Feisty 75 yr. old gramma is my mother in law

Last night we had an impromptu family gathering at my in laws. Since they have moved back to our town, we often gather there to banter the evening away nourished with coffee, tea and perhaps gramma's famous strawberry-rhubarb platz. Some of my husband's brothers and their wives drop by and join us, along with a visiting relative from afar. This is not unusual. What was unusual last night was the floor and the person who laid the floor. I entered the house to find the living room carpet had been stripped and in its place was a lovely rose brown hardwood floor. Okay, you might think, big deal....so granpa laid a new floor. Well you are wrong. The person with the triumphant smile was not granpa.....but gramma! At seventy five years of age this great grandma had a blast laying a hardwood floor and didn't have an ache or bruise to show for it! Her only comment, "I now have a marketable skill!" Yes, great gramma, has hammer, will lay hardwood floor...I can see the ad in the paper now. Kudos to my mother-in-law, definitely the senior citizen of the week!

One Woman's Journey

After sharing the following with other women at seminary this week, I realized I could have entitled this blog "Our Journey." To my children who may read this blog, I do not regret one year of staying home raising you....it was a privilege and a joy, I have heaps of good memories, thank you....yes, there were trials, and that is life.

I am a woman, child of the sixties
Created in the image of God,
And yet for years held back
Held back by cultural expectations...
Women don't need a post secondary eduction
Stay home, have children, clean your house
Barefoot, pregnant, in the kitchen---don't you know that will be your place?!
And yet--I dream

I am a woman, of age in the seventies
Created to reflect the image of God
Denied opportunites by gender
By gender oppressed
Women don't enroll in a B.Th. program
Take the B.R.E. instead
You don't need Greek or Hebrew or Homiletics--don't you know your place?!
And yet--God gives me a youth ministry

I am a woman, a mother in the eighties
Created to express the image of God
Locked in a box of ecclesiastical patriarchy
Trying to lift the lid
Women don't belong on church boards
Be on the women's executive instead
Sing us a song, play the piano, but don't you try to preach!!!
Even so, secretly "Yentl" inspires me!

A double standard exists--can you see it?
If I was a missionary in Africa, you would expect me to preach!!!
Helen Roseveare inspires me

I am a woman, maturing in the nineties
Growing in the image of God
Gender issues still patronize me
How long will I be bound?
Why do you still want to study?
Give it up, go earn some money
Be a good helper to your husband, support him in his career
And yet--crisis pregnancy ministry captures me!

I am a woman, now in a new century
Rejoicing in the image of God
Gender issues---a classroom discussion
We all have a lot to learn
Seminary, yes, I AM HERE, not an M.Div, but an M.A.
One degree behind and another one in process
My husband supports and encourages me!

Connection

I watched the news with interest and some relief last night. Apparently those who live in the bayou close to St. Martinsville did not have their homes torn apart by the hurricane. Our Acadian guides are quite probably safe. More than safe, their town has now doubled in size, flooded by refugees from New Orleans. Apparently their distant cousins in New Brunswick are helping them care for the refugees by sending donations of necessary supplies. This says so much for the gracious spirit of those we encountered in the bayou--always ready to lend a helping hand. The Acadians, forcibly displaced from their homeland in 1755 by my countrymen and sent to Louisiana, are now helping those displaced from their homes by nature 250 years later.

Memories of a sunken city

To some the recent news flashes from New Orleans may seem unreal and hard to connect to. To me, I remember the people, the sights sounds and conversations of a vacation not so long ago.
Spring break was coming that year and we planned our usual run for southern warmth. That year, not so long ago, we planned to head directly south to the closest stretch of warm ocean we could find. After looking at a map, we decided to head for Biloxi, Mississippi. Our youngest two were teens then, and game for a bit of adventure.
We stopped a few hours short of Biloxi that first night, deep in the heart of Mississippi. Early the next morning we drove to Biloxi and found our motel on the gulf coast. I remember shrimp boats, long streatches of sand and friendly epople. It was a little too cool too swim, but we enjoyed ocean walks and exploring the area. We visited interesting shops in Gulfport and then headed for New Orleans.
Some may have called New Orleans "sin city." I found it to be an interesting, curious city and definitely not as notorious as Amsterdam's red light district. I remember colored musicians playing jazz on their trumpets on a street corner, hoping for a dollar and hawking their CD's. Music filled the air on a warm afternoon. The beignets purchased in the French Quarter were fresh and delicious with coffee. The crawfish, a local delicacy, were hot, spicy and in high demand. Their shells littered the restaurant parking lot. Someone regaled us with a tale of collecting crawfish every spring with his dad on the banks of the Mississippi. I remember walking down the steet and being greeted with a smile and the tip of a hat--very friendly people. My daughter purchased a tall Mardi Gras hat to wear just for the fun of it.
The next day we headed out of the city via a sceninc route and got really lost in the bayou. We drove through watery areas trying to find our way out. Eventually we met some Acadians whose forbearers came from the Maritimes. They sure chuckled to find some Canadians lost in the bayou and gladly helped redirect us.
We asked my daughter what it meant to her to hear reports of "Hurricane Katrina" having been to New Orleans. She asked if our motel in Biloxi was still standing. No, I am sure it is not. The French Quarter still stands but I wonder about the friendly people I met in Mississippi, are they still alive? Could the street musicians, the beignet sellers, the crawfish collectors and the friendly Acadians in the bayou have suvived?
While I will never know the answer to the above questions, I can still pray for the survivors. Over the next few days I will wear my sequined denim blazer I picked up in the French Quarter. Perhaps, if you see me in it, you can remember to send up a prayer for the surviviors and contribute financially to the relief effort.