Rebecca Carpenter

     Early morning clouds sheltered the lake from bright sunlight and produced a subdued mood.  Gentle wind rippled the water making it appear as an elephant’s hide.  Tall pine trees swayed back and forth waving to friends across the lake.  A giant pine towered above the others like a father over his children.  Asymmetrical limbs formed a lopsided appearance.  A long limb, lower than the others, seemed to be pointing down at his children as if teaching a lesson.  Scraggly, dead branches protruded from the dark, green, full ones.  A couple of dead limbs had broken off leaving several feet of barren wood.  At the base were several pines about two thirds his size with more pleasing, symmetrical shapes.  New growth extended upward from the ends of each limb reaching toward the giant.  They gently nodded at him as if agreeing with his wise words.  What stories he must have from his many years of droughts, thunderstorms, fires, and hurricanes.  He would never be praised for his beauty, but there was a special magnificence to his stature.

     We can be equated with that old, stately tree as we age.  Our bodies may no longer be as beautiful and fit as when we were younger, but  wisdom and knowledge should have increased over the years.  Like the towering tree, we can be guides and mentors to our children, grandchildren, and other young people in our lives.  Instead of bemoaning the reality of aging, we can celebrate the accomplishments and appreciate the benefits that advanced age brings.

     While sipping my hot tea, I gaze at the loveliness of the morning.  A gorgeous picture is displayed to my left.  The dark green gardenia tree is tipped with light green growth and emerging tiny stars of white which have not yet emitted their sweet aroma.  Encircling the base, a merry-go-round of flowers complements the tree.  Fading pink azaleas give off their last bursts of color for the season.  A semicircle of long, slender leaves curve gracefully in large clumps.  Majestic, purple lilies of the Nile reach high as though stretching to catch the gardenia.  Their tiny blooms together form large rounded clusters which from a distance appear to be one huge flower.  A lone African lily leans outward toward the lake as though trying to escape the ride of the merry-go-round.

     Each flower contributes to the picture in a special way.  Buds preparing to burst open nestle beside fully opened blooms.  As each flower completes its cycle, others are there to fill in the area.  When I look at all of the potential for color, I think how fantastic it would be if all of them were in bloom at the same time.  What a gorgeous display that would be!  Then I realize that the initial impact would be spectacular, but it would be more difficult to distinguish and appreciate each individual flower.  The time of beauty would be shortened since they would all die at the same time too. 

     My flower picture reminds me of life.  We have individuals among us who clump in significant groups such as a Bible study, a team at work, or exceptional friends.  Each is special but becomes even better as part of the group like the lily of the Nile.  Some fade away like the withering azalea that at one time was lovely.  Like all of the flowers, people come into our lives in bursts of beauty and love for a time.  As they fade away, we are sad but others come to help fill our hearts.  They can’t take the place of those who have left, but they can bless and enrich our lives with their uniqueness. 

      Just as we do not want to lose the the beauty of the flowers in the garden, it is much more difficult to lose the presence of special people in our lives.  As we grieve the losses, we can rejoice and celebrate the love and contributions that they made in our lives.

     Seeing the American flag swaying gently in the wind was such a beautiful sight when I returned from Cuba recently.  After experiencing their poverty, propaganda, and lack of freedom, being home was even more special than usual.  Each time I travel outside the US experiencing other cultures and countries, I am so thankful for our freedom and those who have made it possible.  Our founding fathers faced tremendous hardships as they created a new government and fought for freedom against a world power.  All through history, men and women have had their lives altered or destroyed as they fought for the right to be free.  Even in the early days, everyone was not in agreement as to the best path for our country so families and friends were torn apart by their beliefs and subsequent actions.  During the Civil War, this was especially true as loved ones fought on opposite sides of the conflict.  Over the years, unfortunately, we have been engaged in many wars where some were more accepted than others, but men and women have stood up, defended, and protected our way of life.  They have left their families and friends to serve with thousands injured and dying.  Some have been stationed close to home while others have spent time thousands of miles away in difficult conditions.  All have had lasting effects from their experiences both positive and negative.

     When I see a man or woman in uniform, I always feel a sense of pride for our country and their service.  I remember sending a soldier husband off to Viet Nam with anxious thoughts for a year as I wondered if he would return.  I also remember the anxiety of sending a Navy son off before he was 18 to serve our country.  Both times, there was apprehension and concern but also a sense of pride for what they were doing.

      When I observe pictures and movies of members of the military, I think of what they are accomplishing and sacrificing so that we can live in a free America.  I also think of the great sacrifices that their families are making while they are away.  It is so easy for us to go about our daily lives with little thought to those who served and are serving for us.  On Memorial Day especially, we should remember, pray, and let them know how much we appreciate them.  Wouldn’t is be even better to make each day Memorial Day?

     Touring Old Havana gave our mission team an opportunity to observe the beautiful, intricate carvings on buildings from the 1800’s.  Glimpses of grandeur, when Havana was a jewel of the Caribbean, are positioned beside crumbling facades and falling stones.  Laundry hung over ornate iron balconies in front of open, screenless, windows.  Disposable diapers swung forlornly in the hot, dry air trying to refresh themselves for a young child.  A barbershop was set up beside the dark, dreary staircase at the door of an old, decayed structure.  While walking the narrow, crumbling street, we stepped quickly to avoid being drenched by a bucket of cleaning water that was thrown over the balcony into the street.  Trash littered the sidewalks with the smell of sewage prevalent in some areas.  A few of the buildings had been renovated and showed their true beauty, but most displayed the scars of time which had caused ruin and disintegration.  We strolled the streets noting everyday life in a country that had gone from opulence to one of much decay and poverty.  Streets were filled with Cubans of all ages mingling with tourists from Canada, Britain, Germany, and Holland, but Americans were a rarity in the communist nation. 

     Tiny establishments lined the narrow streets as people attempted to earn some extra money.  Park squares of the city were filled with Cubans trying to earn extra money from tourists.  Elderly men hawked Spanish newspapers while old ladies smoking cigars posed for pictures.  Girls in brightly colored dresses held baskets of artificial flowers while requesting that pictures be taken.  Near the harbor, vendors displayed paintings, sculptures, jewelry, clothing, and crafts.  In the hot, muggy weather shoppers searched to find just the right items to take home.  Musicians strummed banjos and sang in restaurants, hotels, and street corners hoping for some tips.  Each group, as if on cue, would produce a CD hoping to obtain even more money.  Some related how they had previously worked as famous entertainers in various venues in Havana. 

     In a country where the standard of living has regressed and where freedom has been eliminated, people still display an upbeat spirit.  Lively music was heard down each street while people conversed, and children played stickball. 

      Cars on the streets made us feel as if we had been transported back to the 1940’s and 1950’s. The majority of cars were American cars from that time period with newer ones reserved for government officials and rentals for tourists.  They shared the street with bicycles, bicycle taxis, horse drawn carriages, and buses.  Camel buses were constructed from semitrailers and held up to 350 people who were crammed into the non airconditioned vehicles.  This was the mode of transportation for the majority of residents. 

      Havana is indeed a city of contrasts.  The buildings demonstrated what used to be and what is now.  People outwardly appeared to accept the condition of their lives and did not seem discouraged like I thought they might.  We saw many smiles and experienced much kindness with a  pace of life slower than at home.  Because of the way that the government had manipulated our mission plans, we received a small indication of what life was like for Cuban citizens.  All week we felt a sense of thankfulness to be Americans and a sadness for our neighbors in Cuba.

     A twenty-eight year old man, who looked much younger, entered the tiny home, smiled broadly as we were introduced, and sat down.  His American cousin began interpreting for us as he revealed his story.  Eleven young Cubans had attempted to reach the Florida Keys by water and find freedom in America.  It was a demanding journey as they almost reached the islands when they were apprehended and returned to Cuba.  One team member asked, “What the most difficult part of the trip?”

      The answer surprised us as he said, “To see Key West when we were picked up.” 

       We knew that he meant to be so close to America and not be able to stay.  To try so hard, to risk so much, and then be caught so close to the end must have been devastating, but he was still smiling.  There was silence as our mission team members tried to process what we had just heard.  We had no words to offer. 

     Then someone noticed a tatoo on his arm.  He grinned as he proudly showed us a large American flag.  In Cuba, that is certainly a symbol of rebellion which is dangerous.  For him, it seemed to be a sign of hope.

      Since his return, he has been forced to work as a janitor for the government, continues to be picked up for questioning whenever they feel like it, and is watched closely at all times.  Because of such poor living conditions, lack of opportunities, and lack of freedoms, he was willing to risk everything, including his life, to try to make it to the United States.

      After being around him that afternoon, I got the feeling that he would not give up easily.  When I hear of people in the U.S. who constantly complain about their lives here, I think of those in Cuba, Haiti, Mexico, and other impoverished nations who risk their lives to enter our country.  They know that America has a much better way of life and more opportunities than in their homelands.  I wish that the complainers could trade places with those young men who were sent back to Cuba.  I am sure that their perspective would be vastly different.

      Smiles and hugs are evident when I visit with Anne and her family.  I think of how fortunate Ashlyn and Emily are to have a mother who cares for them each day and looks out for their best interests.  It is not easy being a stay at home mom with two small children.  Changing diapers for years is not a glamorous job.  Washing dirty dishes and mounds of laundry becomes tiring and tedious.  Mundane, thankless chores are a required part of raising children.
     However, hearing a tiny voice say “mama” for the first time is heavenly.  Feeling small arms around the neck combined with a wet kiss on the cheek is a special reward.  Knowing that a Christian foundation is being laid in the lives of two precious little girls, makes it all worthwhile.
     Motherhood is not measured by how many degrees or awards are earned but by how much love and time are poured into tiny lives.  As the girls grow and mature, the lessons they have learned at home will be instilled into them and passed on to those that they meet.  Their children will be heirs to the legacy that is being created now.

     I was so excited to wear my new navy, dotted Swiss dress for Easter.  It had puffed sleeves, a small rounded collar, and front insert on the skirt of white ruffles.  I thought that it was so beautiful and could not wait to get to church to show it off with my new white shoes.  To make it even more special, my blonde Terry Lee doll had an exact replica of my dress.  In fact, my cousin, Ruth, and her doll were also outfitted in the same dress.  My mother and Aunt Helen had seen a readymade dress and copied it to make our Easter outfits.

      When I was a child, I did not think of the hours that my mom spent sewing for me, but I was always thrilled to have the new clothes.  One summer I received several outfits that she made which each included shorts and a halter top.  A friend of hers made the exact ones for her daughter too so we were “twins” when we wore our brightly colored ensembles.  I giggle now as I remember that the material for those shorts came from feedsacks that were obtained from a farmer.  Now that I am older, I realize the time involved in making my clothes and think that frugality was probably much of the reason that she was a seamstress. 

       During the fifties, most women in the Midwest were homemakers who sewed, tended gardens, canned fruit and vegetables, raised children, were involved in church activities, and took care of their households with a limited amount of money.  We had delicious meals with homegrown food, and entertainment was getting together with friends to play cards and share popcorn which did not cost much money. We had fun just being together.   

       Over the years, she made many clothes for me and my dolls.  As I became older, she made sure that I learned to sew so I started making clothes for myself, and as a mother, I sewed for my family too. 

       This tradition included my grandmother, an excellent seamstress, who had  taught her daughters to sew.  Over the years, she had made me some memorable items, some of which, I still have.  One Christmas she produced a wedding dress for my Terry Lee doll that  was magnificent to an 8 year old girl.  That doll graced my bed each day for years, dressed in her white, pearl studded gown.  In high school, I received a black pleated skirt that was top fashion which I wore and wore.  For my high school prom, she designed a short white, long sleeved jacket to wear with my long, white formal gown.  I felt like a princess.  I am sure that none of these items cost a huge amount of money compared to what gifts cost now but all took a sacrifice of time.  They were created with love and were remembered fondly long after toys that became lost, broken, or just forgotten.

      As a mother, I realize that the gifts we give that take our time, energy, and come from the heart are the most memorable and lasting.  Expensive, faddish gifts might be exciting at the time, but are usually fleeting while gifts of the heart remain for a lifetime.

     A tall, thin man left a rather dilapidated house and walked down the dusty, dry street in a small Cuban town.  Members of our mission team were shocked to see his unique glasses which were lenses attached with rubber bands.  My husband, Alan, and I looked at each other in amazement and said, “That man needs new glasses.”  Our proposed mission to Cuba had been to test and provide reading glasses to underprivileged citizens, but the government had thwarted our plans. Now we saw an opportunity to quietly do our mission.

     Alan and Tom quickly took off to catch him.  After a couple of blocks, they stopped him and with limited Spanish and hand signals let him know that they wanted to give him glasses.  Fortunately, he followed them back to our group where he was given more detailed instructions and agreed to appear at Marissa’s Aunt Rita’s home at an appointed time.

    Our group waited expectantly for him to arrive.  Alan had placed two chairs side by side so that he could check the man’s eyes with his reading chart.  The man modeled hand signals to mimic what he was seeing, and Alan determined which strength of glasses he would need.  I selected a pair of glasses from our limited supply which he tried on. When asked if he could read, he proudly announced that he had gone to the eighth grade.  Alan found John 3:16 in the Bible and asked him to read it.  As team members looked on with smiles on their faces, the man began reading.  However, he did not stop but continued reading–unwilling to quit.  It was as if he could not get enough of the scriptures.  With tears in our eyes, we listened as the interpreter pronounced that it had been 25 years since he had had glasses of his own.  During that time, he had fashioned glasses from pieces he had found which explained why he was using rubber bands to hold the lenses onto his ears.  The expression on his face was priceless as he was finally able to see clearly after so many long years.  What inventiveness and perseverance he displayed as he made the best of his situation.  Alan gave him two pair of glasses since he would probably not be able to get glasses if his broke.

     Seeing him so happy was enough reason for our trip, but the story got even better.  Aunt Rita told us that he had been such a blessing to her mother when she broke her hip.  Every morning he appeared to pick her up from her bed and place her on a chair for the day.  At night he would return to pick her up and put her back into her bed.  For two years he did that every day without fail.  He thought of her and did not quit when it became tiresome or inconvenient.  I thought of that gentle man who had so little but who gave so much.  Then I thought of those who have so much but who give so little.  What a profound lesson was taught by that dear man to a group of Americans who had gone to Cuba to help but learned what real service is all about.

     Tiny, dingy apartments clutter old Havana and provide a glimpse of the poverty of the residents.  Doors and shutters hang askew on dark, forlorn entries.  Once beautiful, ornate railings border balconies while crumbling stairs lead to upstairs apartments.

     As I stared at window after window, I had to constantly watch my steps to keep from falling over broken curbs, street rubble, and trash.  I also had to dodge water being tossed from buckets on overhead balconies.  A lady was disposing of her mop water with no regard for those who were walking along the street.  That seemed to be the mode of trash and water removal.

      I became used to seeing towels, sheets, shirts, and underwear hanging on clotheslines from small balconies.  However, one day I noticed something different and kept staring at it until I was close enough to distinguish what it was.  I was shocked and saddened to discover disposable diapers drying in the hot sun.  The mother in that home was doing the best that she could with what she had for her child.  I wondered how many times those diapers had been used, and I thought of all of the diapers that are used in the US every day.  What other sacrifices was that mother making to take care of her family?  Again, I was reminded of how fortunate we are to live in America. 

    For a week I had thought of  turning on the faucet, filling a glass with pure water, and drinking it.  How thankful I was to also be able to brush my teeth, let the cool water run over my brush, and rinse my mouth.  Those seemingly small pleasures are not common in Cuba because of the poor water quality or even the lack of water.  We had been told to not drink the water so bottled water was all that we used during our stay which was rather inconvenient.

     However, when we visited Marissa’s aunt Rita, I observed real inconvenience.  In her small town residents had to catch rainwater since there was no running water.  She had a series of plastic water pipes and a large container to hold the water.  From the looks of the dusty town, rain was not plentiful.  To help them out, the government had given her a pot to boil the water so that it would be safe for consumption.  She then stored drinking water in plastic bottles. 

     Her tiny bathroom had a sink, shower, and toilet, but water had to be carried into the house in order to even use the facilities.

      She brought in a bucket of water so that the toilet would work.  When I needed to wash my hands, she motioned for me to wait and then returned with a container of water which she slowly poured over my hands.  She smiled as she gave me a towel and let me know that it was clean.  In her halting English and with a huge smile, she said, “This is such a blessing to me.”  I was so humbled to think that she felt a blessing to be serving me by pouring water on my hands.  Such a simple act done with love made a tremendous impact on me.  I thought of the way Jesus served His disciples by washing their feet.  Aunt Rita was serving just the way that Jesus had taught.  What a beautiful lesson I learned that day.