Out the Back Porch

Della, Eileen and Frank on the front porch at 153 Oak.

It made a sound like a rifle, but it was not a rifle. It was a simple, wooden screen door that Ira had outfitted with a heavy-duty steel spring mechanism that snapped it shut with a resounding CRACK! every time we barreled through. That sudden report was very telling, and it immediately identified the unseen visitor by name and reputation. If the sound were loud, convulsive and echoing, for example, one immediately knew that it was Susan, running at top speed through the kitchen, out the door and down the steps to the garden beyond. If there was a hesitancy to the point of a softer, double knock, it was Donna, stepping out on the back porch to evaluate Susan's activities and decide whether or not she wished to participate. If, having been held open as far as possible and then let go until the door slapped shut with a noise like a cannon, it was me--just for the sake of pure cussedness.

The door wasn't always disruptive of the neighborhood, however. There were lazy days of summer when--two houses down--you could hear it open and shut with a sense of quiet satisfaction that merged with the rising song of the cicadas in the backyard mulberry tree. It was a good bet, then, that whoever had walked through that door did so with a cold glass of lemonade or, even more enticing, an oversize cone of ice cream. We heard--and responded to--that siren call better than any plaintive shouting of our names.

Summer's heat was kept at bay in other ways as well. Kathleen had birthday parties in the backyard with a small, inflatable pool and a handful of swimsuit-clad friends. Better yet, we ran through the hose, spraying each other and shrieking until Dad--aggravated with the sound and lacking conversation with Kate, Ira and Della--came out to warn us that excitability (that most childlike of emotional experiences) led rapidly down a darkening path to "somebody" getting hurt.

Our forays into the yard on summer Saturdays were curtailed by the line of wash stretched across the backyard. A sturdy cotton rope sailed from the back porch to a pole set in the ground.The long, lazy sections--heavy with sparkling white linens--were propped up with gray, weathered lumber Ira had specifically cut for the purpose. Too short for laundry folding duty, we were tasked with policing the clothesline and ensuring that Kate's pristine wash didn't touch the ground and that the summer winds, which lifted the maples with sudden soaring sighs, didn't carry away her sheets.

It was the tiniest of yards and yet, to a child, it was the largest of worlds with plenty of opportunity for adventure and exploration. A mysterious old well, filled in with a century of trash and dirt, beckoned to the archaeologist in me, and I happily dug and scrabbled in the dirt for hours on end. I was fascinated with the shiny, soft pieces of jet I found, not caring that they were actually humble chips of coal intended for the home's original heating system. Susan, Donna, Becky and Colleen almost always played in the garden, picking flowers and weaving them into strands so they could play "wedding" or some other game specifically designed to proceed without male accompaniment (hence my fascination with coal).

In summer, rainy days were filled with storm, and Kate, Ira and Della were keen to keep us occupied and away from the windows where, we were sternly assured, we could draw the lightning cast down from above. Those were the afternoons when we huddled around the dining room table and collaborated on one of Della's many puzzles. She would assign each of us a particular section, reserving the expert challenge of a cloudless blue sky for herself if only to keep us children from becoming frustrated.

Nights were sometimes stifling in summer's open window heat and humidity, and yet they were always magical in the safety and security they provided. There was never any fear of the dark or longing for Mom and Dad in the middle of the night--just the soft, warm, enveloping sense of home and the promise of a bright tomorrow.

The Facts of Faith

Kate, Helen and Susan at Oak Street, 1960.

Faith, we are told, is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen. And while it may seem ephemeral to some, real faith is a thing of fact--not possibility. At least it was that way for my grandmother Kate.

Few people have impressed me more in the course of my life than she did with her steady, firm walk with God and her distinct, clear viewpoint that continually weighed matters in God's terms. Her personal strength and unimpeachable character were second only to her unswerving faith, and she continues to serve as an example of right living to me and the rest of my family.

Things were never gray with Kate. Either they were pleasing to God or they were not. And yet, she wasn't rigid or unbending. She was experienced enough in life and wise enough about people to only feel compassion for those around her and an urgent need to do what was necessary to improve their condition.

Once, I am told, she stood before the Elgin Bible Church congregation after the Sunday morning service offering had been taken to announce she would be at the back of the church with the Pastor to take a second offering to send to the Petersons, longtime missionaries who were headed back to their posting in Taiwan. Short of funds, clothing and supplies, they were stuck in California. As family friend Betty Rommel recalls, "Kate said she knew we had money left in our pockets."

Later, at the evening service, it was announced that enough money had been collected and wired to the Petersons to pay their passage and to outfit the entire family. "It took a lot of courage to do what she did," said Betty.

Courage, in fact, was one of Kate's many traits. She was also bold, intelligent, determined and generous to a fault. In the mid 1930s, after she and her children had returned to Elgin from the family farm, her home became a neighborhood ministry of sorts to the homeless drifters that ranged up and down the nearby rail lines. "Hobos," as she called them, would come to the back door asking for food. Kate would sit them down on the back steps while she fixed them a generous plate. While they ate, she would hand them an inspirational tract and talk to them about Christ and the transformative power He offered for their lives.

While Kate's cooking earned their gratitude, her message held their interest because she spoke to them from her own personal experience. She knew the pain and constraints of poverty. She, too, had experienced inexplicable loss and grief. She, too, knew the struggle of doing what was best rather than what was easiest. How many of those men sought God in response to her sharing I don't know. However, I do know that she held them responsible for the message she'd imparted, and I know that, having planted the seed, she was certain that God would do the harvesting.

Faith was the backbone of Kate's life, and it grew out of the facts of her personal experience. It's hard, sometimes, to equate my own personal struggles with hers because they pale in comparison. Hers was, at times, a hardscrabble life and yet, looking back, I am hard pressed to recall the evidence of it. Good food, laughter, fellowship and prayer overflowed in her home. To my eyes and my recollection, there was never any lack--only an abundance of blessings from God and the concrete evidence of things unseen.

Ira's Perfect Peace

Donald Murray and Ira at Oak Street.

Mother's Day is fast approaching, and I find it curious that it's my grandfather who is most on my mind. A modest, quiet man of short stature, he looms very large over my childhood and still remains as an exceptional example of a Christian man. In my mind, he also serves to give me a well deserved kick in the pants. This past year or so of unemployment has not been easy, and I have skirmished with depression from time to time. Self pity drops by occasionally and that's when Ira pays a visit, too.

My grandfather had, by all accounts, a harsh life. Orphaned at the age of three (both of his parents died of tuberculosis), he was passed around from cousin to cousin until he found a home with the Sneed family outside McLeansboro, IL. However, in actuality, it was not a home but a place of employment as the Sneeds had hired Ira to help work their family farm. It was there he met and fell in love with my grandmother Kate. Soon after they began their romance, however, Ira was sent to Europe to fight in World War I. If memory serves, he was wounded and sent back home where he and Kate decided to make a go of farming and raise a family.

Over the next several decades, Ira and Kate endured some of the most difficult circumstances anyone could ever face. Thanks to their strong Christian faith, they survived the tragic deaths of their first and last born sons, endured years of separation during the Great Depression, gave up their farm, bought a house and raised three children to adulthood--all on Ira's meager salary. By today's terms of success, he did not measure up. And yet, looking at him, one could only admire the man for his quiet joy and overwhelming sense of peace.

I think the secret to Ira's true success is the fact that faith and belief were the foundation on which their home was built. They were a given. In short, they knew no other way of living. They didn't concern themselves with a lot of material things (they had no appeal), and they were certainly not interested in trying to impress anyone. They knew that God would provide for them and they lived with that certain knowledge every day.

It's why Ira used to laugh so much at Buck Owens and Roy Clark on "Hee Haw" when they sang, "Doom, despair and agony on me. Deep, dark depression, excessive misery. If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. Doom, despair and agony on me."

I can still hear Ira laughing every time self pity drops by for a visit. He reminds me that it's an exercise in futility and that I need to stop fussing and let God do the driving. Kate, of course, was very familiar with this concept of surrender. She made it a centerpiece of her home when she asked Alice Schaefer--my mother's best friend and one of the many missionaries Kate and Ira supported--to make a painting of her favorite Bible verse. For over a decade Isaiah 26:3 prominently hung in her dining room, and it still stands as a legacy from both my grandparents.

Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee. (Isaiah 26:3)