Bad News

I've decided to use the April  A to Z Blogging Challenge to finally write about the experience that changed our lives for the better. It happened in January, but I'll offer backstory for the sake of my non-regular readers. 

Whenever I had time or energy in the midst of the event to sit and write about it, I'd end up staring at a blank computer screen,  the feelings too strong for words.  Too much effort, I told myself. 

I didn't want to write fluff for the sake of keeping up the blog, either. Hence, the virtual silence. 

But I'm ready now to tell the story, piecemeal.  It might or might not be chronological. Flashbacks have a way of creeping into my daily thoughts, as they do yours, I'm sure. I'll let the letters of the challenge guide me.

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The evening was like any other in our house after dinner. I was settled into my recliner with the computer, and my husband was stretched out on the sofa watching TV and playing solitaire on his tablet. 

"I have to have heart surgery," he said, interrupting his game. 

I jerked.

His tone was almost nonchalant, but I have learned that my man delivers some of his heaviest news with a monotone.  He used that tone in October of 1985 to tell me his brother had died  One year later, 20 days before our wedding, he called and told me his mom had died just hours after we had visited her in the hospital. 

"Heart surgery?" I asked.  "Is that what you said?"

"Yeah. I saw a cardiologist today about my echo results. She said I should really strongly consider heart surgery. Her actual words were, 'you're a ticking time bomb.'"

"But I thought your number was only up from 4.8 to 4.9 and they don't do anything till 5.0, " I replied.  

 "They used to, but they've been seeing dissections in the lower numbers," he informed me.

The "numbers" refer to the diameter of the aortic root.  Normal is 2.0-2.2. 

The cause of his brother's death at age 33, and mother's death at 58, as we found out from autopsies, were identical: ruptured aorta.  We needed answers. What causes that?  Were they coincidental or was there a link? Sudden death is devastating enough, but add a mysterious cause and it adds to the grief. Would there be another in the family? If there was any way we could get warning,  we wanted to know.

Genetic testing ensued for all members of his family. The syndrome, they found, was widespread. All the surviving brothers and my husband showed classic signs. Including the fatal flaw: an enlarged aorta. His two brothers and a nephew (the son of the deceased brother) ended up needing cardiac surgery when their numbers hit 5.0.  

That was 26, 20, and, 7 years ago.  They all survived and are still alive and well. 

Now, despite all the "preparation" we had, I wasn't prepared to face heart surgery when my husband was the patient. My precious, beloved, 54 year old husband. 

The bad news hit me in the heart, too.

 

 

B is for Ball Games

Continuing with my theme, "Daddy's Words,"  the next question was one about ball games. My dad has always loved baseball, and this is what he wrote  (in my keepsake book) about a particular memory involving a baseball game in about 1948 or '49.

Did you go to ball games as a boy? What kind of food did you eat?





Of baseball--





During high school days, our school had a Class C franchise with the Pittsburgh Pirates--the Hutchinson Elks.  We sometimes attended a game as paying customers, but more often  I watched, along with friends, from a tree limb outside the right field fence.  There, we could chase down a souvenir any time a home run was hit.  

I don't remember ever succeeding in taking home a souvenir.

But I do remember the chase.

You see, the ball club had an official retriever who was paid to chase those balls and bring them back.

Half of one of his ears was missing--it reportedly had been bitten off during a wrestling match in his youth.   He would pounce on any kid who tried to make off with a home run ball. 

So---when we saw Tarzan running toward us, we would run for cover or act like we had no interest in chasing the ball.

Of food, I ate hamburgers, hot dogs, and veggies!  (Pizzas came to the US--or to  my awareness--in my college days.)

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A is for Artichokes

Welcome! To my new and "old" readers alike, I'm glad you're here. I have joined the A to Z Blogging Challenge.   In short, that means posting every day except Sunday during April, beginning with A on April 1st, and ending with Z on  April 30th.

Some of the 1800+ bloggers have chosen a theme to guide their posts. I'm a theme gal, so I "bit" into that wisdom myself.










To provide structure, I have chosen three criteria: 

1) my theme will be memoirs based on food and drinks in my life, 

2) my posts will be limited to 26 sentences, and

3)  the memory I have of each food (or drink) taught me something about  people, life, God, or myself.



My one hope is that you will enjoy each post like a good meal, walk away satisfied, and come back for more.

So, there it is: 26 days in April, 26 letters of the alphabet, 26 foods or drinks I've got memories about, each one written in a maximum of 26 sentences.

Here we go.








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A is for Artichokes



It was Spring Break 1984 when I met my first artichoke. Strange looking creature, that artichoke, but captivating with its green spiky armor. Normally I would have been skeptical to try it, except I trusted the cook.

My Aunt Linda, quite arguably the world’s best chef, prepared a meal of orange roughy, spinach salad, baked potatoes, and steamed artichokes with lemon butter.

I remember the care she took to strip away the toughest outer leaves of each artichoke before steaming it.

I remember the oak table, with its thick, shiny brown beams, set with thick, brown cotton napkins, sturdy earthenware plates, wine glasses, and water goblets.

I remember thinking what a double luxury this was to get away from cafeteria food and have food served as art, with love and candles.

I remember that Aunt Linda put on a  Joan Baez record, and then we sat down to eat.

We talked, ate, talked, drank, talked, laughed, talked, cried. Being with her, a person who cherished me, who accepted me as I was, who created a soft place for me to land--there was nothing quite like it.

Aunt Linda had to show and tell me how to eat artichokes; peel, dip, eat, savor. Peel, dip--"don't be afraid to get messy!"--eat, savor. "The best part is the heart," she said.

Artichokes, that night nearly 30 years ago, became my personal metaphor for how to get to know people.

Peel their rough edges away carefully.
Dip yourself into their world and don't be afraid of the mess.
Eat up experiences with the people you love.
Savor time with the people who love you.

And always remember, the best part is their heart.

O is for Obsequious

I don't have enough to say about the people I've met whose names (or nicknames) begin with the letter O. Not enough to write a whole post on any of them, I should say. My memories of a woman named Ona can be summed up in the word "disciplined" while memories of someone else's Dutch grandparents ("Oma" and "Opa") could be summed up with "faithfulness."

Therefore I will omit a tribute today.

What I really need to do is to omit blogging from my daily life for a while. In fact, I am pretty sure I will be doing a reverse sort of challenge in May. For April the challenge is to blog every day except Sunday (with the exception of April 1 which happened to be the kickoff Sunday). Essentially that's four days off of blogging in April.

In May, I'll try the opposite--ONLY blogging four days. While writing these legacy posts is a wonderful exercise for expressing my heart to the world (and to the individuals I've honored), I must confess it's not easy to keep up this pace. Outrageous. Obsequious. Ostentacious. (I don't recall the meaning of obsequious, but it's fun to say.)


I'm overwhelmed and overcome sometimes by the grace of God in my life through the influence of dozens and dozens of people. I've also been off-the-charts curious (call it overactively intropsective) about what legacy I am leaving. The conclusions are obviously negative to me.

"She was ordinarily online."
"Her obliques were obsolete."
"She was overchatty and overweight."
"She was overtly obsessed with grammar, spelling, and punctuation. OCD.""She opted out of organizing and cleaning too often."
"She had a lot of personal power outages."

Lately I've been oscillating between condemnation and conviction.

Condemnation says, "You're old, obese, and obstinate. What good are you? Might as well give up on impacting anyone for good. No one really cares that much anyway. You'll be forgotten soon enough. Gain weight, lose weight, what does it matter? Serve people and they might or might not say thanks. Is it worth the effort to serve ungrateful people? Might as well do what YOU enjoy. You only go around once. Eat, drink, and be merry!"

Conviction says:

1. "Teach us to number our days, that we may may gain a heart of wisdom."
2. "Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit; now glorify God in your body and in your spirit, which are His.
3. "Serve one another and do not grow weary in doing good."
4. "For the Son of God came not to be served, but to serve."
5. "I have loved you with an everlasting love."
6. "Freely you have been given; freely give."
7. "To whom much is given, much is required."
8. "My grace is sufficient for you."
9. "If you chase after worthless idols, you forfeit the grace that could be yours."
10. "Offer yourself as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable unto God, for this is your reasonable service." (I tend to think that my duties are just unreasonable. Au contraire. (Oh, contrare.)
11. "To obey is better than sacrifice."


Pardon my omission of biblical references. The eleven quotes above are taken from scripture--God's holy oracle-- and are memorized, sans reference.

I intend to finish up my April A to Z challenge because there's half-an-alphabet's worth of people that I want to say a few (or more) words about. Then I plan to operate in other ways--more organization in the home, to be sure, but what's the highest priority? Returning to my First Love, God ,the Alpha and Omega. I've neglected time with Him. I used to so enjoy having coffee and scripture reading first thing in the morning. It was like taking a long, hot bath in grace. It's been months since I experienced that. (And going months without a bath? OY! There is a "distinkt" odor about even a servant who doesn't bathe regularly!)

Also, I want to be "visiting orphans and widows in their distress." How? By writing letters to our sponsor children, having coffee with a widowed friend of mine and glean wisdom on good marriage from her, encouraging my friend Bonnie in Africa (see link in my sidebar) as she ministers to orphans, praying more actively for our pastor and his wife who are in the process of adopting four orphaned brothers from Brazil). Orphans abandoned by father, mother, or both, because of drugs, disease, dysfunction, divorce, or death. (Obnoxious alliteration? My ap-ologies.) As the pastor pointed out, there are over 150 million orphans worldwide. Reread that sentence 150,000,000 times and see if you aren't moved. We have the privilege and onus of caring for them somehow, some way.

Oh, the overabundance that is life! Opportunities overflow. And so, fellow bloggers whom I delight in "seeing" and "hearing" daily, I am setting a different course in the upcoming month. It won't be easy. We all know that the "spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." By omitting blogging except for four days in May (on which days I might go on wild outbursts posting things I've pent up inside), I hope to leave a legacy of obedience motivated by love for the One who loves me with an everlasting love, who doesn't love me less if I never raise another finger, or doesn't love me more if I obey him with everything that is in me. If there's one thing I've learned from writing these legacies, it's this: a legacy is formed by whatever a person does over and over. I really need God's help to obey Him over and over, so that I don't forfeit the grace that could be mine.

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PS. I went back and looked up the word "obsequious." It means "eager to please or obey." God has a sense of humor, doesn't He?

N is for Nan

Everyone needs a spiritual mother. Sometimes she is your biological mother and sometimes, especially when you're a teenager, she isn't. I was a typical teen who didn't put much credence in my parents' wisdom. And where is a girl to go with her full, angry, confused heart that wants to do right but keeps finding herself off the "straight and narrow" path that she knows deep down she wants to be back on?

To Nan's, that's where.

Nan always made time for me. Our youth group used to have special events at her house because she had a sprawling place. Big rooms, lots of land. But mostly love, love, love!

I say Nan "made" time for me; I don't say she "had" time, because she was far from idle. Not that she was a workaholic; she wasn't. She was a woman devoted to prayer. Her home was neat and tidy, and to my knowledge there was no housekeeper, so she must've kept house herself. But she was never "fussing" about it or drawing attention to it. The focus was always on God and what He was doing in people's lives.

She had been widowed and left with three children when they were teens. Long since graduated from high school, her children had left the nest--her son became a missionary in Ivory Coast-- but Nan always seemed to have people in her home. For a time her daughter returned with her infant son who had something like severe epilepsy. Grand mal seizures many times a day, and toward the end of his 10-month life, seizures several times an hour. Nan shared the night shift taking care of him; his monitor beeped for every breathing stoppage or gagging reflex. At the same time, her mother was bedridden and mute after a stroke. Nan fixed up the sunroom with a bed and comfy furniture and lamps and curtains that she opened every morning to introduce the sunshine to her mother. Her mom's name was Sarah, and above her bed was a plaque that said, "Sarah: Mother of Many Nations." Little did I know that someday my future husband would want to name our daughter Sarah. I pictured our girl being a mother to many children of her own . (I didn't envision then all the lives --"nations" she'd touch as an elementary school teacher.)



If there was no one else in human form at Nan's house for company, there was Jesus. That's one thing that stands out to me more than anything. No doubt about it, Jesus and Nan were close friends. She confided everything in Him over the kitchen table. One time when I was about 18, I drove to her house on a whim (not very thoughtful--just self-focused on my problems) and needed comfort and prayer. I drove to her stately old house which is nestled deep in the woods like a secret mansion. As I got out of my Chevy Chevette, horses neighed in the pasture, a kitty cat rubbed up against my leg, and the smell of boxwood scented the air like familiar cologne. All my senses were heightened and soothed at Nan's.

And then she opened the door. Her smile and open arms and contageous laugh melted me every time.

"Well, look who it is! Zo.Ann.A." She punctuated people's names as if giving them a good, long thought. She hugged me tight and said "Come on in! I was just having a cup of coffee with Jesus. It's just the two of us and I was asking Him what this verse means," she said, taking my hand and leading me to her open Bible on the table. "Darlin,' maybe He brought you here to explain it?" And then she would laugh with infectious joy. It was as if she cracked herself up thinking how great her life was to include impromptu visitors. And the humility! Goodness, why on earth would a 50-something lady be asking a teenager to explain something from the Bible! Now THAT was funny!

Nan didn't waste time on small talk. She got down to the nitty-gritty with ease and grace and amazing quickness. "Tell me what's going on, darlin.' Why did the Lord put it on your heart to come see this old woman in the woods today?" And somehow I let all my defenses down and spilled my proverbial guts. I felt safe and warm. She loved me, my parents, my friends. There was nothing I could say that would make her think less of me OR them. She always gave people the benefit of the doubt while listening to one side of the story. That's wisdom.

She treated her help well. In fact, I didn't even realize they were paid help on her farm. I thought they were young, strong men who found Nan's hospitality as irresistible as I did, and they were simply stopping by to feed the horses, muck the stalls, check the propane tank, cut back the shrubs, or what-have-you.

When I wanted to move back home after my second year away at college, I asked Nan if I could rent the apartment that was annexed to her main living area. (It was formerly the west end of the house where the youth group once made memories.) She gently explained that she didn't rent it out; she reserved it for missionaries on furlough or people who needed a sabbatical in the Lord's work.

Years later my daughter grew up and began visiting a house church when she was going through a spiritual growth spurt, with coinciding questions about her faith. She would go our church on Sundays, but one night a week she visited a house church. And guess who was there? She came home and said, "Mom, I met a woman who knows you from way back when. Do you remember someone named Nan? She is so loving."

That's Nan's legacy. Love. The ultimate legacy, wouldn't you agree?

M is for Marcella

Marcella would have been my mother-in-law. Here are five other things about her.

1. Marcella was a writer and a poet. I have a letter that she wrote at age 55 to YWAM to ask if they would allow her the privilege to be part of their team. She wanted to invest her empty nest years in a meaningful way that wasn't possible while raising five sons. She also wrote poems for her oldest son, Tony, while he was in Vietnam.

2. Marcella had quite a sense of humor, and knew how to embarrass her sons with it. I loved that about her, because I think it's kind of spunky and fun to not be so uptight about certain things.For example, when her son David and his young wife went to the mall with her in the early 1980's, they all wandered into a waterbed store. Marcella plopped down on one, and remarked something to the effect, "This would be a great bed to have s-- on!" Another time she said something I thought humorous (but it mortified Paul who doesn't comment on women's bodies-- and he easily blushes). We were dating and he was living at his Mom's. I happened to get up from the sofa where Marcella and I were chatting about a writing desk in the far corner. As I crossed the room, she said to Paul, "Zoanna's got a nice rear-end, doesn't she, Paul?" (I was 21; things have changed.) Can you imagine the shades of red he turned when his mother said that? I might even have turned pink. But the funny thing is, I can still make him blush by flirting with him. He never knows what to expect out of me. That's one of the secrets to a long marriage--keep them guessing!

3. Marcella was a fun grandma. I remember watching her play Flea Market with the grandkids. Everything had a price and she was always haggling. "How about this sock, Matthew? Will ya take a dime for it?" She also played Army Men with the boys. Her only granddaughters were out of state and I don't recall what she played with them, but I know she did.

4. Marcella had compassion for the homeless. When she was attending a Presbyterian church in the city, she would bring them to fellowship in the church basement. She made sure they got a hot meal and something to drink, and respite from the elements for a short while. And she genuinely enjoyed sitting with them and getting to know them. She could talk to anyone. The main problem was, they smelled bad, and the church members didn't want them upstairs in the sanctuary. It was fine for them to be in the basement, but not upstairs where everything was clean and people were showered and dressed up for church. As I write this, I remember the time my husband was sharing this with a church group 12 years ago; he almost never cries, but he couldn't hold back the tears.

5. Marcella died of a ruptured aorta only 20 days before our late December wedding. She had had similar symptoms and pains as her son ,Gary, who had passed away 13 months earlier the same way. I had no idea the night we visited her in the hospital would be her last. Through agonizing pain and labored breath, she asked me what color dress my mom would be wearing. "Burgundy," I told her. She was happy because she had chosen a long, emerald green one with lace. It sounded beautiful and she was so excited at the thought of Paul getting married. It was beautiful. We buried her in it. I just couldn't grasp the sorrow and joy that co-mingled as we were planning a wedding and going through a funeral just weeks before Christmas.

I wish I'd known Marcella better ,and I certainly wish she had known our children ,and vice versa. Good thing there's eternity. Marcella and her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren -- and a lot of grateful homeless people to whom she showed God's kind of love--will be united in heaven. Maybe playing Flea Market?

K is for Kathy

Some people just never seem to be grouchy. No hint of a foul mood, no inkling of emotional ungluing going on in the midst of chaos and bedlam. No sarcasm, snide remarks, or sighing that might intimate irritation.

It would be one thing if that person lived alone without a job, health issues, or financial concerns. It's quite another if that person is a grandmother, the mother of six children, (two of whom have Muscular Dystrophy) in a smallish old house, and who directs a homeschool co-op of over 150 people every Thursday for 24 weeks a year plus at least another eight weeks of planning each year. It's beyond amazing that she has done this for many years (I'm not sure how many) and I've never once heard Kathy complain.

In the seven years that I've known Kathy, I have never heard her complain about her aching back, the logistical difficulties of getting from point A to point B with two wheelchairs in her van, or the hassles that inevitably come with an organization comprised of about 40 women and their 124 children (with 12 on the way at any given time, or so it seems). Take away the children and that's still a crazy lot of estrogen to be around for three hours a week! It would be my undoing but Kathy smiles and answers questions and flexes and tends to people and tasks almost acrobatically with what looks like "the greatest of ease." Administration and serving are only two of her gifts and she does them both with affable cheer.

One of the things I have appreciated about Kathy as a teacher in her co-op is that she manages but doesn't micromanage. When I've asked her what I should focus on in my art classes, she leaves it open ended and says, "As long as they are learning and having a good time, do what you want!"

I am not in Kathy's close circle of friends (wish I was) so I can only speak to what I've witnessed in her life in co-0p for several years. Her typical morning consists of getting out the door a little after 7 a.m. in order to get to the church, open it, and set things up before the hurricane of homeschoolers roll in and assault her senses at 8:30ish. Of course she wouldn't use the word "assault" because she thrives in a hectic environment which she has worked hard to pre-organize. Some organized people let you know full well if you're messing up "their system" but not Kathy. She very much conveys the feeling that "this is OUR system. WE are in this together." And yes ,the moms and dad who teach and assist in every capacity certainly do make up the co-op system, but many of them (us) are not nearly as organized and not nearly as cheerful when "our" system gets messed with. (Can I get an "amen"?)

Not only does Kathy direct the co-op, she also directs its spring and Christmas musicals. Do you realize what a feat that is when you have only 12 weeks, one hour a week, to work with (plus several more hours of rehearsal near the end, outside of normal co-op hours)? The grace of God is all over her, as some would put it. It's evident that Kathy spends a lot of time in prayer, calling on God to supply all she needs. Physical strength. Emotional fortitude. Mental clarity. Logistical organization. Money. Patience. Joy.

Her joy is borne of much suffering. Watching her son go into surgery for a spinal fusion at age 13 and come out of it a paraplegic. Watching her daughter, many years later, go in for a similar surgery, wondering, praying, hoping against hope that paralysis would not result for her youngest child. (With much thanks to God, that girl did not suffer the same consequences.)

All the while, every week, each year that I taught, Kathy would come around to each classroom to lock up, and thank each teacher for coming and teaching and doing an "amazing" job. (Her word, not mine. She is effervescent; I am only average as an art teacher.) She complimented my students' work and my creativity and never made me feel like a bother for asking where so-and-so was or if I could spend such-and-such on needed art supplies.

On days when I just didn't feel like getting myself and my able-bodied son out the door on Thursday because it was raining or cold to go teach my two little classes and help with another, I would think of Kathy and all she had to go through to get there. I didn't want to let her down. If she could be faithful in the large things, I could be faithful in the small. If she could be cheerful while responsible for the logistics of 150 people, surely I could handle my 25.

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Thank you, Kathy, if you are reading this. Thank you for showing me what genuine joy looks like. Thank you for leaving a legacy of cheerful service to all who know you. And thank you for encouraging me many years ago to step out in faith to do what I never dreamed I would be doing--teaching art and loving it. You are one of my heroes and I love you.

Zo

J is for Jason

I am too tired after our trip to write a long post on the letter J, but the person I would write more about if I had the energy would be Jason.

He was one of the best pastors my husband and I have ever had. For Jason's compassion, leadership, wisdom, faith, and friendship, we have been deeply thankful. Although he moved away several years ago, his legacy of caring remains. He was the one who would call when he heard one of us (usually my oldest son) was in the ER or facing surgery. He would inquire of our marriage and give us hope during the rough times. He befriended my husband over many breakfasts at Panera talking about the Lord and football. (Not necessarily in that order.) Jason took a keen interest in our children's lives. He prayed often and specifically with us and for us. His sermons came from his heart and he illustrated his point with humility and humor from his own life.

Jason has modeled the heart of a pastor over and over. Our family misses him and his wife Laurie, who are now in another city pastoring a different church, but as the saying goes, "better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." His counsel always pointed me to Jesus and His power to change hearts. Working with a hardhead like me takes a lot of patience, but Jason excelled in talking me "down from the ledge" quite often, and I will be forever grateful.

I is For I Can't Write Another Word

Folks, this A to Z Challenge is really whoopin' me! The theme of legacy which I've chosen is quite thought-provoking, and sometimes I think, "Oh, I should've just chosen 'random' as my topic so I could talk about insomnia or insurrection or immaturity today. I do have plenty of stories of immaturity from real life this week from a boy who may be leaving a legacy of exasperation to his teacher, principal, and parents, but I will save that for another day. You know things to be funnier later anyway; he'd better hope so because methinks his marshmallow mayhem was no laughing matter.

The truth is, I am actually writing this post at 12:48 EST on Thursday, April 6, and have already written my E post from Wednesday, my F post for today, my G post for Saturday, and will be taking Sunday off with the rest of you while visiting family for Easter. On Monday when the H post is coming due, I plan to be making memories with relatives. Tuesday we'll be driving for eight hours and that's my "I" post day. Perhaps I will wax eloquent about my husband's legacy. It would be titled "I is for I Don't Know Why My Wife Drinks Coffee To Stay Awake but then Falls Asleep Until Her Bladder Wakes Her Up in the Middle of I-Don't-Know-Where-We-Are but There's Not Another Rest Area for 832 more Miles."

You don't want to know the subtitle.

All that to say this: if you don't see a post on Monday or Tuesday, it's because I had to pack and not write another word. Suitcases don't pack themselves, sorry to say. But what I'm not sorry to say is I'll be out leaving my own legacy somewhere, somehow, for good or for ill, doing something I love to do: Zojourning. With coffee and lots of rest stops.

Toodle-oo.

PS There was one woman named Inez who left a legacy of love in me when I was in preschool. I wrote about her a while back. If you want to read (or reread) that post, click here. I can't think of another person whose name started with the letter I who has left a legacy like Miss Inie.

E is for Eva

Eva was my great aunt, my dad's uncle's wife. Aunt Eva and Uncle Frank had eight children. Seven sons and finally a daughter. They named her Joyce, but I think it's because they were RE-joicing that, at last, they had a girl. I want to say she was "Eva's Diva," but I don't really remember that Joyce was spoiled. Probably was, but I didn't really get to know her until she was in college, and she was a lovely, admirable girl with high moral standards without being a snob.

Aunt Eva and Uncle Frank Nickel travelled often with their whole family in a hearse, which is I guess the closest thing to a limo or van they could get back then without appearing to be materialistic Baptists or wayward hippies. They were a singing group, and their music took them all over the United States. They could turn four-part part harmony into ten-part harmony by simply opening their mouths. I remember when they came from Illinois and pulled into our long, gravel driveway one hot, summer day. As they emerged from the hearse, I believe there were only four kids. There weren't ten Nickels left (or, as Uncle Frank said, "fifty cents") by the time Joyce was in grade school touring with them, but as I recall, at least a sextet from the Nickel Family Singers' Hearse/Limo.

Every meal started with prayer and/or a sung prayer. Every after-dinner conversation seemed to make its way to the piano for a hymn-sing. Every farewell was set to beautiful music. You would think you'd been transplanted onto the Austrian Alps alongside Julie Andrews and those drapery-clad Von Trapp kids. The hub of this family wheel was Aunt Eva, smiling at Uncle Frank and the almost-all-male brood with them while they sang, "God Be With You Till We Meet Again."

What a sweet memory. Aunt Eva left a legacy of music in me. And she also left an unforgettable image of a singing hearse parked at our house in Maryland countryside.

C is for Corrie

Words elude me whenever I try to speak of the impact that Corrie ten Boom has had on my life.

I had the rare privilege of hearing her speak to a packed-out crowd assembled in a huge auditorium when I about 12 or 13 years old.

In her heavy Dutch accent, Corrie spoke beautiful English. Her voice was low and soft, but commanding. I sat there listening to her recount the blessing her father was to her and to a handful of Jews he hid in his home during Hitler's regime. I heard her voice swell and then crack as she remembered the love she and her sister Betsie shared.

But the main thing I remember is this story, as told in her book , The Hiding Place:

“It was in a church in Munich that I saw him—a balding, heavyset man in a gray overcoat, a brown felt hat clutched between his hands. People were filing out of the basement room where I had just spoken, moving along the rows of wooden chairs to the door at the rear. It was 1947 and I had come from Holland to defeated Germany with the message that God forgives.

“It was the truth they needed most to hear in that bitter, bombed-out land, and I gave them my favorite mental picture. Maybe because the sea is never far from a Hollander’s mind, I liked to think that that’s where forgiven sins were thrown. ‘When we confess our sins,’ I said, ‘God casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever. …’

“The solemn faces stared back at me, not quite daring to believe. There were never questions after a talk in Germany in 1947. People stood up in silence, in silence collected their wraps, in silence left the room.

“And that’s when I saw him, working his way forward against the others. One moment I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and a visored cap with its skull and crossbones. It came back with a rush: the huge room with its harsh overhead lights; the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the center of the floor; the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister’s frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin. Betsie, how thin you were!

[Betsie and I had been arrested for concealing Jews in our home during the Nazi occupation of Holland; this man had been a guard at Ravensbruck concentration camp where we were sent.]

“Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: ‘A fine message, Fräulein! How good it is to know that, as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!’

“And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take that hand. He would not remember me, of course—how could he remember one prisoner among those thousands of women?

“But I remembered him and the leather crop swinging from his belt. I was face-to-face with one of my captors and my blood seemed to freeze.

“ ‘You mentioned Ravensbruck in your talk,’ he was saying, ‘I was a guard there.’ No, he did not remember me.

“ ‘But since that time,’ he went on, ‘I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Fräulein,’ again the hand came out—’will you forgive me?’

“And I stood there—I whose sins had again and again to be forgiven—and could not forgive. Betsie had died in that place—could he erase her slow terrible death simply for the asking?

“It could not have been many seconds that he stood there—hand held out—but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.

“For I had to do it—I knew that. The message that God forgives has a prior condition: that we forgive those who have injured us. ‘If you do not forgive men their trespasses,’ Jesus says, ‘neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses.’

“I knew it not only as a commandment of God, but as a daily experience. Since the end of the war I had had a home in Holland for victims of Nazi brutality. Those who were able to forgive their former enemies were able also to return to the outside world and rebuild their lives, no matter what the physical scars. Those who nursed their bitterness remained invalids. It was as simple and as horrible as that.

“And still I stood there with the coldness clutching my heart. But forgiveness is not an emotion—I knew that too. Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart. ‘… Help!’ I prayed silently. ‘I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling.’

“And so woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.

“ ‘I forgive you, brother!’ I cried. ‘With all my heart!’

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If I had the time, I would write a far better post than this to honor the memory of a woman whose example in life and death have ministered to me time and time again.

Corrie ten Boom's legacy of forgiveness has given me a perspective that the vilest offender in my mind is no better than me. In fact, we are the same.

A to Z Blog Challenge 2012: "Legacy" is my Theme

My story started in the summer of 1965 when I entered the world. Thousands of people have been part of my story, hundreds have influenced me, and dozens have played key roles. All of them have left, or are leaving, a legacy, and it is the legacy of each one that I intend to highlight.

This year for the A to Z Blogging Challenge, I have chosen to tell my story by paying tribute to 26 people who have influenced my life. Such a challenge presents great joy and great difficulty. Whom should I include? How do I choose between candidates who share a common initial or the same name? Should I write about people I've never met, such as authors or missionaries, but whose work has had lasting impact on me? What about the people who have so much influence me that I can't write a post succinct enough for readers to stick with it?

After much thought, I settled on three guidelines for myself in this challenge:

1. The A to Z list won't feature members of my immediate family as title roles. Since my blog has told much of my story already, including about my parents, husband, and children, I will instead be devoting April to other influences in my life.

2. Choose a positive legacy to write about. Negative people didn't make the cut.

3. Post a picture with each entry, if I have one.

I hope you enjoy my story. I do.