FYI: I write most of my blogs to record family history and stories so that descendants  to follow might enjoy reading about and getting to know their ancestors a little better. Hopefully through these blogs, they will grasp a bit more about where they came from and be privy to their ancestor’s personalities, values, and quirks. It seems a bit less daunting to me to write once a month then to try to compile this information into a book. I am delighted when friends and even those I have never met tag along. As a reminder I publish my monthly blog on the first Monday of the month. If you are an occasional reader but would like to be reminded when I publish a new one, feel free to email me at delilalumbardy@gmail.com and I will place you on my reminder list and notify you by text or email – whichever you prefer. Now, let’s step back, again, to days gone by.

 

Dying Grace

Memorial Day has just passed. My childhood memories of this day are pleasant and comfortable. It was the day the family – Mom, Dad, and us three siblings – piled into our only vehicle – a 50’s bumblebee.  The main body of the Mercury was a mellow yellow and the rounded roof was a slightly faded black.  This car was known to vapor lock, but Dad assured me it wasn’t a hot enough day for that to happen. I didn’t understand all that, but I trusted Dad so I crawled in without reservations. We were off with a car full of plastic flowers in every color and a few vases of live flowers for the grandparents. Mom and Dad grew up in the same small town which made it convenient on Memorial Day – the loved ones of both sides resided in cemeteries within a 25 mile range. Mom had the flowers all sorted out in her head – which ones were to be placed on Uncle Bob’s grave, Aunt Millie’s grave, Grandpa and Grandma Schultz’s grave, Grandpa and Grandma Galvin’s grave – you get the picture. Mom is not a person (to this day) that likes to make a decision, but this was one of the exceptions.

I especially liked the years Mother Nature smiled on us. The sweet smells of irises, peonies, lilacs and snowball flowers crowded the inside of that old Mercury to the point we would roll down the windows to soften the strong fragrance.

Cemeteries were not scary places to me, but were instead a book of good stories. We often met up with distant relatives that we had not seen since the last Memorial Day. Weather permitting, we might visit for an hour or more, catching up on each other’s family lives and I would listen to the memories shared of the relative at our feet.

If I got bored with adult conversation, I would wander down the row of graves, reading the headstones. It was concerning to me whenever I found a grave of a child – maybe my age or even younger. I would wonder how they died, why they died, and would I die?  I knew God was a good God and would take care of me if I went to be with Him, but I wasn’t ready for that. I wanted to be with my parents.

Even though visiting the cemetery as a child caused me to “deep think” things for a few days, I believe it was a good experience. It gave me an understanding of what James tells us in James, chapter 4 verse 14. For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. How did this help me to develop character?  I thought more of how I could please others because death is a part of life and we don’t have the answers to when our earthly days are over. I thought more about how I wanted to impact this world in a positive way.  It helped me to realize we all have things we can contribute to the time here on earth  – good or bad – and I wanted to be someone that when others remembered me after I was gone, it would bring a smile.

A lot of years have transpired since my visits to the cemeteries with my parents. My Dad now resides in the cemetery, but he doesn’t make his home there. I enjoy going to his graveside and remembering….but I will enjoy more our reunion in heaven. God has a way of preparing us as we get older. How amazing it is that we can dread death as a child, but as a Christian, that dread transforms into a thing to look forward to as we get older.  It’s called dying grace – something we acquire the closer we get to needing it.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

We were gathered around my grandmother’s table for Thanksgiving dinner. I was nine years old and like most nine-year-olds I knew what I liked to eat and what I didn’t. So when the tart cranberry salad that Grandma made came around I said, “I don’t like that,” and passed it on. Some of the babbling and laughter ceased, mostly from my parents as I recall. Nothing was said, but I got the feeling this wasn’t over.

Looking back on it as an adult, I am grateful my Dad didn’t call me out on my blunder in front of the family, but at the time, that didn’t cross my mind. I thought that when nothing had been said by milking time that evening, maybe he had forgotten the incident. Or maybe he realized that I felt bad about whatever I had done wrong and was going to leave it at that. But as it turned out, Dad had not forgotten; he was thoughtfully waiting for us to be alone.

Looking up from Bossy’s flank he said, “From now on if you don’t want it, say ‘no thank-you and pass it on to the next person. To say you don’t like something only hurts someone’s feelings.”‘ Dad always explained things in a loving way which only saddened me more when I  disappointed him.  His reprimand still stands in my memories and through the years has been a reminder to be considerate of others.

I wish I could say that was the end of causing  disappointment to my father, but of course, that wouldn’t be true. For instance, there was the time as a new driver, I pulled in to close to our country mailbox and knocked the mirror off the Rambler. Dad was disappointed I hadn’t used better judgement and taken my inexperience into account. (I had watched him a thousand times and he did it smoothly and perfectly.) He explained that I should have gotten out of the car a safe distance away and walked a few steps to the box. I could see after the fact as I handed him the mirror, that that might have  been a good idea. Then there was the time in college. I went home for a visit and by this time I had become quite comfortable with coming and going at my own discretion. The hometown gang was spending some time together – more than my parents appreciated. I dragged home in the early morning hours (years before cell phones) to find my father pacing the floor. He reminded me that when I come home, I’m still under their roof and he would appreciate it if I didn’t worry Mom. I wondered why it was; he was the one pacing.

Even though Dad was disappointed at times in each of his childrens’ behaviors he was also quick to show us his love. We seldom heard the words, “I love you,” but there was no doubt in our minds that he did. His actions spoke very clearly of this.

I was fortunate to grow up in a home of loving discipline. They say it is easier for people that have had this kind of relationship with their parents to accept God’s love. My parents were always fair, loving, and responsible adults which made it easy to think of God in those terms as well.

I was well into my thirties when I realized that the majority of others did not grow up this way.  A group of five of us were chatting at the nurses station on an uneventful evening in the small hospital where I worked. We started comparing our growing up years. Out of five nurses, I was the only one that had grown up in a consistently loving and nurturing family…the only one who could say they had had a wonderful childhood.

So then…how do people like my co-workers come to trust in a Heavenly Father? I pondered this for some time and then it came to me – it’s an act of faith…like so many other things in our Christian lives. Christianity is built around faith, so why not faith in this?  Psalm 91:4 tells us that God’s faithful promises are our armor and protection and one of these faithful promises is given to us in Psalm 68:5. He is a Father to the fatherless. 

A new friend and I met in the park this week for coffee. We talked of our childhoods. With a sincere heart she told me how much it meant to her when she became a Christian and knew that now she had a wonderful Father that loved her. She’s just one example of someone, by faith, that has been able to move beyond her earthly experiences and has found joy in the protection of Him. (Psalm 2:12)

You can find it in Him as well.

 

 

I went to the store to replenish supply
but when I got there, there was little to buy.
The eggs were gone and not one measly tator –
the clerk shrugged her shoulders – “Better luck later.”

The Charmin and Northern had flown the coop.
But that’s no problem – I just won’t poop.
The cereal aisle looked sad and forlorn,
not one box of oats, or wheat, or corn.

I was gritting my teeth and getting quite pissed,
thinking I’d  not find a thing on my list,
but I rounded the corner and “Well, all be!”
One bottle of sanitizer waiting for me!

With a mission in mind, I took off down the aisle.
The frown on my face; replaced with a smile.
But then – with Roadrunner speed from somewhere she came;
a strong-minded, young woman with sniper like aim.
She snatched that bottle with her outstretched hand
while I considered where best my fist might land.

I caught myself before I landed the blow
right at her belly-button or slightly below.
What was I doing? I’m not the mean kind.
This corona virus was affecting my mind!

Well, I set a new record that day at the store.
For, I’ve never left there with nothin’ before.
I felt quite smug about the money I saved,
but not so much about how I’d behaved.

I’ve had a chance now to think it all through.
Before I go back I know what I’ll do.
I’ll dig in my purse and throw out the mace;
under the mask I’ll paste a smile on my face.

I have good intentions, but then – who’s to say
what will play out on the next shopping day.
Who’s to know what I’ve hidden beneath,
Is it a smile or am I gritting my teeth?

 

(Hope you enjoyed a bit of humor this month. For more humor, check out my book page and how to obtain Chicken Soup’s newest book – Laughter is the Best Medicine. The 101 stories in the book have been selected from thousands of entries so they’re pretty much guaranteed to give your belly some exercise.) 🙂

 

 

 

I’m a gardener at heart. If I can’t play in the dirt come spring, something is missing in my life. At a minimum, I’ve had to do with a few houseplants to curb my green thumb cravings, but in recent years I’ve had wonderful fenced areas behind the house to dig, grow, and best of all – harvest!

I suppose that’s why the article got my attention. Seriously, carnivorous plants?  How, as a gardener, had I missed something as intriguing as meat eating plants? Had I slept through Mr. Schuller’s biology class that day? (More likely – daydreaming of weekend plans.)

Well, it had my attention now. How diversified of God to throw in some meat loving vegetation. I couldn’t help but wonder a lot of things about these special plants so down the Google Trail I journeyed. 

First, I learned that these plants, as a whole, thrive in poor nutritional conditions as far as plants are concerned. Many of them live in boggy areas where bugs abound. Makes sense. Here in the United States we have at least five different types of carnivorous plants including the pale pitcher, sundews, bladderworts, butterworts, and the most well known – the Venus Flytrap. Most of them are activated to catch their prey by sensing movement of an insect on a certain part of their foliage. This foliage can then turn itself into a bug or even a small frog catching trap.

   The one carnivorous plant of the United States that does not rely upon movement for eating, is the pale pitcher plant also known as the yellow trumpet. The design of the plant itself facilitates capture. Once the naive insect lands on the lip of the funnel like trumpet and enters the mouth, the waxy inner surface propels the bug to the bottom. There is no pool of fresh, cool water like you would find at the bottom of a water park slide, but a pool of digestive juices instead, waiting to start the process of decomposing soft body parts. Ah ha! And dinner is served as healthy nutrition is absorbed into the plant.

   The Venus Flytrap is native to only North and South Carolina. Folks have been so intrigued with this plant that at one point it became an endangered species, prompting growers to cultivate it in greenhouses. The colorful leaves of this plant are lined with stiff hairs. When anything touches these hairs enough to bend them – Smack! In less than a second the two lobes of the leaf snap shut, trapping whatever bug was nosing around. Again, the softer part of the bug dissolves in digestive juices and provides nourishment for the plant. When that process is completed in five to twelve days, the leaves open up again and the hard exoskeleton of the insect either blows away in the wind or is washed away by rain. (There’s a great video on You-Tube showing Mr. Bug being captured.)

As I read about these plants, I couldn’t help think of the traps that entwine us if we are not on guard. Just like the different carnivorous plants, these traps come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe you can think of a trap or two in your lifetime that have ensnared you. I sure can.

Even Jesus was presented a trap by the Pharisees in the story of the “adulterous woman” in John 8:1-11. They knew that the law of Moses gave them the right to stone her. “Teacher, what do you say?” they asked. If Jesus said she should not be stoned, they could accuse Him of violating Moses’ law. But if He did give them the go ahead, then they would report him to the Romans, who did not permit Jews to carry out their own executions. Either answer created problems…a deliberate trap. For those of you familiar with the story, you know what Jesus said. “All right, stone her. But let those who have never sinned throw the first stones!” Of course, not one of them was without sin and they slipped away one by one.

I can always hope that I would have the wisdom that Jesus had to see myself out of a trap. But for me it may be more realistic to ask – is this  too good to be true? If the answer leans to “yes” I best proceed with caution. Or, like the bug nosing around on the Venus Flytrap, I should just high-tail it out of there.

Until, next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

(Feel free to share this blog on FB if you have any buggy friends that would benefit.)

 

The United States is known for it’s innovative ideas that have reached around the world. For example the first transistor was created at Bells Lab In New Jersey in 1947. It is a component in every piece of modern electronic equipment. The swivel chair is credited to Thomas Jefferson who sat in his newly crafted chair to draft the Declaration of Independence in 1776. Blue jeans made their appearance in 1873 when a tailor in Reno, NV used heavy woven cotton fabric called “duck cloth” to make a pair of sturdy pants; then reinforced the stress points with copper rivets. And yes, even the chocolate chip cookie was born in the United States when the owner of the Toll House Inn in Whitman, Massachusetts created it quite by accident.  Whipping up a batch of her favorite cookies for guests, she discovered she was out of baker’s chocolate. She substituted with chunks of semi-sweet chocolate she cut from a block that Andrew Nestle’ had given her. She naturally thought they would melt but when the chunks failed to do so – Presto! We have  America’s most popular cookie.

Although the United States has been a leading country in innovative ideas, on occasion we have borrowed ideas from other parts of the world. Sometimes they have surprisingly come by way of third world countries.

Dr. Dixon Chibanda, is one of only twelve psychiatrists in all of Zimbabwe – a landlocked country of 16 million people in southeastern Africa. Along with poverty, Zimbabwe has a high incidence of HIV, a history of wars, unemployment, and other problems that contribute to depression. After Erica, one of Dr. Chibanda’s patients hung herself in 2006 because she couldn’t afford the $15.00 bus fare to travel the 160 miles to see him and get help, he felt he had to do something to make mental health more accessible to Zimbabweans. More than ninety percent of the people in Zimbabwe at this time had no access to evidence-based talking therapies or modern anti-depressants. 

He had hoped to be able to utilize nurses but there were none available. The country’s nurses were too busy with HIV related issues and maternal and child health care. And when he asked about space in the clinics to run some sort of program – he got the same answer – none available. What he was given was 14 community volunteers in the form of minimally educated grandmothers with no mental health experience. And for space – he could use the grounds outside the clinics. He did not let these factors deter him. He began training the 14 women with little or no support from his colleagues.  “This is nonsense!” they collectively agreed.

Dr. Chibanda ignored their negative comments, placing benches outside of the clinics. A trained grandmother was assigned to a bench and The Friendship Bench Project was launched. Word got around that if you were suffering from kufungisisa (the Zimbabwe word for depression, meaning “thinking too much”) there were grandmothers available to talk. The women soon found themselves listening to HIV positive men and women, drug addicts, people suffering from poverty and hunger, unhappy married couples, lonely older people, and pregnant unmarried young women. 

In 2016 a control study was conducted to see just how effective The Friendship Bench Project was. Six hundred people with depression were split into two groups. What they found was that the group seeing the grandmothers had much lower symptoms of depression. There are now over 400 grandmothers participating in the program in Zimbabwe. They deliver their service for free in more than 70 communities.

The Friendship Bench Project is spreading to other countries, including the United States. There may be subtle differences in the programs from country to country, but the idea is the same – to make mental health affordable, accessible, and effective. In New York City the benches are bright orange and the either sex counselors are called “peer specialists”.  Many of them have overcome addictions and other life challenges themselves, making them the perfect confidant from the client’s standpoint. Just as in Zimbabwe, their services are free. In 2017 when The Friendship Bench Project was launched in New York City, it attracted 30,000 visitors in the first year. I encourage anyone intrigued by this project as I am, to visit some of the many videos on Youtube.

Who would have guessed that such an idea would have come out of one of the poorest – if not the poorest – nation in the world. Dr. Chibanda took what he had and is revolutionizing mental health around the world. It’s none too soon. According to the World Health Organization, depression is the world’s leading cause of disability, affecting more that 300 million people. Depression has become so common that it affects every one of us – whether in ourselves or a loved one.The death tole attributed to depression is recorded as 800,000  per year.

All I have left to say, comes from the lips of the Beach Boys. Go Granny, Go Granny, Go Granny, Go!

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

If you like this style of writing and would like to know how to purchase my Christian Fiction books, please go to the “Book” page.