves in the delight of seeing the bright yellow yokes slither down into a gooey mess clustered at the base of the building.

Finishing our childish exploit we merrily headed back to the house with no conscious thought of the possibility of impending trouble.   I set the empty basket on the table and looked up to see my grandma eying the basket — and us.

She quietly, but firmly asked, “Cheri’ where are the eggs?”

“Ummmm, there weren’t any this morning,” I replied, feeling immensely guilty as I said it.

“What?  Did another weasel get in with the chickens?  I better go see what happened.”

Wiping her hands on her red and white checkered apron, she vanished out the back door, crossed the sandy yard and disappeared into the hen house.  Larry and I stood on our tiptoes and numbly peered through the screen door.  In an instant, she flew out the coop door and began inspecting the sides.  We watched dumbfounded, as she disappeared behind the building; and our hearts sank as we realized the discovery she was about to make.

Knowing it would be unwise to hide from her, we sat down at the old-fashioned, white-painted table and hung our heads hoping our look of remorse might soften her heart.  Neither of us looked up as we heard the creak of the antique kitchen door and her soft footsteps approaching.  The sound of her voice was strange, as she spoke.

“Look at me, you two,” she said.

We slowly lifted our eyes, and as our gaze met hers, we sensed a tiny glimmer of hope, for her eyes were laughing even though her voice was stern.

“Did you throw the eggs against the back of the chicken coop?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” we haltingly replied.

“What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?”  She said, with a tiny bit of a smile on her lips.

I wanted to say, “Because it was fun!”  But remained silent and hung my head once again.  With my eyes downcast, I noticed movement beside me.  I glanced up, to see my brother’s grubby little index finger shakily pointing toward me and I heard his shy, sweet voice say, “I…it was all her idea.”

I snapped my head up, momentarily glared at him, and then met her gaze to see if she believed him.

“Well, I…. I just thought it would be fun…”,  I said, trying to sound very repentant.

Suddenly, her half-smirk, half-frown exploded into uncontainable laughter as she placed her arms around both of us.  Her body shook as she continued chuckling.

After regaining her composure, I remember she talked firmly to me about never doing such a thing again, but her moist eyes, loving arms and bubbling laughter left me feeling understood.  Her response dissolved my fear of punishment and extended to me a great sense of love, acceptance and forgiveness.

When I recall this and similar incidents, I have to conclude, Gramma was my special gift from God!  She seemed to always understand my mischievous heart and yet found joy in who I was.  She had the ability to look past my behavior and see me!

Today I thank God for my Gramma — her unconditional love marked my life and opened the door, so God could later reveal to me His amazing love!

Though referred to fondly as The Farm, it was anything but.

At one time it had been a true farm and the home of my great grandfather’s extended family, then became my mother’s childhood home.  Recalling the tales which occurred at this dear place have turned many family gatherings into the reminiscing of hilarious childhood tales, accompanied by exuberant laughter.  The Farm wasn’t magical in itself, but it’s enchantment lingers, due to the childhood antics, the friends who shared it with us, and the warmth of family love we experienced there.

Located only a few miles from my hometown, it was our “summer get-away” — a step back in time — complete with an outhouse, a hand pump for water, kerosene lamps, a wood-burning cook stove, a pot-bellied wood heater and a real “ice” box.  In later years we added the wonder of propane, and graduated to a gas stove and refrigerator.

The farmhouse itself consisted of three small houses connected into one.  It’s outward appearance was quite dull with its rough, gray stucco covering and white trimmed windows.  The rooms  inside smelled exactly as they were … old.  The walls held faded wallpaper which hung loosely near the ceiling, while worn linoleum covered the tired, creaking floors below — a different color in each room.  The windows, with their peeling  paint, were propped open by sticks from the thickly wooded grove of elm trees which encircled the house.  Three entryways touted rectangular concrete porches and warmly welcomed us into this retreat.  Two of the three stood level with the ground. However, on one end of the house the porch rose to almost six inches above the ground.  This particular porch is etched in my memory due to…. well, that’s a  story for another post.

Situated in the yard, beneath a canopy of  elms, could be seen a few lawn chairs, a blanket, a telescope, a tent, a well-used fire pit, a badminton net and a croquet game set up and ready to go.  Beside the lane, suspended between four trees, was a tree house built by my brother and me; and several feet away from it were multiple gigantic holes in the ground, covered by branches and leaves.  These camouflage ” dug-outs” were built by my little brother Larry, and were, in his mind, “army foxholes”.  Straight into the grove of trees, approximately forty yards away, were the ruins of the ancient barn, and parallel to it was the still-existing-with-no-purpose corn crib.  These old haunts are the sets of many scenes etched permanently into my mind… a summer-land of make-believe where it seemed as if time stood still.

Our holidays to this rustic, run down farm, deeply knit my family together, breathed life into our souls, and afforded us adventures written indelibly on our hearts.   There, before life dealt us turbulent waters, we were together…. happily together …. as family!

To be continued . . .

Journals fill an entire drawer underneath my bed, as well as a shelf built into the headboard. Over the years I’ve written in journals in order to chronicle the moments I deemed special to my life. Taking time to re-read the entries in those journals is something I rarely do. However, today, while writing on the next-to-last page of another journal, my mind wondered what was at the beginning. Thumbing to the front and landing upon a post written in early 2006, I was astounded by what was recorded there.

It read: “I found this line in the second Mitford book and I just have to write it in this journal! Father Tim has realized he can’t live without Cynthia, and as the realization comes to him he begins running from his place on a hill to his home where she is waiting. As he runs towards Cynthia with the intention of asking her to marry him, the author pens these words: ‘. . . he sensed he had come at last to a destination he’d been running toward all his life.’ “

My journal continues: “I love that quote — and I feel like it states exactly what I believe about this upcoming trip to England, where we will meet spiritual leaders from all over Europe. All our lives we have sought to be in relationship with people who were like-minded about the things God had put inside us. People who weren’t looking for position, but friends who desired to help other friends. So it is with that in mind, regarding this trip to England, that I too say, ‘we sense we are coming at last to a part of our destiny that we have been running towards our whole life.’ “

Looking upon it from where we stand today, the truth of this journal entry is staggering. The trip to England, and subsequent meetings in the years following, joined us to a people and to certain spiritual leaders who are now impacting our lives, the life of our church and the lives of the generations behind us. Our relationships with these leaders have grown and deepened, while our hearts and lives have expanded to see the Kingdom of God in a fresh, new light. The men and women we met in England have become our friends. Friends who are now helping us.

In 2006 we only had a sense that we were running toward our destiny. Today we know we bumped right into it, and the impact has changed the course of our lives forever.

A few days ago, in the early morning, before opening my eyes, the awareness of this special day drifted through my mind stirring strong emotions in my heart. This day marked the premature birth of our granddaughters Claire and Ellery six years ago. Ellery went to live with Jesus after only 9 hours, while Claire faced a long and hard battle for her life. Claire’s battle lasted for several months before she was able to go home and live with her family! This day would mark another milestone in her life as she turned 6 special-years-old!

As this reflection filled my heart, my mind rapidly moved to another special occasion which had occurred four years ago this day — my son Paul’s marriage to Revonna. My son’s wedding day was deeply meaningful in and of itself, but these thoughts led me backward in time, and intertwined with yet another experience — a time when we didn’t know if Paul would live or die, much less grow up and marry.

Paul, like Claire was a premature twin, and his brother Luke left us while still in my womb. During his first week of life Paul came very close to death. He fought, we prayed, God answered and Paul survived, but his doctors warned us he would probably be blind and deaf, and have cerebral palsy leaving him unable to walk.

On the night of his wedding, as he waited in a room behind the altar, Paul could clearly hear the music that marked his time to walk to the altar and stand beside his brothers and father as he waited to see his bride come through the door. As Revonna gracefully moved towards him, his eyes filled with tears at the sight of the woman whom he had loved since high school and whom he was vowing to love for the rest of his life.

These combined memories overwhelmed me as I offered up praise to God for allowing Paul to live and marry Revonna; and for the miracle of these six precious years of little Claire’s life. In that early morning reverie I realized this day would always be accompanied with deep sentiment resulting in praise to God. For each year would bring with it remembrance of our little ones who now live with Jesus, as well as answers to our prayers prayed for tiny little babies, who entered this world too early, who did not die, but lived to declare the works of the Lord! (Ps. 118:17)

Last weekend my husband Don, my adult daughter, Stephanie and I drove 3 hours to spend the night and next day with our son Dan, his wife Felicity and our precious grandchildren, Jesse, Claire, Ada and Macy. They live 5 + hours away, and sometimes we start missing them so much we all decide to meet in a city half-way between our homes. We stayed overnight in a very trendy hotel and spent the next day browsing shops and purchasing special gear for the children. Though the time together was short it afforded special times of talking and hugging and enjoying simple things like meals together, shopping and yummy ice cream treats.

One of my favorite things whenever any of our family gathers, is to step back and listen to them talking and laughing together. If I listen closely I’ll hear the little girls giggling to one another about something probably no one else would think is funny. At the same time I’ll hear baby Macy talking baby-talk to her parents who are engrossed in a conversation with my husband, while Jesse is teasing his aunt. When my other adult children, spouse and grandchildren are present, I’ll hear the guys laughing at each other as they try to upstage one another.To some perhaps it may sound like a cacophony, but to my ears it is harmonious music.

Occasionally when we’re together, unknown to them, I stop and listen for this sound. It’s a sound that’s more than noise. A sound of hearts connected to one another and of laughter that shares a deep kind of knowing one another. It’s not their words, or the degree of softness or loudness, it’s the message the sound conveys to my heart. They are brothers and sisters, whether by marriage or by blood. They are friends for life! They, their spouses and children matter to each other and their voices blended together create a special sound that causes my heart to be overwhelmed with gratitude. To me, there’s nothing like this sound! I call it the sound of family.