No Erasers Allowed

I met Inez Barker when I was a newly minted five-year-old. My brother started first grade, and I was afforded all the rights and privileges that come with being the room mother’s child-still-at-home. Mrs. Barker was something else. I was mystified, terrified, and awestruck by her. She was the teacher every mother wanted her child to have. It was a day of rejoicing when we learned that my brother would be in her classroom. When I started school, Mrs. Barker was also my first grade teacher. I loved her so much. When I wasn’t scared to death of her.

First graders got evaluated on something called “readiness” for school. The problem was not really so much whether or not I was ready for Mrs. Barker and beginning my education. It was more a matter of whether the first grade was ready for me. Mrs. Barker, you see, had her own ideas about learning. She preferred a “blank slate,” and her ideal pupil was one who had not attended kindergarten. Mrs. Barker did not want her students to waste time “unlearning” bad habits. So, my mother, in anticipation of and praying for first grade with Mrs. Barker, did not send me to kindergarten. Unfortunately for Mrs. Barker, she was not getting the tabula rasa she was expecting in me.

I started first grade knowing a lot of things. I loved books, so I took to reading naturally. The alphabet, sight words, colors, numbers, shapes, letter sounds – all those things were fun to learn. So, I went ahead and took care of that long before I started first grade. My brother helped me and would share all the new stuff when he got home each afternoon. Life was good. I couldn’t wait to go to school and be a real first grader.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Barker found me a little too “ready” for school. I had learned things my own way, and my ways were not always her ways. We might or might not have clashed on occasion. Mrs. Barker had one quality that I found truly disturbing. She hated erasers. All of her students were required to use those big, fat first grade pencils. And they could not have an eraser. If your pencil came with an eraser, you had two choices – you could do what I did and get your daddy to saw it off, or Mrs. Barker would whack it with the hammer that she kept in her desk expressly for that purpose. She got rid of the entire eraser and half of the pencil that way. She would not allow you to erase a mistake. Her method was this – if you mess up when you are writing, draw an “X” over your mistake and do it again. No erasing allowed under any circumstances. Not that it mattered – there were no erasers. I had a hard time forming some letters the way she demanded. Part of that was not my fault. A right-handed child taught by a left-handed mother can create some quirks. I still iron with the ironing board pointing in the “wrong” direction.

So first grade progressed and I did my best to be a good student. I was pretty successful and usually didn’t talk or cause any problems. But, one day, I just got so frustrated about all the “X” marks I kept making to “erase” my mistakes that I couldn’t take it any longer. I said, “I really NEED an eraser. PLEASE!” I said it too loud. Mrs. Barker was not happy with me and I got punished. Sort of. Her version of “time out” was putting you in the supply closet by yourself. I got sent there for my outburst, but it was hardly punishment to me. I had a grand time cutting up construction paper, gluing petals and leaves together to make the most beautiful flowers, adding glitter because it was so pretty. This is the best punishment ever! Who wouldn’t want to do this? This is so much better than adding or spelling. Wish I had found out how to get here sooner! When my time out was over, Mrs. Barker opened the door to set me free. She was most unhappy with me, but even she had to see the humor in it. I was the very last person ever sentenced to the supply closet. From then on, the offender had to sit at a single desk under the American flag – in easy sight of Mrs. Barker.

So, here I sit – once again in the Cancer Center – this time just getting my iron topped off, but still a time-consuming thing. There was a time when sitting still for so long would have been such a burden – and I mean fairly recently, too. I don’t “do” still very well. What I might have viewed as punishment in the recent past has turned into a time when I can reflect on God’s mercy, grace, goodness, and love. I have said before that I have never been more certain of God’s love for me. And today, it is kind of like being punished by spending time in that first grade supply closet. There is an abundance of good stuff here for me and I am thankful for time to reflect on how God uses some of the darkest times to bring us the most light.

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written: "For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered." No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. - Romans 8:35-39


P.S. You know how at the end of the year, teachers will sometimes write notes on your report card? My brother got one from Mrs. Barker that said, “David has been a pleasure to teach this year.” I got one that said, “Susan seems to enjoy art and is very creative.” Hmmm. Wonder what that was about.

Fried Apple Pies

My granddaddy had a lot of brothers and sisters – nine in all.  One of his sisters was Aunt Sissy.  Her real name was Pearl, but everyone called her Sissy.  Everyone except my brother.  Once he found out her real name, that is what he called her.  My Aunt Sissy and his Aunt Pearl.  He could not be persuaded to call her anything else.  She thought it was funny and seemed to like it, coming from him.  Nobody else could get away with that “Pearl” business.

Aunt Sissy lived in a big white house with a porch that wrapped around three sides.  My favorite side was the one with the swing.  The house really belonged to my great-grandmother - that would be Nanny.  Her name was Sally, but even my brother called her Nanny.  Uncle Reese (Aunt Sissy/Pearl’s husband) also lived there.  They had boarders who lived there and certain meals were included for the boarders.  Everyone ate at a huge table at the same time.  Boarder or not, if you wanted to eat, you showed up at the table with your appetite and on time.  Aunt Sissy did most of the cooking.  But she only did it once a meal.

When I was a child, I think people must have been made of sterner stuff.  Nobody with a delicate constitution would have survived some of those meals.  Here is why.  At Aunt Sissy’s house, they observed a weekend ritual that would probably kill us today.  On Saturday, they did all the cooking for both Saturday and Sunday.  The food for Sunday’s lunch went on the table on Saturday, but it didn’t get eaten until after church on Sunday.  It just sat there all night and through the morning, everything covered over with a tablecloth or two.  After lunch, it got covered up until time to eat again that evening - after growing who knows what kind of micro-organisms all day.  Nothing got heated up.  You just ate what was there at whatever temperature it happened to be.  If you didn’t like it, you didn’t have to eat.  Simple.  Nobody got coddled.  Not even the paying guests.  I have no idea what they ate for breakfast – but whatever it was, it was not cooked on Sunday morning.

I think Aunt Sissy was credited with being a pretty good cook, but there was one thing she made that was just awful.  Fried apple pies.  At least that is what she said they were.  You wouldn’t have known it.  They weren’t pies as much as they were just big gobs of greasy dough with some apples inside.  We mostly didn’t like them at all, except for my brother who LOVED them.  He praised them so much that every time we went for a visit, Aunt Sissy would whip up a batch just for him.  And send them home with us – in a brown paper bag that very quickly developed large greasy patches.   Before we could drive the sixty miles home, the greasy spots grew wider and wider until they met one another and the whole bag was soaked.  No way would I eat one of those things.  Even as a kid, I knew they were just – wrong.  

One of the things I loved about Aunt Sissy’s house was the old organ.  It was the kind you had to pump with your feet.  I didn’t know the first thing about reading music or playing an organ.  I just knew it had lots of knobs to pull on, lots of keys, and made the greatest noises ever.  I didn’t even try to use it for the intended purpose.  My goal was to make it blare the longest, loudest, most continuous racket possible.  I was usually very successful.  Nobody else really appreciated my organ playing.  I think most people viewed it the same way I viewed the fried apple pies.   Pretty awful and completely unnecessary.  I was sentenced to sit in the porch swing more than once for my organ playing escapades.  

Sometimes I think God must look at me and see a human version of those fried apple pies and organ playing.  I don’t think He is ever surprised at who is making all the noise or conjuring up some sort of inedible mess.  I think He loves me (and you) just the way we are.  He sees us just like my brother saw Aunt Sissy’s fried apple pies.  He loved her and he might have loved those awful pies because she made them especially for him. When we are feeling pretty worthless, God looks beyond the commotion and sees the person who caused it. All the noise and failures in our lives can fit into His perfect plan for us.  He sees our hearts.  That is what matters to Him.  Aunt Sissy was a terrible fried apple pie maker.  But her heart, well, that was something else.  

So - sitting through another chemotherapy treatment now and I’m pretty sure God knows what’s in my heart.  This is not where I would choose to be – except for how close it brings me to my Heavenly Father and how assured I am that He loves me –even the noisy mess that I can often be.

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.  -  Luke 12:34

Cochise, The Cartwrights, and Me

My daddy loved the horse that Little Joe rode on Bonanza. It was a black and white pinto and its name was Cochise on the show. It had another name in real life, but it was Cochise to us. My favorite was Chub (ridden by Hoss, of course). I thought Sport (ridden by Adam) had pretty feet. Buck (ridden by Pa) seemed a little prissy to me. Anyway, I always wanted Daddy to have a horse just like Cochise, so I decided that I would get him one. My plan was pretty simple, but full of flaws. I was about eight years old when I hatched this idea. As far as I was concerned, it was a brilliant scheme. I would marry one of the Cartwrights. Then, I could find out exactly where they got Cochise and ask them to get one for Daddy. They were rich and they could afford it. I didn’t care which one I married. Adam, Hoss, Little Joe, or Pa – made no difference to me. Secretly, though, I was hoping it would not be Pa. He wasn’t so fortunate in the wife department and had already had three of them to die on him. I was thinking that I might fare better with one of the sons. It wouldn’t be a bad life. I could live at the Ponderosa and make trips to Virginia City to shop. I wouldn’t have to cook, because Hop Sing was there and he was already the cook – and I suspected he was responsible for the laundry, too. The house was huge and nobody would stop me from sliding down the banister of that big staircase. I always admired Adam for building that house and having the good sense to include that great big fireplace.

One night while we were watching Bonanza, I told Daddy about my plan to get him a horse just like Cochise. To his credit, he didn’t laugh out loud. He did point out, in a very kind way, that the Cartwrights did not actually exist. What?? They do, too! I see them every week right there on television. They live in Nevada, for crying out loud. It’s a long way from Alabama, but so what? It still exists. And if I have to move there to get Cochise, so be it. Besides, if they aren’t real, my plan is doomed! I knew Daddy wouldn’t lie to me. I never felt quite the same way about Bonanza again. No Ponderosa in my future. My relief at not having to marry Ben Cartwright and meet an early doom did not overshadow my disappointment at missing out on that horse for Daddy.

I think God probably enjoyed all those plans, plots, and schemes I devised in my childhood. How thankful I am that I don’t have to depend on my own brainpower and abilities! And how thankful I am that God is always there - whether I am in a mess of my own making or otherwise – to rescue me.

Today, as I sit in the treatment room at the Cancer Center all plugged into bags of medicine, I am reminded of how much God loves me. This is not my life as I would have designed it, but I have never been more certain that God is going to take care of me. Your journey is not the same as mine, but it doesn’t mean it is easier. Just as difficult as cancer – only different. I loved my Daddy enough to marry Pa Cartwright. My Heavenly Father loves me so much that He gave me His Son. And He holds me close and comforts me – especially when my plans get all messed up. He loves you that much, too.

The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with his love, He will rejoice over you with singing.   Zephaniah 3:17