Breathing Room

Breathing Room

By John W. Vander Velden

 

When your child leaves the home, you wonder what your purpose is.  You wonder what might be the best way to deal with this change.  For the relationship that had always existed – or had existed since you brought that child into the world – has taken a new dimension.  Perhaps I understood my son better than his mother.  Not that I loved him more, but no matter what anyone might say gender differences are deeper than physical appearance.  My son and I share “maleness”.  Seems narrow-minded doesn’t it.  But though how I grew up was much different than the world of my son, yet there are those constants, primal quantities, that most males share.  Those little things that at times annoy women and other times draws them near.  And among those things, the need to prove oneself reigns high.  The man needs -- really needs -- to prove himself a man.  He has this absolute requisite to prove to the world that he can “make it”, that he can stand on his own feet, that he must face life’s problems on his strength alone.  Others might find that ridiculous.  But to one just staring out, one venturing on their own, it is a difficult demand they place upon their selves. 

For a parent this is a moment when we must step back – to observe – to wait with our arms outstretched, to catch or pick up our beloved child, knowing they will fall – it’s inevitable.  But how much space must we allow?  Each parent faces this for the first time.  For me and Jackie it would be the only time.  I believe that the distance necessary is different in every case.  Based upon the independence and personality of the child and the experiences they take with them into this new realm.  Just how much breathing room do we, as parents, give someone as they leave on this new part of life’s journey?     

(320 Words)

 

The Point

The Point           

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The tent’s fabric shook as the wind tugged and pulled.  Lying within a sleeping bag, listening in the darkness, my mind went back to a movie I had seen years before, Scott in the Antarctic.  My brother and I had pitched his tent in a camping area, which in reality was no more than a harvested corn field in central Illinois.  Had Jim not tied our small shelter firmly to the rear bumper of his red Plymouth Horizon we might have tumbled all the way back to Indiana.

It had been ninety degrees when we set out that afternoon.  The deluge in Logansport, the thunderclaps and inches of rain came so swiftly, as we drove on.  The bank’s thermometers told how much the temperature fell as we made our way to the farm show.  Seldom had I dared to take more than a single day away from the demands of soil, sun, and cow.  The trip anticipated, an adventure for those not so old to fear sleeping on the ground. 

By the time we set up camp the rain had stopped.  A hoody needed as we fought the wind that had gone unhampered since crossing the Rockies.  The land here open, unlike home where hill and wood dotted the countryside.  A disc harrow had prepared the field for the thousands that had migrated for the event.  Only a few, the young, the bold, or the foolish, pitched their canvas contraptions among the trailers and RVs that September evening all those years ago, as the temperature continued its downward spiral.

If the wind’s roar insufficient, the RV, not six feet from our heads, ran his generator for hours.  The flop, flop, flop of our canvas and the drone of the Koehler made sleep impossible.  The tilled and soaked soil oozed beneath the floor to conform to our weary backs, a reasonable bed.  At last – sometime during the night -- the generator ceased its growl, only the constant flapping of the sail that our tent seemed to be, filled the night.  It became cold.  Coats worn within sleeping bags offered little room to rearrange long legs and space to refold my arms.  Yet somehow I slept.

Woken when our neighbor’s generator started once again, followed by an apology, “Sorry guys but my wife needs her coffee.”  Which seemed reasonable considering day’s first light had not yet arrived.  I buried my head mumbling something like, “This is fun,”  “Boy is it cold,” and “What happened to the air in here…it’s rank!”  We found out later that the temperature had dropped into the thirties.  

Forced at last from our tent by biological need, we made our way across irregular soggy soil to facilities – temporary blue boxes standing in a neat row for all visitor’s convenience.  When the show officially opened and breakfast found and devoured we began to investigate.  Though we had attended The Farm Progress Show before, never did we have a whole day see so many of the wonders.  It had always been drive out and back within the same calendar date.  Often the show more than three hours from home shortened the period available. 

We closed the place down when at last we made our way to tent yet bound to the auto.  Another night sleeping on the ground which had hardened in the most uncomfortable manner was not restful.  Yet it was an adventure I will always remember.  Sometime we forget that the simple things are the things most important.  That time shivering within the flapping canvas, or lying upon lumpy soil can mean more than we ever expect.  For I don’t remember much of the exhibits we visited, or the field trials of the newest equipment meant to tempt us, but I do remember the time shared with my younger brother – and maybe that is the point.  

(638 Words)

    

In Words Unspoken

In Words Unspoken                                   

By John W. Vander Velden 

I had the joy of knowing a couple, let’s call them “Mary” and “John”, in what some might call their “Golden Years”.  Any that knew the delightful couple understood how they felt about each other.  Actions often speak and we knew just how much love they shared.  However even those blind to the obvious, saw “Mary’s” devastation at her husband’s passing. 

I wrote “Mary” a short note, sharing how I had met “John” and the kindness he had always shown.  You see “John” changed my life.  Each of us have those people – those people that just by living, lift those around them.  “John” was a kind caring individual, a person we would all hope to meet one day.  Later “Mary” approached me, telling how grateful she felt at my kind words.  She had no idea that “John” had touched my life in that way, but not really surprised.  “It’s just the kind of man he was,” she had said.

Years later “Mary” told me a story, of a couple early in their marriage.  Their lives were hard then, as many newlyweds can attest.  And the woman felt things more difficult than it should have been.  She abandoned her husband for another man.  Just left him.  With time’s passing she realized how great a mistake she had made.  Returning to her husband, she pleaded for forgiveness, certain that reconciliation beyond possibility.  But her husband took her back, and told her, they would never speak of it again.  With damp eyes “Mary” said, “And John never did.”

Except for the names this is a true story.

I believe that we should tell those around us how we feel about them.  I believe that, “I love you,” is the most powerful phrase in the English language.  But “Mary’s” story – a story of her life, shows that love – real love – can best be revealed in the words unspoken.

(314 Words)

The Snow Fell Lightly

The Snow Fell Lightly

By John W. Vander Velden              

 

 

The snow fell lightly.  The large puffs of white, sailing softly upon the air’s faintest breath.  Each of the millions of flakes coming to rest silently upon brothers and sisters that arrived the days before.  The air filled with the slowly dancing crystalline beauties, each the same yet different.  For it is said that no two snowflakes are identical.  Can it be that among the billions of snowflakes…those that have fallen over all time…there has never been a twin?  That God has assembled the frozen vapors each unique! 

If all snowflakes…each an individual…like none other…should we be surprised about the family of man.  That each, though similar in some ways, are in truth like no one else in all creation.  A person made with care by a God that loves us all…different than others.  Not better but certainly not worse…just unique, which makes us distinctive…matchless… irreplaceable…and unbelievably rare. 

So on the next winter’s day, as snowflakes fall, take time to think of how the God that loves you…made you like none other and set you gently upon this world…like the snow that fell lightly.

 

 

No Tears

No Tears              1-11-2015

By John W. Vander Velden

He spends each day in the darkened room.  Greg doesn’t need the lamps to see for each curve – each wrinkle – every detail etched upon his heart.  The morning’s drive gives time to think – but these hours are for remembering.  Too young they were told over and again, yet they were not deterred.  The ladder at night’s mid and a race across the county line.  The waking of the Justice of the Peace, words and witnesses, papers signed.  Could that have been sixty-three years ago?  On these days – here as he sat in the shadows – he does not believe.  But grandchildren grown with children of their own speaks volumes.  And yet a lifetime shared – a world built – their world.  Together through the good times.  Together through the hard times.  Yes, always together. 

Greg sits and waits, knowing the facts.  Many times words told of little hope.  Many times told of slimmest of chance.  He will be here – when she awakes -- if she awakes.  He hopes his face the first she sees, and so he waits.

Others come, others go.  The time passes.  Observers might consider the vigil excessive, but Greg knows the truth.  Greg knows the journey shared.  He understands that these hours part of that journey.  Lilly would not demand.  Truth, if she knew, she would send Greg home.  But Greg wishes to share this part of the road, and so he waits in the dimness and the silence – waits for the ending of this ordeal, and to be part of the ending.

He arrives the moment visitors are permitted.  Greg remains until they shoo him out the door.  And each day he goes over the conversation shared.  The day Lilly begged, that no matter what there would be no tears.

(292 Words)

February Came Cold

February Came Cold                     2-1-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

 

February came through the year’s door.  February came cold.  The month of winter’s mid, short of days, a time when many grow weary of overcast skies frozen pipes and icy roads.  Christmas entices December, gives warmth un-measurable by a thermometer, and purpose to the long month of winter’s beginning.  That Yule season flows into January with its fresh show of winter’s glory.  But by February most of the winter joys have been expended it seems…To many, it’s just cold!

 

But this month of twenty-eight and one quarter days has much more to offer.  Those that view the month as just some barrier to be crossed, on the way to March and Spring, miss so much.  Days grow longer as the sun working to squeeze the night into a more manageable length gives us magnificent rises and sets.  Many of the first birds return daring winter to hamper their new year.  February is the transition…winter but not fully.  It can be a time for reading behind safe warm walls…or for the bold times of embracing cold clear air outdoors.  February is filled with days…like any month…that are as good or as bad as we make them. 

 

The calendar will tell us it is February.  The thermometer might tell us that it is cold, but February is filled with days...each one an irreplaceable gift from God.  It is for you and I to take those precious days…and make them into something remarkable.  Yes, February came cold…but it need not chill our hearts!

(254 Words)