lessons from a teapot.....

“We are having a three course tea, whatever that is, like they have in England. Do you have a teapot that I can take? My teacher said for anyone that could to bring a teapot.” After dragging my very weary, out of shape, poor example of a body out of bed, I made the trek to the dining room where four prized possessions kept watch. The only pot that would serve the purpose for a room full of eighth graders was Mammaw Campbell’s canning kettle. It almost seemed a sacrilege to call it Mammaw’s because—it was my dear Pappaw that always retrieved it from the stove in the basement whenever it was needed. It was Pappaw that always handled the steaming liquid that would be poured over the jars in the canning process. My mind’s eye had no trouble vividly conjuring up a picture in full color of Pappaw meting out just the right amount of water into the precious commodities that he and Mammaw were storing away. It would be Pappaw that would dry the well used pot and return it to its rightful place until the next time it would be called to duty.

Pappaw never called it a teapot; it was always “the kettle”. Every now and then his strong Irish descent would pop to the surface of a conversation like the tender sprouts of corn in his garden. This was one of those occasions. My cousins and I loved to hear Pappaw Campbell say, kettle because the initial e, in kettle, ran like a frightened rabbit and was replaced by a snappy “i”, He proudly pronounced it, “kittle”. We would giggle and try to get him to say “kittle” again and again. Pappaw would laugh with us and then tell us that he didn’t have time for such foolishness (“go on you fellars—I have work to do” ) and he would be on to the next project….one or all of us following like ducks to a pond would trail behind him. Pappaw’s plans may take us from the kitchen but never far because, when there was canning to be done, He always had to stay within earshot so when Mammaw called he would only be a few steps away.

The journey back to that little green hill and Mammaw’s kitchen took just milliseconds. When my heart goes to Mammaw’s house, there’s always a patchwork sample of lives well lived, not rushed through—not endured, invested--lived intentionally. As I placed the kettle into a Wal-Mart bag, I reminded Dallas of the treasure that she was taking to school. “Please take care of this baby, it was your great grandmother’s”, I cautioned. A kiss on the cheek, a quick, “I will Mom” and my sweet daughter was out the door. As I walked from the kitchen to the living room mulling over—my memories and sipping my lukewarm coffee….the trailing words of my plea, “…it was your great grandmother’s” repeatedly trickled from my mind to my heart “…it was your great grandmother’s, your great grandmother’s, your great grandmother’s.”

The word “your” began to wrap itself around me like a toasty blanket on a frosty morning. Our lovely, vivacious daughter was a gift to our family when she was just a little girl. She had not been born to us. She has truly been an undeserved blessing. By the same token, her adoption into our family gave her rights to all that we as a family possess. The stroke of a judge’s pen gave our Dallas a lady from Birmingham England for a grandmother, all the stories from the West Virginia Mountains and the right to claim the Tarheel ancestry of those born in North Carolina from my side of the family tree. Every family story, every tear, every side splitting story (like Aunt Senia’s horse ride or Mammaw putting linament in Pappaw’s nose), every recipe, all the joy, each uphill journey, all the unique pieces of our puzzle became hers. All Dallas did was just be, just exist, just be. Wow, what an incredible transaction. As the Holy Spirit smoothed the canvas of my mind’s eye—the picture of God’s grace in the gift of His only son, Jesus vividly came to life.

The Creator of the Universe gently painted a clear picture of His eternal plan and in His grace and mercy chose this morning to remind me of His love. “That is what I have done for you, Debbie—Adoption is a beautiful thing. My grace has made it possible for you to have all the riches of my glorious heritage. You are my beautiful adopted daughter. All those children that my Father brings to me are absolutely gorgeous in my sight. Their beauty in my sight is not because of what they are able to accomplish. Every son and daughter is beautiful, in my sight, because they look like my Son. That is what adoption does, Debbie, passes to you all the riches of glory and you just get to “be”. “I love you my daughter— I love you, died for you, chose you, adopted you.

Prayerfully, the teapot will return from English class. It will be returned to its place on the shelf in the dining room but—I doubt that I will every look at that or any other teapot quite the same.

identity crisis

Identity Crisis? Not a chance. I would be the one to walk through my house and find a huge arrow written in dust, on my coffee table and labeled, “she went that way.” There is not enough time or space for me to exercise my right to an identity crisis or any other interesting sounding catastrophe. Are you kidding? There are people around continually reminding me, who I am…

For my dear husband, I am a coffee clutch partner. He wants me to join him for coffee about 5 p.m.. He wants to be in the swing, coffee in hand and have me there, too. He may not say a word, he may be playing with his cell phone or even talking on it but, he wants me to be there and is highly insulted if I am not.

For my children, I am transportation for all of their left behind paraphernalia: items, they must have, to avoid being sent to the gallows. I am the family treasurer. I can find gas money where there was none. Actually, my children think that I am all knowing and totally out of touch—simultaneously. How can I locate belts, shoes, orthodontic rubber bands, literature books and the TV remote yet have no clue about life? How is it that the same children who trust me with their children, their dog and their health disregard my advice on just about everything else? How can the ones who believe that I am as old as dirt think I know nothing about living?

For the precious, perfect pictures of God’s infinite creative wisdom called grandchildren, I am a jungle gym, a pitching machine and a chef rolled into one. My grandchildren believe that I was created to entertain them; whether its making up silly songs, reading the 15th book or playing marbles. I am never supposed to get tired, ill or think of giving up at anything. For them, Nana is an infinite source of wisdom. I know everything from where bluebirds go when it rains to whether or not worms burp. It is amazing that their parents are convinced I know almost nothing and they think I know everything.

To My co-workers: I am a sounding board, a whipping post, a true anomaly and prayerfully, a dependable comrade. They chide me, love me, misunderstand me, encourage me and fight alongside me. For them, I am a wearied cheerleader, an unnecessary referee and a foolish dreamer.

To those whom I serve daily; I want to be a source of hope and encouragement. I am a resource, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to tattle to when they have been wronged or when they just want to feel like their words count to someone. I am a deposit for a place to live, a payment on an electric bill, a voice in court, a caring advocate or a thorn in their flesh. I am the one who insists that they dream big, work hard and keep trying. I am the one who avoids their phone calls and tracks them down when they attempt to avoid me. I am a relationship that points them to the only relationship that can take them around this world and into the next.

To my parents, I am a daughter—capable and inept, kind and thoughtless, fun and foolish, helpful and unnecessary, loved and hated; understood and irrelevant. I am a dependable source of love, and comfort.

To my friends and extended family, I am a belly laugh, a listening ear, a caring heart, a willing hand, a believing and understanding soul. I am there.

Even my dogs give me a tag: I am a pat on the head, a yell as I fall headlong over them, I am a grump when they beg, a softie when they are ill and the one who makes sure that someone makes sure they have food and water.

To my Lord: I am a weary servant and a jubilant daughter. I am a refusing runner like Jonah and a defiant, defender like Daniel. I am a graceful dancer and a bumbling idiot. I am haughty and repentant, fearful and bold. I am painfully timid and totally confident. I am a mess most of the time, seen through the eyes of Heaven and explained by the testimony of His Word, without merit of my own. When the crisis, identity or otherwise, comes my way; Whether whispering from the deepest crevice or screaming from a pinnacle, when I am at the top of my game or waving the white flag of surrender; the identity that I treasure above all the others is: “HIS”.