Posted by Terry McNichols
I linked to this article in Monday's blog post, but wanted to be sure to call it to your attention in case you missed it. When this post goes to "press," I will be spending the day in Texas with one of my granddaughter's "other Ahmas" and I thought this story expressed it so well. I am committed to seeing my out-of-town granddaughter every 3 or 4 months, and this year it has been too long. We are trying to get our Skype and videocam to work at the same time that Z is interested in talking, but a face-to-face visit is still needed. It has been 7-1/2 months since I have seen her and when some time unexpectedly freed up, I grabbed an expensive airline ticket and headed south. We grandmothers share the common love of a child and can enjoy that child together. Do you have issues with the other grandmothers in your child's life?
We welcome guest posts and if appropriate, we will use your post in our Wednesday slot. This can be anonymous if you choose and might be shortened or edited as we see fit.
Showing posts with label grandmothers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandmothers. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Rerun Wednesday - Grandmothers' hands
Posted by Terry McNichols
This picture was emailed to me by my sister-in-law, Connie. She thought it went along with our stories of grandmothers' hands, so I am including it today. If I must give credit, here's where I found the picture and accompanying story when I searched the internet for the source. And here's the explanation:
This picture was emailed to me by my sister-in-law, Connie. She thought it went along with our stories of grandmothers' hands, so I am including it today. If I must give credit, here's where I found the picture and accompanying story when I searched the internet for the source. And here's the explanation:
I was privileged to take a photo of "Five Generations of Women" shortly before my 93 year-old Grandmother passed away last year. The photo, shown below, features the hands of my Grandmother, Mom, Sister, Niece and Great-Niece. While I can't take credit for the idea, I was so happy to have had the suggestion & capture this moment. It inspired a friend of mine to do something similar which turned out so beautiful and a special keepsake prior to her father's passing.If you are fortunate enough to have 5 generations living, run out and take a picture like this!
Friday, October 31, 2008
Reflecting on the Harvest
Posted by Leona Bergstrom
Autumn is the wonderful season of the year when t
he world vibrates with the Creator’s colorful artistry. I love it. I love the challenges presented by the fall season as children head back to school and ministries start new programs. The air is electric with anticipation and hope. The autumn also is the time for harvest. Here in the Northwest we have huge festivals and fairs where farmers can display and celebrate the fruits of their labor. The harvest is their reward. My grandma taught me a lot about harvest. I spent my entire childhood on my grandparents’ farm in Wheatridge, Colo., where we raised corn, beans, tomatoes, strawberries, raspberries, and inevitably, zucchini. I loved the harvest because it seemed as if there were unending amounts of luscious crops. As a small child it never occurred to me how much work was involved in producing these fruits and vegetables. I thought it came easy. But, over the years, as I grew up and expanded my understanding of life, I began to learn the lessons Grandma wanted to teach me about all of the work it took to have a bountiful harvest.
Grandma taught me that seeds had to be carefully selected and purchased, that the dark rich soil had to be tilled and prepared for planting; that we had to plant the seeds the right depth, spaced apart just right—and in STRAIGHT rows! Then there was irrigating, hoeing, covering the plants during
hail storms and the inevitable and boring weeding. All of that before we could enjoy one bite of juicy corn on the cob. When my grandma died and met the Lord of the Harvest face to face, I believe she experienced the unspeakable joy of her life’s harvest. This time it wasn’t corn or beans, tomatoes or strawberries, but the harvest of the seeds of faith she planted throughout her life.
Grandma had endured great hardships in her 92 years, yet through her life she never stopped trusting her Lord. She always taught me that the God of all creation was in control, that nothing surprised him and that he loved us during times of pain as well as joy. By the time Grandma died she had cared for and buried all of her sisters and brothers, her husband and one son. She had endured life’s normal and extraordinary trials.
When I would go through dark valleys in my life, she would always remind me of God’s undying faithfulness. She planted seeds of faith every day of her life. My grandmother was not a preacher or an evangelist. She was a little farm woman from Wheatridge. But the seeds of faith she planted are producing fruit in the lives of the generations living today.
The lesson is for our lives too. We can take our simple seeds of faith and plant them deep into the soil of his sovereignty and love, water them in his grace, weed out the sin, let the heat of trials beat down and rejoice in the succulent goodness of his harvest produced in our lives and in the lives of those whom we touch.
(Photos by DaDaAce and kmakice, shared via Flickr).
Autumn is the wonderful season of the year when t
he world vibrates with the Creator’s colorful artistry. I love it. I love the challenges presented by the fall season as children head back to school and ministries start new programs. The air is electric with anticipation and hope. The autumn also is the time for harvest. Here in the Northwest we have huge festivals and fairs where farmers can display and celebrate the fruits of their labor. The harvest is their reward. My grandma taught me a lot about harvest. I spent my entire childhood on my grandparents’ farm in Wheatridge, Colo., where we raised corn, beans, tomatoes, strawberries, raspberries, and inevitably, zucchini. I loved the harvest because it seemed as if there were unending amounts of luscious crops. As a small child it never occurred to me how much work was involved in producing these fruits and vegetables. I thought it came easy. But, over the years, as I grew up and expanded my understanding of life, I began to learn the lessons Grandma wanted to teach me about all of the work it took to have a bountiful harvest.Grandma taught me that seeds had to be carefully selected and purchased, that the dark rich soil had to be tilled and prepared for planting; that we had to plant the seeds the right depth, spaced apart just right—and in STRAIGHT rows! Then there was irrigating, hoeing, covering the plants during
hail storms and the inevitable and boring weeding. All of that before we could enjoy one bite of juicy corn on the cob. When my grandma died and met the Lord of the Harvest face to face, I believe she experienced the unspeakable joy of her life’s harvest. This time it wasn’t corn or beans, tomatoes or strawberries, but the harvest of the seeds of faith she planted throughout her life.Grandma had endured great hardships in her 92 years, yet through her life she never stopped trusting her Lord. She always taught me that the God of all creation was in control, that nothing surprised him and that he loved us during times of pain as well as joy. By the time Grandma died she had cared for and buried all of her sisters and brothers, her husband and one son. She had endured life’s normal and extraordinary trials.
When I would go through dark valleys in my life, she would always remind me of God’s undying faithfulness. She planted seeds of faith every day of her life. My grandmother was not a preacher or an evangelist. She was a little farm woman from Wheatridge. But the seeds of faith she planted are producing fruit in the lives of the generations living today.
The lesson is for our lives too. We can take our simple seeds of faith and plant them deep into the soil of his sovereignty and love, water them in his grace, weed out the sin, let the heat of trials beat down and rejoice in the succulent goodness of his harvest produced in our lives and in the lives of those whom we touch.
(Photos by DaDaAce and kmakice, shared via Flickr).
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Grandmothers' hands - Terry
This picture was emailed to me by my sister-in-law, Connie. She thought it went along with our stories of grandmothers' hands, so I am including it today. If I must give credit, here's where I found the picture and accompanying story when I searched the internet for the source. And here's the explanation:I was privileged to take a photo of "Five Generations of Women" shortly before my 93 year-old Grandmother passed away last year. The photo, shown below, features the hands of my Grandmother, Mom, Sister, Niece and Great-Niece. While I can't take credit for the idea, I was so happy to have had the suggestion & capture this moment. It inspired a friend of mine to do something similar which turned out so beautiful and a special keepsake prior to her father's passing.If you are fortunate enough to have 5 generations living, run out and take a picture like this!
Monday, June 30, 2008
A guest post from Donna VanderGriend
Donna weighed in on our post about old people being gross. See here or yesterday's post for information about Donna's book.
"Look at your hands, Grandma. . . that's gross, kindergartner Josiah says as we play the Memory Game at the kitchen table. Sure enough, I think as I obey him and look. The veins on the backsides are like blob-trails of grey-blue finger paints marking out topographical mountain ranges.
I remember looking through little girl eyes at my own mother's hands and seeing a strange beauty in the protrusions, as if they were a sure sign of adulthood, that place where I longed to be . . . all grown up and part of a can-do world. . . hands that could drive a car, wear a wedding ring, deftly roll out a pie crust, burp a baby, and write in script. Josiah's comment threw me off guard. . . so different from my own at his age. Then I remembered it was my mother's hands I was looking at; he was looking at his grandmother's, with yet another generation of aging to give emphasis to wrinkles and veins and skin moles. . . all grown up, with thirty or more years to spare. Thirty years of maturity. Thirty years for dreaming up answers.
"But, Josiah," I answer. "Watch the magic." With that I put my hand straight up in the air with the backside facing him, my elbow on the table. The blood obeys gravity, slides down my arm, leaving my hands smooth as the Great Plains.
"Wow!" exclaims my grandson. "I want to do that." He drops an elbow on the table, situates his own hand at eye level, and watches. Nothing happens to change his already smooth, un-mottled skin.
"Do it again, Grandma," he requests, as if he was missing part of the procedure. He pays undivided attention to the blood draining and tries again to repeat the magic. Nothing.
My hands lie in rest again on the table, the mountain veins obvious once again. Josiah looks puzzled, then awed. I watch his little boy paradigm shift: his grandmother's hands are no longer gross; they are full of ancient mystery.
"Look at your hands, Grandma. . . that's gross, kindergartner Josiah says as we play the Memory Game at the kitchen table. Sure enough, I think as I obey him and look. The veins on the backsides are like blob-trails of grey-blue finger paints marking out topographical mountain ranges.
I remember looking through little girl eyes at my own mother's hands and seeing a strange beauty in the protrusions, as if they were a sure sign of adulthood, that place where I longed to be . . . all grown up and part of a can-do world. . . hands that could drive a car, wear a wedding ring, deftly roll out a pie crust, burp a baby, and write in script. Josiah's comment threw me off guard. . . so different from my own at his age. Then I remembered it was my mother's hands I was looking at; he was looking at his grandmother's, with yet another generation of aging to give emphasis to wrinkles and veins and skin moles. . . all grown up, with thirty or more years to spare. Thirty years of maturity. Thirty years for dreaming up answers.
"But, Josiah," I answer. "Watch the magic." With that I put my hand straight up in the air with the backside facing him, my elbow on the table. The blood obeys gravity, slides down my arm, leaving my hands smooth as the Great Plains.
"Wow!" exclaims my grandson. "I want to do that." He drops an elbow on the table, situates his own hand at eye level, and watches. Nothing happens to change his already smooth, un-mottled skin.
"Do it again, Grandma," he requests, as if he was missing part of the procedure. He pays undivided attention to the blood draining and tries again to repeat the magic. Nothing.
My hands lie in rest again on the table, the mountain veins obvious once again. Josiah looks puzzled, then awed. I watch his little boy paradigm shift: his grandmother's hands are no longer gross; they are full of ancient mystery.
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