call me Mamo...

  

       This story is about how I became Mamo. It's about my first grandson. About the precious one who named me. My best little buddy.  

    This little guy was my world. When he was around, he was everything. He was a

pensive child. Quiet. Always listening.  I read to him a lot and sang to him a lot, and I believed that I had his attention, but he was pretty quiet.  

     We had a little kitchen stool and I knew that he wanted to climb it, but I also knew clearly, even though he couldn't tell me, he didn't want me to watch him figure it out. 

     So I put the stool in the living room and walked away.  In the kitchen, I could see him practicing from the opening over the sink. I watched him go up,  stumble. and try it again. He did this over and over until he finally had it down. I saw that he had conquered it. My heart swelled with happiness, and I knew that he'd want to show me. I walked toward him. "Can you climb that ladder all by yourself?" I asked him. And he showed me that he could.  

     I gave him the biggest hug. He was so proud and so was I. And I was certain that he said, "Gamma" in the video I took of him doing it again. I was so excited that he'd said my name, that I showed it to my daughter when she came to pick him up. 

    Not long after that, I was talking to my daughter on the phone. "Jude keeps saying something," she told me. "I don't know what it means. He says it over and over every day."  And she repeated the word. "Have you heard him say it?" She asked me?

     "No." I told her, "I have not."

     But the next time they came over this darling boy ran into the house. And as I knelt and held my arms open to him, he ran into them. "Mamo!" He said as I scooped him up.  

     "Oh my gosh!" my daughter said, "It's you. He's been asking about you."

     The love I felt in that moment was coming from something very new to me. This little darling boy decided who I was in his life and named me. There was never any transition of his name for me after that. I wondered where it came from, and thought about it a lot. Then I figured it out and I just knew. Sometimes you just know that you know. His name for me was a combination of two of his favorite people. His Mama, and Elmo. I laughed out loud when I figured it out. I knew right away that he saw me as the perfect mix of both. 

     Part Mama, part Elmo, and deeply in love with him.  

     Many grandma's choose their name before their grandbabies are even born. They then coach them on it as soon as their grandbabies begin to form words. I know and love a KiKi, and a Glamma, and a Nana, and I get the idea. Truly I do, but I, I never even thought about it. 

     My truth was this... 

     I knew that one day Jude would call me something. He'd find his name for me and say it.  And that's exactly what he did.  In love and spontaneity, this darling boy filled my heart with a name that came from two of the things he loved the most. What could possibly be more precious than that? 

     And so...just call me Mamo!

A vase of flowers on a kitchen table in a house with no roof.

      I grew up in Oklahoma. We were right in the middle of tornado country and Spring always announced itself with great and stormy skies.. 

     The horizon would grow dark as blue-black clouds rolled and tumbled and filled the sky.  I was well aware of their power and growing strength as my heart beat faster.

      Anticipation, fear, and awe took turns inside my spirit playing follow the leader. 

    We were taught what to do. Mom would meet us at the door if the storms found us outside, and then we sat in the den on the floor, watched Gary England, (our meteorologist) on TV, and waited for Dad to come home. 

     As a little girl, I remember Gary England so well. He always told us what we needed to know about the impending storm and he did it calmly. I was comforted by the sound of his voice. I trusted him.
    If Mr. England changed the event,  from "thunderstorm watch" to "tornado warning" before Dad got home, Mom would get nervous and scared. I could see her wearing it. Being the oldest of three girls, and not quite a year younger than my brother, I watched my parents and listened to their conversations a lot. And when Mom got scared about the impending tornado, so did I.  

    But the moment Dad came through the door my fear flew away.  I just felt safe when he was home. He never showed any signs of worry, he just changed out of his suit, and then we'd all go to the garage together. Dad would then snap on the radio, open the garage doors, and line up the lawn chairs side by side.  

    As long as the storm lasted, the five of us would sit like that. Dad and the kids. Mom never joined us. But we would watch the clouds roll and shift. And I'd scoot to the very edge of my chair and gasp as flashes of lightning shot across the sky, then hold my ears as gigantic booms of thunder vibrated my bones. 
    At times the sky grew so dark that I held my breath and just when I thought I couldn't stand it anymore, the sky would  break open and pour down buckets full of rain. 
    The hail made my sisters scream but my brother ran into it like a superhero proud to show us the red whelps he brought back inside with him.    
    I was transfixed watching our green grass turn into a glassy white blanket.  

     Dad put us inside the bathtub only once that I remember, and when I saw the look between my Mom and Dad, I knew the tornado was coming. Dad left us in the bathroom for a minute and came back with a mattress from one of the beds. He told Mom to get in the tub with the four of us, and then he leaned the mattress over our heads. 
     The tornados sirens were howling outside as we sat there and then, , we could barely hear Mother singing. When everything quieted, in that stillness, I thought it was over. It wasn't. 
     The howling wind came back. It sounded like a train was coming. And then... it stopped.  Dad put the mattress down, and told Mom to keep us there until he came back. 
     When all was clear we got up and out of the bathtub. Shortly after, Dad said, "I 'm going to drive around and see what the tornado did. Anyone want to come with me?"
      I did. And that evening it was just Dad and me. 
     I don't know how far we drove, it wasn't too far when Dad pulled over and parked the car. We both got out. We walked a little until we saw a family wandering outside on a lawn down a street. There house had no roof.  "Look," Dad said as he pointed it out to me. "It's over there."
     The families roof was balancing on top of a house down the street. 
     These people, in shock and disbelief, were  letting people go inside their house. I didn't know exactly what they were talking about, but Dad said, "Let's go in."

     Inside the house, their TV was still on but it didn't have a picture.  I heard Dad talking to people about couch cushions and books on a shelf.  
     I wandered into the kitchen. 
    On the kitchen table, was a vase of red flowers. I stared at it while the people around me talked.  
    That vase of flowers just sat upright on the peoples kitchen table. Right there in the pretty vase.    
     When I looked up from their kitchen, I saw the sky.
     On the drive home, Dad told me that tornadoes had strange power.  He told me when he was a boy he saw a rake pushed through a telephone pole once after a storm and that a neighbor's cow had been found walking in a field over a mile away from their farm.  

     Something changed in me that day.  I did not understand the things I saw and heard. How could a roof be torn off a house and placed on a house down the street? And how could a vase of  flowers still be sitting on a table after the roof got ripped off?  

     Even then, I knew God had all the answers. He knew all the things that I did not. But after that day, I saw a bit more of God's power and glory in the lightning. I smelled more of it in the rain. And I heard more of it in the thunder.  
    I know too, that it is present now even amidst the destruction of the current seasons storms. So I pray for the people who lives are forever being changed by them. But, as I remember the red flowers on the table in a kitchen with no roof,  I know that God sees everyone who is suffering. I know that He loves them. I know that he can redeem their lives and make them new.  

    So may they see your goodness, Lord, and may feel your great love. 
   

     

Tomato worms

      One summer Dad planted tomato's in our backyard. It was the first time we'd ever grown food, and I loved watching the tomato's form and grow on the vines. I checked on them regularly, and reported back to everyone about how they were doing.   

     One day I told Dad that it looked like leaves were missing from several plants and that I found chew bites on one.  That weekend, I was rolling skating in the drive way and Dad came through the garage and called my name. "Come with me, Pam," he said, "I want you to see something." I followed Dad to the backyard and then to the tomato garden. "Come look at this," Dad said, as he squat down and pointed. I squat beside him and looked. "Oh my Gosh!" I said excited. I was looking at the biggest, fattest, greenest worm I'd ever seen. And it had a long curved stinger on it's butt. "We've got tomato worms," Dad said. "That's what's eating the plants."
      "They're so big," I told him, "and that stinger!" We have to remove them from the plants, he told me. "I'll be right back." Dad returned a few minutes later with a miracle whip jar, and proceeded to show me how to remove the worms from the stalks. He explained that if you found one tomato worm, you definitely had more than one. Then I watched him slide the stick under its front feet which were sticky. Then, once the worm attached itself, Dad just pulled it from the plant. As he did,  the worm immediately bent it's stinger forward over it's back. "Do you see that?" Dad said. "You have to be careful so it doesn't sting you."   
     It was Summer, so Dad asked if I was game for finding and jarring more worms while he was at work. Our first one now sat in the bottom of the jar which Dad handed me. "If you find more, put them in here. You'll know where to look for them by finding the eaten or missing leaves. You're in charge."             Dad left me by the garden and I sat there staring into the jar  I was mesmerized by this crazy big worm. I broke of a piece of a tomato plant with a leaf attached and put it in the jar with the worm then took the lid off so it wouldn't die. I wanted to watch it climb with those sticky feet and eat with that mouth. I was fascinated.   
      I can't tell you how many hours I sat with the tomatoes that Summer, but it was a lot. Within a week or so I had 4 worms inside that jar, and sometimes I missed the call to dinner. "Pam's in the garden again." My sisters would yell, "she's always looking for those nasty worms." 

     By the end of the summer, the tomato worms were gone and the fruit on the vine flourished.  I think I captured a total of 8 that season. I don't remember ever planting tomatoes or finding worms again after that summer, but I'll never for get it. .

     I hadn't thought about that garden and those worms in a very long time, but this year my husband and I planted our first bed of tomatoes in our Round Valley home.  I planted them and smelled them. I watered them and staked them,  And as I did, I couldn't stop thinking about that summer I spent as a girl gathering those fascinating worms in my Miracle Whip jar. I realized then, that I badly them wanted them to return to my life.  So I checked regularly for missing leaves and chew marks on the plants, but never found any. I remember being sad that they didn't come that summer to visit me.  It was strange how I missed them. Funny how a worm with a giant stinger can bring a young girl fascination and joy. 

Maybe I find one again one day. I'd like to think I will.

Mother sewed

       I have some very clear memories of my Mother. They are moments in time. I see them in my mind like photographs. I was the oldest of three girls and paid close attention to everything my Mom did. And when I think about those moments in time of Mom, in my pictures, she is mostly sewing.  

     She sewed all of our clothes until I was in middle school. Church dresses. Summer shifts. Costumes. She made all her own clothes too. Beautiful things modeled after the style of Jackie Kennedy. Colorful bell bottom pantsuits. Tailored dresses. She even made my brother Ron a suit. Mom also loved Music. I have clear memories of changing the albums on the stereo turntable for her, while she sat on the floor with straight pins between her lips pinning patterns on the living room floor.  Then I would watch her, and sing, and dance around. 

     I loved going to the fabric store with her to pick out my patterns. I can still remember the excitement. The tingling in my tummy when we sat at the tables in the fabric stores and looked through the pattern books. McCalls, Butterick, and Simplicity.   

     Mom always wore a pin cushion around her wrist and pins were either being pulled out of it and being put in something else, or being pulled out from her lips and put back into the pin cushion. I remembered being lulled to sleep by the sound of her foot tapping the sewing machine pedal and the lull of the fabric being sewn that followed. I remember waking up to the joy of an almost finished dress. 

      We tried everything on before the finishing touches were applied. Things like buttons, rickrack, and pleats. And then there were the hems. We had a full length mirror in the living room which was Mom's sewing room for most of the year. I remember standing in front of it as I watched Mom pin my hems. I I always wanted them a little bit shorter. And I remember when my hair got longer, she made me matching headbands.

     I also have vivid moment in time, snapshots, of Mom sitting at the table with me when I brought home papers to learn cursive. She would do the first few letters and then I would them copy them to the bottom of the page.  Her handwriting was beautiful. it still is. I remember once finding some letters from my Grandma Ruthie. Mom's mom. I had never,  until then, realized how much Grandmas handwriting looked like Moms. How much like mine. It was a moment. Grandma taught Mom, and Mom taught me. I remember laying out a letter from my Grandmother and from my Mom and comparing them to my own handwriting. It was emotional and beautiful. A stunning moment.  

      People don't sew their own clothes anymore like Mom did ours, at least no know I've ever known. And children don't learn cursive any more either. And no one writes letters. I think that's sad. 

     But I will always have the precious memories of those things. I can still hold tight to them as they are part of my childhood and my story. They formed me. And I will always be thankful for that.

Blisters or not...

     What began as God's gentle prompting seems clear and perfect in the stillness before dawn, but when the rest of the world wakes up, the clouds roll in and its get dark and foggy.       I try to walk it out but my feet are unsteady. I am vulnerable, ill-equipped, unsure, it's too hard.  I don't know what I'm doing and I read and pray and think, "Why am I doing this?" and  so I stop.   

     When I am empty, I draw near, God pours in and I push through.  I cut and paste. I write and learn and read and learn and write and learn and re-write.   
     My heart is full of desire to bring glory to God and I know He knows this, but I am terrible at it, and I grumble and I fail.
      But He holds my hand as we walk back to the beginning where I read in my own words how this whole thing started, and I know it is my journey, so I take a deep breath and sigh and take another tiny step.   

     Here I stand.  Feet planted on the Glory Road but confessing that the last several miles were uphill and rocky and I am not strong and I am tired and I really just want to find a different road. 
     But this road is mine because God placed me here, and I trust him, so I walk. I want to run and dance and jump and sing and climb while full of worship because He is worthy of all my praise forever and ever and ever!  That's want I want to do. 
     So I put one foot in front of the other, and then I do it again, because it becomes my worship. Blisters or not, I will look at Jesus as I trudge over hills, pluck out thorns, and pull my feet from tar because I know what Jesus took to the cross for me, and I want it all to be my joy. 
     So when my feet land on sharp rocks, when it gets hard and I cry out and I'm out of breath and need living water, I will remember that my Father loves this Psalmists heart and will hold me in his lap and let me drink from his well.   
     He will put my feet back on the path refreshed where and I will have a joyful spring in my step like a child because of the hope and promise of the cool green valley that waits for me.  A place where the fragrance of flowers I've never seen take my breath away, where babbling brooks will sing and where mountains will bow down. And then a baby Orangutan will climb into my arms.  
     I am yours, Lord. May you be glorified in me...

You are...

You are the purple rage in storm clouds

You are the gentle snow and blinding sun

You are the one who makes beauty from ashes

You are the sender of the Helper

You are the colors in the sunrise

You are the maker of the stars

You are the one who refines us through fire

You are everything that is good and right and true

You are billions of sand grains

You are the gentle breaking waves on the beach and the giant Tsunamis 

You are Light in the blackest of dark

You are the holder of all our tears

You are the designer of every flower

You are the giver of soul cleansing laugh

You are in the death and new life of everything

You are the miracle of our babies

You are the giver of all great joy

You are the absolute truth and greatest of mystery

You are the strengthener of warriors  

You are the writer of our testimonies

You are the very beginning and the very end

You are the greatest of storytellers 

You are the God of creation and the Holy Spirit

You are also Jesus, the Savior of the world

You are unfathomable grace

You are the delicate lovely of ladybugs

You are the maker of mountains

You are the example of perfect humility

You are the one who requires obedience

You are the one who forgives our sins

You are the cleansing beautiful smell of rain

You are the refresher of the soul

You are the tiny white flowers that turn into strawberries

You are the one with answers to everything known and unknown

You are the bursting of new love for grandsons

You are the best giver of all precious gifts

You are the one I see in everything

You are the one I know

You are the one I love

I am yours!

A slot canyon hike...It was God's idea.

     More excited than I thought I could get about a five-day trip to Palm desert, I stayed up late and packed the night before.  Car loaded, ice chest ready to fill, I put groceries and my Vita-Mix by the front door and went to bed.

     Up early excited about the day ahead, we made it as far as Lone Pine.

     Something was wrong.

     Paul reached over and squeezed my hand as he turned the choking truck around, but my tears came anyway. We were now heading in the wrong direction.

     This precious time away with Paul had been postponed once before, and now, all I could focus on were the beach cruisers in the back that we would be taking out. They would be unloaded when we got home. I could hear the click of their metal kickstands on the cold garage floor.

     Crying over beach cruisers may seem over-dramatic to you, but I’m confessing that one of my greatest joys in my “desert time”with Paul is our early morning 4 mile ride to Starbucks for coffee.     

     Before we turned the car around I'd been texting some friends that we love dearly. Dan and Kelly have survived unimaginable things.  I’m talking three liver transplants and the death of their precious son Samuel who lived only nineteen days.

     My subsequent text to them was about turning the car around, abandoning bicycles, and the fact that I was crying about it.  Am I really telling Dan that I am crying over having to change cars and NOT being able to take our bikes to the desert? Seriously?  Yes.  That was the answer.  I was. 

     I took a breath and laid the phone in my lap feeling ridiculous.  I need to get over it. Paul could feel my disappointment and squeezed my hand again.  “I may have a bike rack,"  he said, “I’m not sure it’ll fit on your car, but it’ is made for a car without a trailer hitch. I’ll look for it when we get home.”

     Three and an half hours later, my Chrysler,  filled to overflowing, had beach cruisers on a bike rack as we entered Lone Pine for the second time that day.

     We were quiet as we settled in for the ride ahead. In my spirit, I told the Lord I was sorry about my behavior and my attitude. I thanked him for his “always perfect” provision,  even when I didn’t deserve it. 

     And in my quiet conversation with God, he laid a specific idea on my heart.  “I think you should check out hiking."

     Hiking?  Paul and I had never hiked in Palm Springs. We lived in the Eastern Sierras after all. Are there even hiking trails there? I wondered. 

     I did, however, get a rush of excitement knowing it was God's idea and not mine. I did not want to miss out on something He had planned for us.  Googling hikes was easy.  Reading the choices to Paul as we drove became fun.    

      There were two that we thought sounded promising and felt we could do based on our limited experience and lack of proper foot wear, (our hiking shoes were at home),  so I made some phone calls, asked some questions,  and we made plans.

     The first hike was beautiful. It was a big surprise.   

    The second one however, was simply a gift from God.  It was described as an easy six miles over flat rocks full of color.  It said,  “It will make you think your walking on the moon,” and  I...I was all over that.   

   We parked the car a little confused. We expected to see a map board, or a trail head. Something. But there was nothing. We must be in the wrong place, we thought. There were 2 men in the parking area near us, and a couple of cars, so Paul walked over. I saw one of them hand Paul a small piece of paper and heard him say something about a ladder hike. 
     Then Paul walked up and took my hand. "Those guys showed me a map they took off some hikers blog. They said we should do the ladder hike that goes down into the slot canyon."  
     "What's a ladder hike?" I asked him.
     He shrugged, "I'm not really sure. He just said to look for the arrow made out of rocks and then make sure you follow it.” 
     We walked on sand in a huge open canyon for about three quarters of a mile before Paul spotted it.  It pointed up to the steep face of a rock. “You up for this?"  Paul asked climbing a bit to check it out. 

     “There’s no trail,” I said, “Do you thinks that's the right way?”

    “I do.” He answered and I was already climbing up behind him. 

    At the top there was an obvious place to slide down, so we sat and glided ourselves down into the narrow canyon below.

     “Wow,” I stood not really believing what was in front of me, “This is amazing.”

     It got more amazing and we soon realized what the man meant by "ladder hike."  We both pictured some kind of rock formation that resembled a ladder, but now, we found ourselves at the end of a canyon with a long painter’s ladder simply leaned against the canyon wall.  At the top of the ladder was a hole.  

    We climbed up and down three sets of such ladders over the next few hours as our journey through the slot canyon continued. I can’t even begin to describe the light and the timing of the light. Even an hour earlier or later would have changed everything.     

    I’m pretty adventurous by nature, but Paul told me he was surprised by my total lack of fear and inhibition doing this, (kind of crazy, but very cool), thing. 
     Here's the truth.  I knew before I slid down into "whatever was below" that God had chosen it for us and that made all the difference.  
     It had never been our idea to hike. We were going to lie by the pool, read, ride beach cruisers, and walk through town holding hands and eating dinner.  
     I knew that what God had for me in this canyon was worth whatever it took to get there. I knew too, as soon as my feet hit the canyon floor, that it would be something I couldn't even imagine.  

     He is a picture I took of Paul.  "Narrow is the way." and "I am the light of the world." He would tell you that God spoke to him in this place.  
      Over and over and over again God gives me more.  I am awed by his glory and humbled by the grace of his love.

     In my future there will be many more pity parties because simply put, I wanna make everything all about me.  If I don’t cry over beach cruisers, I’ll cry about something or someone else than bursts my bubble.  I also know that God’s plans and decisions for my life are better and greater than anything I could come up with or plan on my own,  and I don't want to miss them.  Even the revelations and reminders about my own selfish, hard, and unforgiving heart,  are worth the good long look He makes me take because He uses them to shape me and mold me.  

     And then...he whispers his great idea and gives an unexpected and amazingly beautiful gift out of his perfect love.  

     This is our God.   

PS. The early rides to Starbucks were better than ever.