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.

Christmas carols

It was a typical Saturday morning, if there is anything typical about spending the morning with grandchildren. The boys helped Poppa cook breakfast, disturbed the slumber of two dozen rolly-pollys (who thought that they were safe wintering in the border around my flower bed) and then they assisted me with making beds. They make beds the way I attempt life by climbing right into the middle of it. That’s a story for another day.

The younger of the two loves to see how things work. It was not unusual for him to be drawn to a small music box sitting in the windowsill. In his usual un-methodical manner, he began twisting the fragile stem to make the music begin. Thinking that I was rescuing the music box from him so that one day, I would one day be able to “leave” it to him brought a chuckle. Would these energetic promises that shared our last name remember this morning? Would the thought of Saturday mornings at Nana-Pop’s house bring a chuckle to their hearts 20 years from now?

While they listened to a Reader’s Digest version of the box’s history, I gently wound and released the key. As expected the clearest tinned melody began spilling out of the tiny box. The song was clear and familiar to me. The two angels crowded closer to me than space permitted, listening intently. “That is a beautiful song” commented the eight year old. His four year old brother agreed wholeheartedly telling me to make it play again. In the midst of placing our order for a replay of that lovely Christmas hymn—I asked the boys to tell me the name of the tune. Neither of them knew. How had this happened?

Fast forward to Sunday Morning; waiting for Bible Study to begin, a friend shares with the teacher how she feels lead to purchase Bibles for her nieces explaining their “sad” circumstances, “they don’t even recognize the Christmas Carols.” Anytime there is a common theme, especially if that theme seems a little out of place, I know that it is a “board out of Heaven with a message written on it” moment and I have learned to pay close attention.

Monday, heading home, I flipped on the radio and was not surprised to hear a regularly scheduled radio host. What was surprising was his topic. The Garlow Perspective was discussing, of all thing, Christmas Carols. A radio show, on the 9th day of February, talking about Christmas Carols; does that seem a bit odd to you?

I am not sure what all of this means. Honestly, regrettably, I have not taken the time to get before the Lord and ask. My time with Him has been primarily requesting wisdom for handling other situations that screamed loudly and demanded immediate attention.

Three days, one apparently misplaced theme, two precious grandchildren who may not always be so attentive to what I have to say and a newly acquired interest in Christmas songs has me thinking. You know, in ten years, it will not matter if every item on my “to do” list from this past week was crossed off. However, I believe with all my being that Heaven has a word for me neatly woven into the melody of a familiar Christmas Carol. That message has eternal value.

Needless to say, I am listening—I will be seeking God’s heart on this topic. I will be researching the history of Silent Night and my grandchildren will hear Joy To The World playing at Nana’s in the Spring.