Building Project

From the meticulous placing of survey stakes,

 

 

the first tentative scrapings of heavy equipment digging the basement,

 

 

concise placing of massive concrete blocks,

 

 

and synchronized pouring and finishing of concrete,

 

 

to the placing of floor, walls, and rafters,

 

 

giant crane lifting roof beams,

 

  

and complicated placing of the maze of wires, pipes, and septic components, the building addition to our church has become a reality. Did we truly envision how this would be?

 

 Throughout the entire process, each one has had to do their part.

 

 

First, the builders: individual workers - specialists in supervising, surveying, masonry, electrical systems, drainage, construction, roofing, finishing, ad infinitum - have needed to show up, prepared and able to do their job.

 

 

Then, the rest of us: also individuals with varying degrees of interest and ability to help in whatever way possible.

 

 

Some have the dedication, expertise, and time to devote many hours weekly to helping work on-site.

 

 

Others busily plan finishing work - painting, flooring, equipment, furnishings, sound system, and landscaping.

 

 

 

  Some offer encouragement, prayers, warm cookies, and smiles.

 

It has not all been a "piece of cake" because there have been unkind words, frowns, worried looks, and tense moments... sometimes more than just moments. Not all has gone smoothly or exactly as planned. Malfunctioning or missing equipment, incorrect materials, misunderstood information, unforeseen complications, and just plain "goofball" situations have a way of cropping up and muddying the waters, so to speak.

 

 

Flexibility has been needed - and will continue to be - to deal with all the messiness of this building project. 

 

I have no doubt that we will, ultimately, "get 'er done". I firmly believe that this group of people does whatever they set their mind to do; this building has been a looong time coming!

 

  

As summer passes on and the building proceeds towards completion, it is time for each person to ask themselves what more they can do.

 

  

In many ways, the completion of this building is really just a beginning. We each must seriously contemplate and plan for whatever we are able to contribute, whether that be money, committee work, physical labor, food, prayer, encouragement, and/or ideas and planning  for future uses of all this new space.
 

Someday in the future, each of us, our children, grandchildren, or friends will look back and remember this building experience.

 

  

All of the planning, money, blood, sweat, tears, satisfaction, and joy will be remembered as a major milestone in the history of this small church.

 

  

We need to be sure we are each a part of it now.

 

 

In life, any building project is uncertain, messy, challenging - yet exhilarating. Still, to change and grow we must build upon what is today until it becomes tomorrow. Blindly, or with determination, we must step forth in faith...

 

And exactly when will this building process be complete? Probably never - and that is a good thing.

 

In him the whole building is joined together

and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord.

And in him you too are being built together

to become a dwelling

in which God lives by his Spirit.

Ephesians 2:21-22
 

Dad's Discipline

Nothing could ever wilt me like that look from my father. A kind and gentle man, he was not one to lift a finger to discipline his children. He didn't need to - that look said it all.

Although I never knew the specifics, I remember him telling me the reason for this. His own father, my grandfather, disciplined his seven children the same way. That was because, as a child in 1800's Germany, he was treated much rougher. When he misbehaved, or was even perceived to do so, his father took him to the cellar and beat him unmercifully with a leather belt. The lessons took, but in a different way than his father might have expected - my grandfather vowed to never lay a hand on his own children. Apparently, he never did - thus, my father didn't either. My dad said that his dad rarely even raised his voice, but what he said, and how he looked, was enough to make a lasting impression. My dad learned that method well, because all three of us knew the look and responded accordingly. I'm certainly grateful that the cycle of abuse ended with his father...

 Raised in a family business, I was around my parents most of the time and I'm sure underfoot a lot. Both my parents were patient and loving, but I always knew when enough was enough. If pushed to the limit, Mom would spank; Dad spoke sternly and gave the look. I only remember one time, when I was around three or four, when Dad lost his cool with me. He was doing some sort of work on the stairs that led to the attic where my two older sisters slept. I kept stepping up and down on them, right smack-dab in the middle of where he was working. He spoke to me several times, but I ignored him and continued with my little game. Finally, in exasperation, he slapped me on the rear. I burst into tears, my dignity injured much more than my hiney, I'm sure. In a gentle voice, he explained that I needed to do what I was told to do - a lesson I never forgot!

I did, and still do, have great respect for my father. As I look back on my growing-up years, it's easy to see why; he always treated me with respect, even as he disciplined me. Most of the time, both of my parents took the time to explain why what I was doing was not what they expected of me. They concentrated on my actions, not on me as a person, and I think this made all the difference. As I matured, I grew to realize that I did not agree with all of their expectations, but I still respected them and how they felt. My father and I had many heated discussions through the years, and sometimes we simply had to agree to disagree. That, also, has served me well, for I learned that one can love and respect another, but not agree with them on all things.

I am - as my father was, and his father before him - a product of my upbringing and the times. One of my favorite sweatshirts bears the saying: Women who behave rarely make history. Perhaps this is the rebel in me - I was always expected to "behave", but I was also a tomboy and had a stubborn mind of my own. My dad knew this and, although he might not completely agree with this saying, he understood that not all rules are fair. He also knew that we need not always follow along blindly simply because society has certain expectations. Each of us has the right to think, to question, and to strive to be our own person, as we also consider others and the greater needs of society.

I always knew that my father loved me, even when he said "No." Strict, kind, determined, always a gentleman - that was my dad. I carry a part of him with me still, and often when I'm faced with a decision I hear the echo of his voice: "Be a good girl - do the right thing..." Of course, it may depend on just how you define "good" and it isn't always easy to know what the "right" thing is, but I keep trying to aim in that direction. It all boils down to respect, I think; you raised me well, Dad.

Moreover, we have all had human fathers who disciplined us and we respected them for it. How much more should we submit to the Father of our spirits and live! Our fathers disciplined us for a little while as they thought best; but God disciplines us for our good, that we may share in his holiness. No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.          Hebrews 12:9-11

(It was one heck of a good dance, Dad...)

Island of Three

The stomping of feet in the entry
Coat, hat, and boots removed
Hands rubbing together, Dad enters
"It's thirty below out there!"

Soup's on the stove bubbling away
Table's set - bread and leftover roast
Warms his hands over the radiator
"We need a Chinook."

At the big bay window
Mom talks to the bird
Gives him fresh seed
Waters plants, removes dead leaves

Wind beats at the window
Driving hard grains of snow
The stove is our center
Full of warmth and good smells

She scoops out the soup
With an old chipped cup
"Soup's on - come and get it..."
Our noon meal begins

There's talk of the greenhouse
The orders they've filled
Whose funeral's this weekend
What wedding's next week

After lunch there's deliveries
Do I want to ride along?
"Maybe..." for I know the layers
It takes just to walk out the door

"Go on, it'll do you good
Blow the stink off ..."
Mom's face is dead serious
Twinkling eyes give her away

I help clear the dishes
While Dad has his nap
Mom answers the phone
Writes out the orders

She pulls on her coat
Heads over to the store
Dad warms up the VW
Carries out the bouquets

Grab my mittens from the radiator
Step into my boots
Push open the storm door
Walk the shoveled path

Mom minds the business
While we make the rounds
A stop for pie and coffee
Hot cocoa for me

Darkness comes early
Lights twinkle on
As we drive down the alley
Through the drifts in the yard

"I need to lock up"
Dad says, "You go on."
I stomp my boots as he did
Hang my coat by the door

Mom's started our dinner
Kitchen's cheery and warm
I set the table and chatter
Telling all that I'd seen

The stomping of feet in the entry
"The boiler's holdin' its own"
Heating houses of glass isn't easy
When it's thirty below out there

Conversation and meals
Always went hand in hand
The household and business a blend
That I still contemplate

We three were an island
I realize now
In the midst of the cold
Montana winter

Daddy's Little(st) Girl

"Was I an accident?"

My dad was adept at dodging sticky questions; Mom was blunt and to the point - "Aren't they all?" It was years later that I began to see the wisdom of her answer, which was the only one I ever got to that question.

Born when my parents were in early-middle age and my two sisters were teenagers, I did wonder if that was the case. It did not matter, however, as I was no less loved nor nurtured nor disciplined than my older siblings. Raised mostly as an only child, without actually being an only child, put me in an interesting position in our family.

Raised in a rather patriarchal German family, with five brothers and one sister, there was no doubt that my dad idolized his daughters. It was no secret that he would have cherished a son and undoubtedly wished he had one to pass the family business on to. But that was not to be, and he made the best of it.

When I think back to what my father did with his life, I have tremendous admiration for him. Beginning life in Iowa, he moved with his family when he was six to a hard-scrabble homestead on the prairies of eastern Montana. Times were tough; the family could not succeed on that land and moved to town to work in the greenhouse business. As was not uncommon then, Dad quit school after eighth grade to work and help support the family. After years of hard work, meeting and marrying my mother, and more years of hard work, they bought their own floral/greenhouse business. Times were still tough, but they began to make headway - it is no wonder, really. They were equal partners, but I'm thinking of Dad today, so will concentrate on him.

When they were established in their community and business, and I was barely a toddler, Dad and Mom bought an older house in good shape from a defunct mining town outside of town. With minimal help, Dad disassembled part of it, hired someone with a big truck, and moved it into town next to the business, where they proceeded to make it a home. Living right next to your business has pluses and minuses, of course, but it did allow me to be raised by parents who were always right there - not exactly stay-at-homers, but the next best thing.

And so my dad was always nearby and I observed him closely. He was, first and foremost, a grower - with two large greenhouses to plant and maintain. He built the long wooden benches, poured the concrete sidewalks, mixed and hauled the soil. He planted, fertilized, watered, sprayed, and picked what he grew; climbed up on top to replace broken glass panes (all greenhouses were made of glass back then.) and maintained a boiler in the basement for hot-water heat for both the business and our home. He was a designer - turning out large baskets, funeral sprays and casket pieces, corsages and rose arrangements lickety-split. He took evening business courses and was a meticulous record-keeper, delivered every order himself for many years and somehow found the time to remodel the house and maintain the yard. For many years, he worked 12 hour days...And yes, he found time for us - small snippets of time, perhaps, but all the more treasured. Besides, I was under foot - a LOT!

Dad was tall, thin, with premature gray hair and a winning smile. He followed a strict code of ethics and was one of the kindest, gentlest, most honest people I have ever known. Being a total tomboy, I guess I was the closest thing to a son that he was to ever have. We both knew, however, that I could never fill that role and it caused us both some grief. I'm ashamed to admit that I teased and badgered him unmercifully sometimes, especially during my teen years, but he rode it all out - his dignity still intact.

Although he's been gone for many years now, sometimes the slightest thing will bring back a crystal-clear memory of him as if he's still here. I think of things I want to tell him, things I said, or wished I'd said; I want to apologize for things I did and tell him how much I love him. I have a long list of questions I'll never have answered.

As to whether or not I was "an accident", I now know that does not really matter - for I was very much cherished and will always be Daddy's Little(st) Girl.