Last week I wrote about the rocking chair that belonged to my grandmother, a cherished sitting place for her and anyone visiting her humble home. I have no doubt that many prayers–other than the ones offered on bent knees at her bedside–were uttered while quietly rocking in between household chores.No matter,  wherever grandma was, Jesus was with her, as a constant companion, provider, and strength on days that her eyes were weak and body aches tried to steal her joy.Today, I want to share how grandma viewed the importance of observing the sabbath. When I got old enough to begin being interested in dad’s life growing up on “the farm”, actually sitting still long to listen as he relayed story after story of memorable times, the recollection of attending church came to his mind. I never tired of hearing him repeat…..”Wherever we lived (the family moved several times from upper to lower Michigan) Mother took us kids to the closest church, always within walking distance.” There was no car, no truck…maybe one of the older boys could use the wagon and team of horses? I don’t recall that mode of transportation being included in the story’s description. Not only did the church need to be close by, it also had to be a Bible believing church. On one such occasion that Grandma Sadie was able to “get to church” my dad, Jack, was lovingly admonished “you can’t go with us today, Jack. You have no laces for your shoes.” He was left behind while the older siblings made the trek with her to the small church. In tow would have been Virgil, Joy, Lyle, Russell. 

Something you need to know about my dad is that he was quite the stinker as a boy, very clever, and wasn’t about to be left behind while his family enjoyed a morning of worship and Bible teaching. No sir, he used his ingenuity and found binder twine out in the barn and fashioned a pair of laces to hold his shoes together. Grandma said he looked so proud marching down the center aisle of the church to join her in the pew. Aunt Joy wanted to hide under the pew because of her embarrassment! I can close my eyes and see him at age 4 making his way to the family, a grin on his face from ear to ear….

I’m pretty sure binder twine was a staple tool in grandpa’s barn.

Not the actual pair of shoes Jack would have worn, but I’m quite 

certain very similar to the hand-me-down pair he would have

worn as a poor little boy in the 20s.

As dad would continue to tell the story about attending church, he always added there many Sundays when that wasn’t possible. Someone may have been sick. Maybe the weather held them home. Whatever the reason, any hindrance was never allowed to interfere with reading scripture and spending time in prayer. On those occasions, the small farmhouse living room became church. All the children were required to attend, sitting in a circle at her feet,  Bible in her lap, grandpa seated in a chair with his arms folded across his chest. Ironically, he was not a willing participant in “home church” but if any one of the children–especially the boys–were reluctant to join their gathering, gramp played the “do as I say card”….Grandma would read and lead her children in prayer, always with a joyful and grateful attitude for every good gift provided to the family by Him.

I know my grandmother’s Bible was well worn. I cannot vividly recall seeing her 

actual Bible; I remember grandpa (after becoming a Christian) knew all her

favorite passages which were included in her funeral. 

Fast forward from the family farm established in the 20s to today, another set of 20s, but this time wrapped in blankets of modern technology. Our communities now offer numerous church options, some small, and others referred to as “mega” size. My generation has the privilege of driving any distance we desire to attend a church of our liking. Yet, in rural areas the ability to walk to a nearby congregation still exists for those who prefer a smaller, more intimate worship experience.  Adding to our “no excuses” to be part of Sunday morning services, we can now “livestream” a message which became a huge blessing in 2020 when our communities were shut down/locked up to prevent the onslaught of the Covid 19 virus. My husband and I “tuned in” week after week to be part of our church family…sing with our worship team..and hear God’s Word from our pastor. All from the comfort of our home. 

At first, I grumbled about not being able to physically “go to church”. Soon, I didn’t mind that I didn’t have to change from jammies to day clothes if I felt lazy. Though I missed singing with lots of people, I came to enjoy listening to our praise team, eyes closed, soaking in the beauty of each song. During the sermon I still had my Bible and pen, my journal nearby for note taking.

Today, I’m pondering how “living room church” compares between my dad’s youth in the 20s to my life now in the new 20s….making the effort to be with church family remains…owning and using a well worn Bible is essential….God truly can make a way for us to be part of community when it’s our priority. None of us may never need to hunt down some binder twine to hold old shoes together….or sit on a hard cold floor at the feet of a parent….but hopefully to those of us who truly love the Lord, we would consider making those sacrifices so that we, too, can learn what it means to be joyful and grateful in all of life’s circumstances. After all, some day we ALL will have the glorious opportunity to sit at the feet of our Savior!

So, when you find yourself on any weekend contemplating about making it to church or not, remember how many of our excuses have been removed….if you don’t own a Bible I’m pretty sure you own a smartphone. And guess what? There’s an app for that too!

Having God’s Word at our fingertips is available in the App Store!

From my living room to yours, may you accept the invitation to join your family in worship this weekend, whether in person or via livestream. Wonder what my grandparents would think of how far church has come…..

Nestled in a corner of the living room of a simply built home of cement block, plaster walls, and worn floors sat a beloved rocking chair. It’s frame was adorned with many nicks and scratches;  the cushion on its seat was misshapen from all the fortunate loved ones who had a chance to sit in the old chair and enjoy the soothing lull it offered as it rocked back and forth amidst the activity taking place in the nearby kitchen…food cooking on the stove…pies in the oven…and little children running through the door to greet the special person who occupied the ageless beauty of this old chair that had become “her domain”…At night, after everyone had returned to their homes, or when her spouse of over 50 years retired to his bed, she sat down after a long day of tending to the chickens, picking berries or grapes from their bounty…maybe a little bit of housework to keep her modest home tidy, she rested. But she didn’t do so idly. In the welcome of rest her spiritual energy was awakened and she engaged in her favorite role–most precious–duty of the evening. She talked to Jesus.

Who was this woman who matched the modesty of her home? She was my Grandma Jewell. 

Somehow this woman could take a couple of chickens and feed a crowd for Sunday dinner. Berries were turned into the most scrumptious pies and jams. Flour not only dusted her apron but also left traces on her big, round sugar cookies, each with a few raisins poking their way through the baked dough. Homemade bread was a staple on her table (I remember my dad telling me she baked 9 loaves of bread every other day or so when raising her 11 children on the family farm–I have no way to verify that claim but it makes sense when you’ve got that many hungry bellies to fill). As much as grandma loved all the “things” she did for our BIG family (50+ grandchildren) her prized role in life was that of being a praying woman.

During her lifetime she prayed for grandpa to receive salvation from Christ (He eventually came to that decision, at age 55). She trusted for provision from God when the only thing in her cupboard may have been a few beans…She grieved and prayed her way through the loss of a child, number 5, who was born in her sixth month of pregnancy and lived 8 days, kept warm in one of the wood stove compartments. (My dad was her next child after Robert, her tiny son she never forgot about)…what mother would?  She prayed through the years of World War II, saying goodbye to five sons who each served in their respective assignments. She prayed every night for all her children, starting with the oldest, making her way to the youngest. She did so without regret or feeling selfish to get a good night’s sleep when her body must have ached from doing all the chores without the help of modern appliances. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be awake until 2 or 3 am during the “hard years” trusting for provision, warmth, a successful harvest, protection and health.

I have no recollection or knowledge when the rocking chair was added as a piece of furniture in her living room. Based on its appearance, I believe it had been around for a long time. I DO know this–it was HER chair–even grandpa didn’t sit in it. Getting a chance to sit in her rocker became a game with some of us grandkids, my brother David in particular when we visited. Whenever we arrived for our weekend’s Sunday visit, she was seated in that rocking chair, wearing a house dress and bib apron which was part of her permanent wardrobe. We’d walk through the door to see her face light up with joy and she’d rise to accept hugs and kisses from all of us. That’s when David would make his move; he’d give his required greeting and make a beeline for the chair! And he’d rock and rock, surrounded by her laughter of being “beat” out of her spot. Her kindness, which was deeply rooted in love, never allowed herself to scold him or anyone for that matter who “stole” her chair. She’d enjoy the game, accept the outcome and make her way to another seat in the living room or return to the kitchen to check on dinner.

I don’t know what became of grandma’s rocking chair after grandpa moved from their last home. I’d like to think he took it with him when he took up residence with my Aunt Esther. Out of all their meager possessions, in my humble opinion that simple wooden rocker and its worn cushion held as much–or more–value than any throne chair in the kingdoms of this earth. Why? Because, it’s in THAT chair that thoughts were always turned to a greater Kingdom not of this earth. You see, not only did grandma pray for her husband, her 11 children, their spouses, and ALL the grandchildren–if she met you and there was the absence of knowing Jesus–you got prayed for with deep dedication and great understanding of priorities beyond cooking and cleaning.

Years ago, after my brother David had become a Gideon, he gave a presentation in a church in the small town of Millington. After the service, a young woman approached him to ask “Are you related to Sadie Jewell?”

“Yes”, he answered. “She was my grandmother”.

“I’m Debbie C.; I lived next door to your grandparents. I want you to know that I became a Christian because of your grandmother, because I know she prayed for my family.”

I remember Debbie’s family, the Campbells. Grandma seldom spoke anything bad or negative against people, but in reference to this one, well, even though they had children our ages that could have been playmates, we were forbidden to go to their home or property because in grandma’s words “they aren’t the nicest people..the parents were known to be pretty mean to their children.”  Yet, even that honest description of their reputation accompanied  her hesitancy, didn’t stop her from adding their names to her prayer list. 

As I remember her rocking chair, her prayer life, I have had waves of  wondering how many names were uttered from her lips….how many names besides Debbie’s are written in the Book of Life because of my faithful trusting grandma?

One of my favorite comedians has a tagline that is solely hers…”I ain’t doin’ it”. Delivered in her perfect sweet southern drawl, each of her short comedic messages ends with this simple phrase that describes her current dilemma she’s making jokes about for her audience. With those simple words comes a head shaking no and a roll of her big eyes. I giggle every time. I can identify almost every time she discusses a subject…wearing PJs to WalMart….Elf on the Shelf….Adults wearing Halloween costumes….look her up on social media or YouTube for some great laughs.

My own “I ain’t doin’ it” is refusing to fall into a trap of “getting old” merely because my age reflects a high number every year. Which! By the way is something I am VERY grateful for when I consider the alternative. While I often muse I have no desire to live to be 100, my only consolation if that were to happen is that my mind would be intact and working to its potential and my body free from all the aches and pains the TV commercials keep telling me are coming my way because I’m over “that age” now. What IS that age? I can remember thinking people who were 30 were one step in the grave. Then it was 40, 50 and my goodness let’s not even talk about the 60s, 70s, and beyond!

When I entered the job force with my first full time position, I was 18. I didn’t have a 401k (were they around in the 70s?) or an official retirement account. I can remember when IRAs came onto the banking scene and folks were excited to use these tools to save for their future. Me? I mostly shopped paycheck to paycheck until marriage and even then, thinking of being 62….65….72….you know–the years most people no longer work full time and draw retirement and/or social security. When  I  was 18 the days I’m in now seemed like an eternity on the road named  Future. Lots of life happened between all those 40+ years. My eyes still need corrective lens to see perfectly. Some days my husband thinks I’m ignoring him when he’s talking to me–hearing? My hairstylist says I’m not ready to “go all gray” so with her help my hair is a healthy brown…I get some minor aches and pains here and there in my joints, even had a big toe joint replacement two years ago–arthritis was the foe…other than these things which I consider all normal under the process of aging, I refuse to act old or comply with the adage “act your age”. (I’m not sure how a 68 year old is supposed to act. If you know of a guideline, clue me in so I can have a good chuckle because “I ain’t doin’ it”).

Where did I adopt my Peter Pan philosophy? I give credit to my dad. He retired at the age of 62 after a 40 year career. He probably could have worked longer but back in the 80s most folks were 62/65 and out! He and mom had saved well, he had his pension, and social security around the corner. He also had what appeared to friends at his church as “all this free time”…and though he served on various committees and boards, when asked if he’d now be attending the “Senior Breakfast” his response was “No, I want to be where the young people are…that’s where life and action happens”. He stuck to his plan, too, and enjoyed almost 30 years of life post age 62. Being a woodmaker as a major hobby, the year mom wanted a new cabinet for the kitchen also gave her the idea to have stained glass in the doors. He priced having someone do that part of the project for him, didn’t like the figure he was quoted, so he did the next best thing. He purchased a book, the tools, the materials and taught himself how to do stained glass. Not limited to the cabinet project, he went on to make several lampshades, window hangings and small light catchers. I have the fruit of his labor in my home today.

Dad’s sister, My Aunt Esther, was an elementary school teacher by degree. A major part of her personality was a love of always teaching somebody something. She memorized Dr. Suess books to recite to her classrooms. She learned how to paint teacups. She finished putting together a quilt from the squares my grandmother had stored away, clearly marked “for Ida” (my mom) and I have that beautiful blanket, too. Perhaps the most outstanding teachable goal Aunt Esther took on was housing a refugee family from Viet Nam. Her goal? Teach them English, acclimate them to life in America and above all, bring the gospel of Jesus to them by taking them to her church and prayer meetings. That beautiful family attended her 90th birthday party.

So, today, on a very cold Tuesday morning, I’ve returned from a monthly massage which I dub as “my own preventative approach to healthcare”...if I’m truly going to pay now or pay later, I’ll take now under the trained hands of my favorite masseuse, Bryan. I’ll continue to eat healthy–most of the time–get in some exercise–most of the time…think about how far I’ve come from that 18 year old who thought a certain age brought certain doom.  I’ll focus on what Biblical truth teaches me, that God is the only one Who knows the number of my days. I’ll embrace each morning as a “new gift” with many opportunities for personal growth, reflecting a bit more on where I’ve come from including wonderful family members whose goal was a zeal for life and learning. 

Get old? If Heather Land doesn’t mind…”I ain’t doin’ it”.

Me, from this past summer, after a walk or run.

Magical adjective

According to Webster’s definition “magical” is defined as: relating to, characterized by, or producing magic, extremely pleasant, enjoyable, or exciting

simchah: Original Word: שִׂמְחָה

The Hebrew word for joy means gladness and mirth

Why am I focusing on these two words on this very cold, frigid January morning? Simply put, I love winter. Yes, I am one of those rare people who seldom complains about fall being ushered out with the last falling and color changes of leaves with a few warm days lingering past their usual habit. I absolutely love the first snow that covers my dead decaying flower beds and also adorning every tree branch within my sight. Winter and snow takes me back to childhood memories where my mind can keep me distracted and lost for hours as I reminisce about building snow forts, engaging in snowball fights, skating and sledding for hours…all topics from a past blog I’ve written about if you go back to those posts in 2021.

I find it pure joy at my age (68) to STILL enjoy being outside on a cold day, breathing in the crispness of the air as I walk to the mailbox or venture down the neighboring subdivision road for some exercise. Such was my experience this past Sunday. Around mid afternoon I announced to my husband “I’m going for a walk”. The sun was shining through a beautiful blue sky, the temp was quite cold but I donned my mother’s down jacket from her ice fishing days, put on a skull cap under the massive fur lined hood, clothed my hands with gloves and my feet with warm boots. Off I went, walking down the lane choosing my steps carefully to avoid any icy patches on the pavement. I made my way to the cul de sac which is my “turn” to head back home, following the same distance. The cul de sac has five homes, all surrounded by tall trees, a couple vacant lots for sale, the retention pond, and a large wooded area between two homes; it’s the spot where no trespassing signs are now posted. They may keep out potential invaders, but the animal tracks are all over the snow, and the beauty the woods offers is not off limits to the human eye. I found myself stopping at the edge of the woods and staring into its magical beauty for a long time, and suddenly a blanket of God’s joy not only surrounded me, but filled me inside ready to burst out as though I had been trying to hold it in and squelching its purpose. I stood on the side of the road taking in ALL the senses of what I was feeling and experiencing: cold on my face and up my nose…quiet like I had not heard in a long time….pure white snow broken up by areas of standing water or trampled upon by deer, rabbits, and other critters…the sun on my back, piercing through the cold air to shed warmth on my back and create sparkles that danced across the surface of the perfect blanket of snow…and I. Was. Speechless. For a moment….I broke my silence by saying out loud “Daddy, (in Hebrew it’s Abba) I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here…..” So, for a few more minutes, frozen in time (not literally) I stood and felt God’s presence like I have not in some months. As though it was for only me, I felt as though no one else in the world existed. It was me and Him. I could have cried in response to the amount of love I felt from my Heavenly Father in those moments, but instead I turned my emotions to that of “joy”, meditating on what my afternoon walk had stirred inside me and continued my walk back home.

The magical and joy filled walk on Sunday did not end when I took off my boots, put away my coat and hat….I felt the benefits of that beautiful afternoon Monday morning and now, sitting here at my laptop writing about it, I’m still in awe of how an ordinary walk, down a very familiar road, took on a totally new experience, one I hope I don’t too soon forget.

I don’t believe in magic; I know that magic is trickery and sleight of hand to make our eyes believe we’ve seen something that really isn’t there….I embrace and believe in joy because it can be felt, it produces warmth, smiles, and a burning sensation in the depths of a soul. Joy brings forth messages of love, hope, trust…freedom from worry or fear. 

I highly recommend taking a walk on cold winter days. Try to find a wooded area. Go to a place that isn’t bombarded by the noise of traffic. Get alone. Walk. And then pause…and wait for majestic joy to happen….

Sunday’s afternoon sun producing my shadow turned my 5’ frame into the size of Goliath.