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)

A Phone Call from India

A Facebook friend recently shared a story about her cousin, a young college girl named Devya who died tragically last month in the coastal city of Goa, India after being struck by a hit-and-run driver.

Like many twentysomethings, Devya's life revolved around her phone. She even worked as a customer service rep for ATT Wireless in one of India's many call centers. She and her boyfriend Rajan were considered by their friends to be soul mates, in part because they spent so much of their free time talking on the phone (Rajan lived several hundred miles away in Mumbai). Friends said they never saw her without her phone and constantly asked her advice on which phone to buy and which service provider to use.

Given that Devya spent so many hours on the phone, she urged Rajan and her friends to use ATT (her carrier) so they could all be on the same network and save money. In fact, she was so passionate about her phone that she made her friends and family promise that, if the unthinkable were to ever happen, they would cremate her with her phone.

After Devya's untimely death, her body was prepared for ritual cremation. However, the attendants were surprised to find that they could not lift the body when it came time to transport the body to the ghats. Even when several members of the family volunteered to help, they could not lift the bier. Being highly superstitious, the family decided to consult a local Brahmin in hopes of communicating with the dead girl's spirit and sorting out the situation.

The Brahmin arrived with a great deal of pomp and circumstance not the least because the whole neighborhood was eagerly watching the unfolding spectacle. After burning incense, chanting mantras and invoking Hanuman (and Ganesh just to be safe) he picked up a stick and called to the dead girl's soul.

After a few minutes, the Brahmin lifted his face to the hushed crowd and said, "This girl is missing something." As the neighbors and other onlookers set up a murmuring buzz, her friends pushed their way to the front of the crowd where they told the Brahmin about Devya's fervent wish that she be cremated with her phone--a desire that, until now, had been entirely overlooked and forgotten. A cousin or a niece was sent running to the house to retrieve it--SIM card and all--and it was placed into the dead girl's hand after which the attendants easily lifted the bier and carried her to the ghats.

It was a spectacular pyre--everyone insisted it was the best of the season--with high, spiraling flames of red and green. Surely, they said, Devya's soul had been successfully released from this world and speedily sent on its journey to its next incarnation. The circumstances surrounding Devya's death and cremation were so unusual that the entire neighborhood talked about it for weeks, and yet no one remembered to contact Rajan and inform him of his beloved's death.

Two weeks later, however, Rajan called Devya's mother.

"Aunty," said Rajan. "I'm coming home later today. Please cook something nice for me, but don't tell Devya that I'm coming home. I want it to be a surprise."

Devya's mother, startled at the realization that Rajan was still unaware of Devya's death (and kicking herself for it), stammered, "You just come straight here when you get home. We want to talk to you about something very important."

When Rajan arrived, Devya's parents sat him down and immediately told him about the accident in which Devya had been killed. Rajan, however, was convinced that it was all a joke. He laughed and laughed, "I know you're trying to fool me! She's not dead. Stop it now. Tell Devya to come out from wherever she's hiding. I brought a gift for her all the way from Mumbai."

Shocked and a little uncomfortable, Devya's parents pressed their case by presenting Rajan with Devya's death certificate and showing him the pictures of the funeral pyre they'd taken with their ATT phones. Rajan, subdued and sweating now, murmured, "No, no, It's not true. It can't be true. We just spoke yesterday. She's been calling me everyday."

Rajan was shaking his head back and forth when his phone suddenly rang. Everyone jumped and Rajan gasped. "See! This call--it's from Devya! Look! Look for yourselves!"

He held the phone out to the family so they could each see the familiar number on the display.

"Answer!" said Devya's mother eagerly. "Answer!"

"Hello? Hello?"

"Rajan!" Devya's voice responded loud and strong. "It's Devya! When are you coming home? I want to see you!"

Horrified, Rajan dropped the phone and lost the connection.

"It was her!" said Devya's mother. "It was her! How is that possible?! We burned her phone!"

"The SIM card!" shouted Rajan. "Someone has her SIM card!"

"No! No!" said the mother. "The Brahmin insisted that we leave the SIM card in her phone. We burned that with her, too!"

"Call the Brahmin!" insisted Devya's father. "He fixed this the first time. Maybe he can fix this, too."

Once again a call was made for the Brahmin and once again word of what happened spread like wildfire through the neighborhood until hundreds of people crowded around the house watching and waiting to see what would happen. The Brahmin, nervous about the crowd, brought along his master to advise him on what was becoming an increasingly complex situation.

Together the two Brahmins burned incense, invoked the entire Hindu pantheon (including Kali, just to be safe), picked up sticks and called to the dead girl's soul. The pair hunched over their sticks, rocked back and forth and chanted for hours as they struggled to pierce the veil between the worlds and connect with Devya's spirit.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Rajan loudly blurted "Well? Have you contacted her? Was it really her that called? Is she calling from beyond the grave?"

"We're not sure," sighed the older Brahmin. "We keep getting sent straight to voice mail."

Note: This story is based on a joke making the rounds on Facebook.

It's a Dog's Life

My (late) best friend Blake.

I am convinced that Christians are dogs. Before you get upset, please understand that's a good thing because I am equally convinced that God is a passionate dog lover. Not only that, but God is a dog walker. He doesn't just open the back door and expect us all to hang out in the back yard (even if it is fenced).

Instead, he patiently snaps on a lead and takes us out into the world on a nice, long walk--just the thing we need to stay active and healthy.

Being dogs, we tend to get distracted easily. We find something to sniff and we can get all caught up in that moment of success and bliss. If it's really something extraordinary, we'll want to roll around in it a bit. We may even plop right down and say, "This is good. In fact, it's great. Thank you God!" and we'll fully expect to stay right there. But God isn't done. He pulls on the lead.

"C'mon, that's enough now, time to go."

"Go? But I want to stay here. This is perfect. This is what I've been looking for, I'm very happy right here, thank you."

We dig our heels in and pull back on the lead, determined to stay right there. No way, no how are we going to budge.

Like dogs, we can be happy in that extended moment--satisfied, even. But God has bigger plans. He wants to take us all the way around the block, past the park and back again. He knows that there are an infinite number of interesting, happy, successful smells all along the way. There are other dogs to meet and sniff and play with, too. What's more, he knows that rest and refreshment are waiting at home. Those who do as he asks along the way will get a nice, long belly scratch at the end. There's even the strong likelihood of a long nap by his side.

So the next time I get satisfied with myself and my situation, I'm going to try very hard to listen a little more closely to God's commands. After all, who doesn't like a nice, long belly scratch?

Just a Closer Walk With Thee

Susan and Donna with Cheryll, 1970.

The older I get, the more skeptical I become about the veracity of my memory. Everyone has a pocket full of stories they tell over and over until they become etched in stone. Time, however, tends to wear away that stone until the stories lack detail and focus. So, please continue to indulge me as I write these things down before they're completely wiped from my memory.

Years and years ago (okay, it was 1970) I was at Oak Street when my cousin Kathleen brought her daughter Cheryll over for a visit. Cheryll had recently started to walk and Kathleen wanted to share that milestone with our grandmother, Kate.

Having lost her first child as an infant, Kate could sometimes exhibit an overprotective nature when it came to others' children. In other words, sometimes she meddled. Just a bit.

We were sitting in the living room playing with Cheryll and Kate was watching her with a critical eye as she pulled herself up, took a step and fell flat on her face. After this had happened three or four times, Kate felt compelled to give her opinion.

"Kathleen, there's something wrong with that child," she said.

"What do you mean?" asked Kathleen.

"Well, just look at her. She can't walk."

"Well, grandma," Kathleen chuckled, "she only just started walking last week."

"No, no, LOOK at her. She's not moving her legs. She's not taking steps. She just stands up and falls. Something's wrong with her hip. See that? She's dragging her right leg. You need to get this child to a doctor. NOW."

"Well, I don't know about that but," Kathleen sniffed the air and made a face. "Whoo! One thing's definitely sure. She needs changing."

"I'll do it," said Kate as she looked through the diaper bag. "Where's her rubber pants?"

"She's wearing them," said Kathleen. "I put them on her this morning."

Kate took Cheryll to the other room when, about a minute later, we heard a squawk and a sharp peal of laughter.

"Of all things..." Kate called out as she carried Cheryll back in. "No wonder she can't walk! The last time you changed her, you put both of her legs through the same hole in her rubber pants!"

Hail to the Bus

We may look sweet, but Dad knew better!

I do not deny it. We were terrible children, and I share this fact with my nieces and nephews quite often. My father, were he alive today, would be equally adamant on that point. True, we spent a great deal of time in school--away from the house. But come summer, we were home to roost.

When I was six or seven, the children in our neighborhood traveled in packs, roaming from one backyard to the next sampling the different swing-sets (they may be old hat today but when we were kids, they were the bomb). We'd shimmy up the brightly painted poles or slither down the short (and lightning hot) metal slide or stretch our toes out at the clouds while swaying to and fro on the swings.

After swing-sets, we moved on to bicycles and ramps, kites, four-square or a game of tennis in the street. We also made a habit of harassing the city bus driver every time he passed through the neighborhood. We'd hide in the bushes until the bus was two or three doors away and then run pell mell to the curb where we would pretend to be ignorant savages. We'd drop to our knees, throw our arms up in the air and press our foreheads to the ground, bowing repeatedly and screaming, "Hail to the bus! Hail to the bus!"

In short, it seemed we always found something to do. That's a really good thing because while idle hands are the devil's workplace, an idle child is Satan's theme park. Whether we found trouble or trouble found us is irrelevant. The fact is, we were synonymous with it. Like, for example, the time I locked myself in the trunk of my grandfather's car--with the keys. Or the time I thought it would be fun to play in the clothes dryer as it tumbled a load of bedsheets. Or the time when my sister and I lost our brand new tennis shoes when we took them off to wade across nearby Tyler Creek. Or the time we piled into my father's new car and someone kicked the gear shift out of park and we went rolling down the driveway into the street where we left it.

However, on one particularly lazy, sweltering day we found ourselves bored cold. Enervated and listless, we were eager for change. Change was quick to come. To the north of us a wail rose up even as, to the south of us, the cry of "FIRE!" went up to meet it. The open field behind our house was ablaze. Now, what kid doesn't love a good fire?

We rushed out to the fire's leading edge and watched as the neighbors battled the blaze with water, brooms, boards, feet--anything to stem the flow of flame. We all joined the fight with abandon, shouting words of warning or encouragement and even contributing a stomping foot or two for the cause of community service. Unfortunately, children and fire--a heady, exciting mix on paper--don't actually mix well so it should have come as no surprise when we suddenly found ourselves alone and trapped on a small peninsula in Tyler Creek with steep banks.

Believe it or not, we didn't panic. Instead, we exulted. We'd pined for excitement and here it was! Racing up and down along the line of fire we probed for weaknesses, joined hands and then dashed through the smallest area of flame to safety. Running three feet through flames three or four inches high may be no great feat but we were exhilarated with our daring and thrilled with our accomplishment. That is until we were scooped up by three hysterical mothers who, while screaming themselves hoarse reciting our names, had already devised a series of punishments for our sense of adventure.

And then, of course, there were the nights.

There are so many things we did as kids back then that would horrify us if our kids did them today. Some people would say that the world has changed too much, but we weren't really allowed to do those things in the first place.

Summer nights were full of forbidden delights. The games began just after dinner when the neighborhood gang would gather on my front stoop and vote on the night's agenda. Sometimes we would converge on the dirt "fort" we'd built in the open fields behind our house and ride our bikes up and down the hills of dirt that had been dumped there. Other times we would tempt fate by spying on the older, teenage boys from the neighborhood who could be found drinking cheap beer and smoking cigarettes around small fires they'd made under the trees. They caught us once and locked us inside a storage shed for several hours in what was a simultaneously terrifying and thrilling adventure.

Always we begged for "10 minutes more!" when our mothers called. If we'd been seemingly well behaved enough, we would be allowed to sleep outside in a tent or in sleeping bags on someone's driveway. At two or three in the morning--long after our parents had fallen asleep--we'd walk about a mile up the street to the 7-11 on McLean Boulevard where we would wander up and down the aisles stocking up on candy bars and Twinkies.

Once back home to our designated tent or driveway, we would sit in a circle and tell dirty jokes or ghost stories or both since none of us knew many. The deep darkness was also perfect for hushed games of hide-and-seek, kick-the-can and tag. And, of course, spying on the neighbors. We spent a great deal of time laughing at ourselves and poking fun at one another while guessing at the constellations in the early morning sky. Tired at last, we crawled back to our makeshift beds for a few hours of sleep to ensure we'd be ready for another summer day.

A great deal of my childhood was spent unsupervised. I can't imagine what impact the presence of a parent would have had on all the things we did. All things considered, it was a pretty good childhood, and we got away with murder. It's a wonder we all survived it. I just hope my nieces and nephews can say the same 20 years from now.