MISTER chapter VII

This is chapter 7 of a short 'book' - an autobiographical tribute to my foster father.  To start at the beginning, go to Chapter 1 and work your way backward.  When it's all entered on this site, I will try to reset the chapters so they read chronologically forward instead of backward.  In the meantime, I hope you bear with me!

  
 Chapter 7 - 1979       

  “I don’t want you to leave,” I groaned.

             Lisa and I were flopped back on my bed, head-to-head, our legs dangling off opposite sides, staring at the ceiling.  I had learned that Dad had never left Lisa to fend for herself at the church like he had told me the day she left our home.  He had actually brought her to a highway rest stop, transferred luggage and belongings, and thus began Lisa’s life as an only child, first, enjoying life with Grampy’s son and daughter-in-law, then went to Washington D.C. to live with our mother and they eventually moved on to Arlington, Virginia to a larger, three bedroom apartment.  Strangely, Lisa really called her by that name - ‘Mother’.  She told me Mother preferred it.

            Eventually, Lisa was joined by our sister, Robyn, who had spent a few years living with my mother’s cousin.  We had all just been reunited at a resort in Hyannis, Massachusetts, where my mother was participating in a presentation for her company and Lisa had come home with me to Grammy and Grampy’s home afterward, to spend a few more days before flying back to Virginia.

            Time was passing much too quickly.  I was madly elated to be with Lisa again, and I didn’t want it to end.  Even though Grampy’s home had been my very own home for some time, Dad still called the shots, and it was becoming clear that he was not happy I had spent any time with Mother.

            Being with Mother was uncomfortable for me, but having Lisa by my side made it all worth it.  Mother had tried to engage me in a ‘tickle fight’, something I wasn’t at all accustomed to.  Grampy and Grammy were reserved, loving and tender in other, sincere ways.  I pretended to be OK with being tickled, following Lisa’s lead, but just couldn’t bring myself to tickle anyone back.

            I wasn’t so sure I was on board with my mother’s attempts to include me, anyway.  I wondered why she had never even tried to be a part of my life, and couldn’t view her as anything more than a stranger.  I wouldn’t have known her if I passed her on the street before this.  No matter.  Lisa accepted her, and I wanted to spend as much time as I could with my sister, so I made sure to be as nice and polite as possible.

            Lisa rolled over to face me. “I wish you could come to Virginia with me.  It’s right outside Washington, there are really neat subway trains and you can walk almost anywhere you want to go.”

            “I don’t know.  Dad would never let me, and I wish you could just stay here with me, anyway,” I replied, for a moment, sampling, then squashing the thought of moving from my country home to a big city.

            “Let’s not waste time thinking about saying good-bye,” Lisa suggested.  “What do you want to do now?”

            We were just dreaming up some sort of activity when I heard Grampy on the phone in the hallway.  There was no other phone in the house, so unless a person wanted to stretch the cord to the laundry closet and sit on the dryer with the bi-fold doors shut, everyone could easily hear everyday conversations.  Normally, this was never a problem.

            “That is not a good idea.  You need to think of Elizabeth and what’s in her best interest,” his voice was escalating. “I do not agree with this at all!”

            Grammy quickly ushered us outside, though twilight was casting long shadows on the porch, already.  Lisa and I nervously played for a while, then were called in through the back slider door.

            Standing threateningly in the living room was Dad with a police officer in tow, spouting at Grampy, commanding him to pack my things because he was putting me in the car and moving to upstate New York with me tonight.

            “She’s MY daughter, and I am her father - not you!” Dad raged. A sour, familiar smell of stale beer wafted over to where Lisa and I sat together on the far side of the room.

            Grampy stood toe-to-toe with Dad, as Gram softly said “Earl” a few times from her armchair.

            “You treat her like a possession - a barnyard animal with no feelings at all - not a precious little girl!  Look at the fear in her eyes.  Do you care even one bit what you‘re doing to her?” Grampy’s passion was evident.

            “I’ll treat her anyway I see fit,” Dad spat back. “Come on, Liz, get your things.”

            I had always tiptoed around my father’s moods and never, ever dreamed of saying no to anything he told me to do.  I had become very adept at not exposing an ounce of emotion, good or bad.  Tonight, gaining strength from my sister on one side, and my dog, Crisco, on the other, I looked steady into his eyes and said, “No, I don’t want to leave with you. I want to stay here.”

            Dad took a step or two toward me and the officer stepped in.  “Sir, why don’t you go home tonight, speak to a lawyer in the morning and come back tomorrow.”

            Dad hesitated for a moment, then said, “No.  We’re doing this right now. They have no legal right to keep her from me.”

            Placing a hand on his arm, the officer simply said, “Sir, I insist.” And then he was gone as quickly as he came.

            Grampy gathered me to him in a rare gesture. “I’m sorry you’re frightened, Elizabeth.  We must pray for your father and seek the Lord’s will in this situation.  We know that God is with us at this very moment, and He loves you more than you will ever know.  He never closes one door without opening another.”

            “Is he going to take me tomorrow?” I asked.

            “I don’t know,” Grampy’s words were not comforting, but his honesty was. “We do know you don’t have to go with him tonight, so we’ll pray on it and see what tomorrow brings.  No matter what, we don’t need to fear because ‘The Lord is our refuge and strength; a very present help in trouble.’”

            Drying my eyes, I asked, “Will you make sure the door is locked tonight?”

            “I check the doors every night before bed, and I’ll be extra sure no one can get in tonight,” he promised.  We both knew who ‘no one’ was.

            The next morning, Gram announced that Lisa and I were going to be picked up with the grandkids by a lady in the church, who had invited us to swim at her house for the day. Grampy’s middle son was the pastor of our church, so all us kids were often invited to tag along in some of the parishioners’ family activities.

            I liked going to this lady’s house.  She had a son who was a few years older than me, and I was almost a teenager.  He mostly hung out with his friends, but once, he strolled up to the above-ground swimming pool, hoisted himself up on the side and dunked his head and hair under water.  Coming up he shook the water off his thick, blonde hair the way models would do in a hair commercial, and walked away without saying a word.  I stopped playing with the younger kids long enough to admire him sauntering away in a very cool, indifferent manner.  Today, I hoped he might just happen to be home.

            Sometime in the afternoon, and after overhearing a muffled conversation by the adults in the house that I was  ‘in hiding’,  Lisa and I were brought back home, where we were intercepted by Grampy in the living room on our way through to the kitchen.  Gram joined him, a reassuring peacefulness adorning her face, as always.

            “Your mother has agreed to come bring you to live with her,” Grampy began. “We want to protect you, and feel it’s best for you to go live with her.”

            I didn’t ask why, or tell them I was terrified or that I didn’t trust Mother.  Instead I expressed the sum of all my unanswered fears and questions, in one simple, matter of fact question.

            “Will Crisco be able to come with me, or will he have to stay with you?”

            “Your mother’s apartment won’t allow dogs, but he can stay here and you can see him anytime you come back to visit,” Grampy’s voice was upbeat, giving me strength, and with that, Lisa and I went to my room and gathered our belongings for the short flight to my new home in the city.

MISTER Chapter VI

Chapter six - 1977

            Dad and I were sitting on top of a picnic table in the hot sun, resting our feet on the bench, eating ice cream cones.  He had brought me to an ice cream shop to talk. I wasn’t sure whether I should be happy about this, or worried. 

            After I was released from the hospital, Maum had moved out one night as dad threw her TV, bicycle and a torrent of toiletries out our third story apartment window, aiming for her car below.  I had to sidestep broken glass, pieces of twisted metal and a drying pool of hair products smearing the sidewalk as I began my usual mile walk to school the next morning.

When summer vacation arrived, I was handed a bagged lunch and instructed to go to the park down the street until dark, having to stay out of the house for up to twelve hours each day.  I’d sit on the swings, trying to appear indifferent and aloof as moms and dads spread out picnics and chased ice cream trucks with their squealing kids. When I became hungry and bored, I’d visit the Dunkin Donuts dumpster to see if there were any new munchkins or donuts that had been tossed.   Once home, I quietly crawled into bed so I wouldn’t disturb Dad, and my daily lack of routine began all over again the next day.

            “ I  just can’t take care of you anymore, Liz,” Dad’s announcement brought me back to the present. He didn’t waste any time letting me know why he had brought me here alone. “You’re going to go live with Earl and Minerva for a while.  Now don’t be too upset - I know you’re going to have to change schools and make new friends, but I just can’t help it.”

            Feigning disappointment, knowing any excitement read on my face could turn this train in the opposite direction, I furrowed my brow and mumbled, “It’s ok, Dad.  Will I still see you sometimes?”  I was hoping he would say no, but he told me he’d visit from time to time.

            Heading home, I mentally packed my belongings and planned a quick visit to my friend, Kim’s, house to tell her the good news before I left.  The next morning, my meager things were loaded up, and I was on my way!

            Missus answered the door, and we sat together in the living room until Mister came up from downstairs, where he had been talking to a customer.  Dad finally said his good-bye’s.  I exhaled deeply when I watched his car disappear out of sight.  I was home!

            Finally unpacked, I meandered my way downstairs to poke around in the bookstore, reading Christian comics, playing demo music albums on the stereo and listening to Mister provide Bible answers to his customers.  People drove from many miles away for a chance to speak with him.  He was chatting with a young couple with three very young children in tow.

            “Every single time scripture is memorized and quoted, those who participate receive a blessing.  Elizabeth, can you come here for a moment?” Mister rested his hand on my shoulder, drawing me to stand in front of him.  My heart warmed with his gentle, fatherly touch.

            “Tell me a verse you know,” he encouraged, gently nodding his head.

            Surprising myself, I began quoting a verse I had heard him say over and over. “Therefore said he unto them, ‘The harvest truly is great, but the laborers are few: pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth laborers into his harvest.’ Luke 10:2,” I added the reference at the end, because Mister usually quoted those, too.

            I was mighty impressed with myself for rattling of a verse I didn’t even know I‘d memorized.  I supposed there were a number of verses I had soaked in over the years simply because Mister peppered most of his conversations with scripture.  He was never sad and serious like some religious people were on TV.  Studying the Bible was so much a part of who he was, he couldn’t help but express himself in a passionate, heartfelt way with the comforting and amazing words he discovered and loved, causing those around him to be blessed, giving thanks to God for using him to minister to their hearts in this way.

            Mister could take an everyday thing like peeking out the morning window, and instead of offering something like, ‘What nice weather, today’, he’d raise his face to the sky, eyes sparkling, and pronounce, “The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth his handiwork!’  He’d stride away either whistling or singing out a favorite hymn - “When morning guilds the skies, my heart awaking cries - may Jesus Christ be praised!”

            Standing in front of him now, he looked at me, pleased.  “You see, when we teach a child scripture, we are ministering to their souls, and when they repeat it back to us, they are ministering to ours!”

            Conversation lingered between the couple and Mister, eventually leading me to wander off to find more things to do.  I went outside and threw a rock or two into the brook out back, pondering my present situation of peace and joy, wondering whether it just might last this time. 

            Somewhere among my ten-year-old musings, a verse came to mind. This is the day which the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it. Psalm 118:34.  Mentally thanking Mister for quoting that so often at breakfast, I jumped up and ran inside to see what Missus was scaring up for lunch.

            After the meal, Mister and Missus asked if I would join them in the living room. 

            My stomach turned a few somersaults. “Oh no,” I thought. “Is the dream really over with so soon?  Please, please, please, God, don’t make me go back to Dad!”  I sat down, willing myself not to cry.

            “We’re glad you have come back to live with us, Elizabeth,” Mister began. “You fit right in with our family and our grandkids across the street.  We’ve loved you since the moment we met you, and are so thankful the Lord brought you to us.  We want you to know you are like our very own child - you couldn’t mean any more to us if you had been born to us, so from now on, we want you to feel free to call us ‘Grammy’ and ‘Grampy’ like our grandchildren do.  Would you like that?”

            The sick ice-cold feeling in my stomach proceeded to rapidly thaw as I began to comprehend what he had just told me.  Dad wasn’t lurking around some corner, ready to drive off with me again.  I had just been offered the most precious gift in all the world!  Mister, I mean ‘Grampy’, had just given me the only thing I had ever wanted - to belong.

            Stoic as always, I managed a small, tight grin and said, “I’d like that very much,” excused myself from the living room,  and went to the crawlspace-under-the-porch-fort where I cried, laughed, planned and practiced saying, “I love you, too, Grampy,” in a barely audible whisper.

MISTER Chapter V

Chapter 5 - 1976

            “If you won’t let me in as her friend, then let me in as her pastor.” That couldn’t have been Mister’s voice I heard - dad told me a long time ago, in a fit of rage, that I wouldn’t be seeing Mister again, accusing me of being ‘too attached’.  After Lisa was gone, and I was prevented from seeing the Beals, life melted into days, weeks and months of gray -  an endless procession of time I wouldn’t be able to recall for the lackluster quality of it all, until about three weeks earlier, when I began getting very bad pains in my stomach. 

I was sick for two days until one evening when Dad came home early from work, called a friend and drove me straight to the hospital.  In and out of consciousness, I had no recollection of how I got from the emergency department to my present bed in a room with a scary lady who had her jaw wired shut from a bad car accident, but I heard Dad telling anyone and everyone that I would have died of a ruptured appendix if he had not come home early that night.

             Maum had stayed home with me one day, but threw her hands up in the air, complaining that I wouldn’t eat the soup she brought to me, shut my bedroom door, and didn’t check on me again.  She didn’t come to the hospital to visit me, either, but that was just fine as far as I was concerned, because Dad was blaming her for neglect and I felt sorry and a little fearful for causing her so much trouble with him.

            Now, my mind must have been playing tricks on me.  I strained my ears, listening, hoping, praying I would hear Mister’s voice and see him walk into my room.  Nothing.  Five minutes, or was it an hour, passed with no more indication that he was in the hospital.  Feverish from a second infection, my heart was crushed, and I was hotly angry with myself for getting my own hopes up.  My eyes fluttered and I began to nod off...

            A warm, calloused hand lightly brushed my cheek.  Parting my eyes, I saw him standing next to me,  his fedora pinched between his finger and thumb in the other hand.  Tidal waves of relief, love, happiness and joy crashed over my soul, and I weakly said, “Hi”, as though it hadn’t seemed like a lifetime since I had been ripped away from him.  A nurse nervously flitted around the room muttering that my dad had specifically prohibited visitors unless he gave prior approval.

            “We’ve been thinking about you and pray for you every single day, Elizabeth.  How are you feeling?” Mister crouched down to my level, and I found myself lost in his kind, concerned eyes.

            “I’m ok, but I’ve been here for a long time and I get shots three times a day in my legs, see?” I moved just enough blanket to uncover a spot on my thigh that was filled with pinholes.  I didn’t tell Mister that they ran out of room on my backside, which was why they had to find other places to give me antibiotic shots for the peritonitis that still raged in my system.

            We talked about anything and everything and my weary, raw heart beat a little easier for the first time in a long time.  I watched his face, drank in his smile, and bowed my head in reverent thankfulness as he prayed over me.

            “Remember, Elizabeth, the Heavenly Father loves you and He has a plan for your life.  There is nothing too hard for Him.  Jesus said, ‘Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the world‘, and even if we don‘t see each other as much as we‘d like to, no one can keep you from Him.”

            “Am I interrupting something, here?” Dad marched into the room and stood on the other side of my bed. “How are you, Earl?”

            “I’m here visiting Elizabeth as her clergy today.  I heard from a friend that she has been here for a few weeks.” Mister was polite, but he stood tall and confident.

            Dad gently smoothed the hair back from my feverish brow, and I peeked out the window, my head feeling strange and uncomfortable at his touch. “Elizabeth needs her rest, and I want what’s best for her, so it’s time you should go.”

            Mister brushed his hand across my arm, sending comforting warmth through me.  “Remember, we love you and are praying for you.” Stepping past my father, he smiled back at me, positioned the fedora slightly askew on his head, and was gone.

MISTER - Chapter IV

Chapter four - 1974

 “Remember to put your face in your pillow when we get to the car so they don’t see you cry,” I reminded Lisa, after hearing the doorbell ring. Dad and Maum had arrived to bring us back to their apartment after a long weekend with Missus and Mister. 

 

Things had settled down to a routine since the scary night Dad showed up at The Home after the new house parents moved in with their cat and two kids.  He was yelling, ordering us to pack, and took us away for good.  People tried to stop him, and I barely had time to say good-bye to Benji, but 15 minutes later, after grabbing a few items of clothing, we three Bennett girls were loaded into his car, eyes wide as saucers, too scared to speak. 

We were told his apartment didn’t allow kids, so he brought us to Mister and Missus’ new home above the Christian bookstore that night, where we would stay ‘for a while’ until Dad could find us all a new place to live.    

I had never been so happy in my life!  Mister met us at the door, casually draped his arm around us and told Dad he was happy to help.  It was very late by the time our teeth were brushed and we padded down the hallway on Missus’ heels, saying our prayers and slipping between the crisp, cool sheets. Sleep for that night was sweet and deep.

Dad came back to get us, though, and we began our new lives as latchkey kids, loaded with a daily chore list and supper to make for ourselves each night.  At first, everyone seemed happy, but then something changed.  Dad became sullen and sour most of the time.  Maum either screamed at us or ignored us.  My oldest sister, Robyn, asked to go live somewhere else, and they took her away one day.  It was eerily strange without her.  Everyone acted as though she had never been with us at all, and Lisa and I dared not mention her to Dad after that. 

We were no longer welcome to be with Dad and Maum outside of our room.  One day, a child-sized table and chairs appeared in our bedroom, and we learned we would be eating our meals in our room from then on.  We could visit the bathroom and wash dishes in the kitchenette, but otherwise had to stay quiet and out of sight.  If we missed a spot on the dishes, we were taken out of bed, asleep or not, to wash, dry and put away every single dish in the house, which took hours.

The bright spot in our lives was when we could visit Mister and Missus.  We never knew when it was going to happen, and once we were there, we usually didn’t know when Dad would come back to get us. 

During these moments of bliss, we frolicked and played outside with Mister and Missus’ grandchildren who lived across the street, listened to Mister animatedly read and act out storybooks, substituting our names for the main characters, tried our childish hands at some old recipes, and giggled ourselves to sleep each night. 

Lisa and I slept in a double bed in the guest room, and when bedtime became too rowdy, Missus would roll up a towel, telling us ‘there is a line and, you stay on your side of the line, and she’ll stay on hers‘.  Somehow, she knew we needed a place to giggle and goof off, and she never got angry, though I’m sure she often grew tired of our silliness.

Now, Dad and Maum sat in the living room, discussing something with Mister.  Dad usually talked on and on in his loud, deep voice, giving us more time to go outside and play.   

Lisa and I promised each other to really memorize the way back this time so we would know exactly where to go if we ever ran away. We just knew we could walk the long miles home to safety if we ever got the nerve to leave.  Of course, we never factored in the fact that Mister’s would be the first place they’d look for us.

Our hearts were heavy, as usual, after Dad showed up.  He had threatened to never let us see the Beal’s again if he caught us crying when he picked us up, so we made a pact to hug our pillows to hide our faces if we just couldn’t help it.  Most of the time, I couldn’t.

On the ride home, Dad announced that he was sending Lisa to live with our mother. Lisa and I fearfully caught each other’s eyes, but didn’t dare speak.  What did this mean?  Would Lisa leave and never come back like Robyn?  I didn’t even think he knew our mother anymore! 

About a week later, Lisa was gone.  Dad told me he dropped her off at the church steps down the street and hoped my mother came to get her.  He let me come into the living room just that one time, and, surprising me, Maum held me while I quietly cried for a very long time. She never did that before or since, but I was so grateful to have a ‘mother’s touch’ that night. And so my life as an only child began, with a prayer that Lisa was ok and the ever-present hope that I would be given to Mister and Missus if Dad decided to send me away, too.

MISTER Chapter III

Chapter Three - 1973

I was sitting as polite and still as possible after our evening devotions. Usually we Younger Girls had to go right up to our rooms after the group devotions with the Older Girls in the living room. Tonight, though, Mister and Missus were sitting on the couch together while most of us girls languished on the rug, playing with each other’s hair, waiting expectantly for the reason we weren’t dismissed to go wash and brush our teeth.

A year or two before, we were told that we couldn’t call them Mister and Missus anymore because it didn’t sound respectful. Thus, they had been renamed Mr. and Mrs. Beal for some time, now, but to me, they were still just good old Mister and Missus.

Missus smiled, tucking a long, stray, white wisp of hair back into her bobby-pinned roll at the nape of her neck as she began to speak. Absentmindedly, I noticed her everyday hairstyle’s similarity to Charlie Brown’s Lucy. I wondered if Lucy’s hair was half-way down her back when it was undone,too. Missus was explaining something about love being ‘for keeps’, but I was lost in a memory of being in her bedroom, watching her carefully brushing her long, snowy white hair and rolling it up with her fingers as she prepared for the day. Mister and Missus’ bedroom was off-limits, and it was rare treat when Missus invited me in.

“But we don’t want you to go!” one of the girls cried. My seven-year-old brain snapped to attention as I scanned the faces around the room. Some girls were quietly staring, some were distracted and others had a look of concern. My eyes settled on Mister and Missus. Exhibiting reassuring smiles, they explained that it will be a little while before they are gone, and we can always find comfort in knowing that love is ‘for keeps’, whether we are near or far.

My eyes began blinking rapidly. Inching closer to Lisa, searching her face, I realized she appeared to not be affected one way or another, so I followed her lead, taking it all in while nonchalantly tracing an invisible pattern on the rug. Lately, conversation at The Home had turned more and more to the upcoming departure, and I wasn’t really sure when we were first told that Mister and Missus were leaving. It probably hadn’t seemed real at the time – just something that would happen far off in the future. For the first time tonight, I realized the only parents I had ever known were really going away.

Thoughts began racing through my head and heart as I began to grasp what I just heard. “What does this mean? Why are they leaving us? Why are they leaving me? This is our home, we are all a family". Some girls and staff had come and gone, but some of us had never been apart. Not since I could remember.

After more matter-of-fact explanations and question-answering, Lisa, Robyn and I were ushered upstairs to begin the bedtime routine. We went through the motions and acted like we weren’t affected one way or another knowing that life would never be the same again. I thought about the storybook I’d read earlier about Chicken Little panicking because the sky was falling.

Mechanically, my heart breaking, I brushed my teeth in silence, feigning indifference in an effort to avoid exposing my inner anguish.

The light was turned out after bedtime prayers. Lisa and I usually giggled and fooled around enough to be told at least twice that we were going to be punished if we didn’t settle down. That night, though, Lisa was quiet and I could see the outline of her head on the pillow with a halo of moonlight shining on her through the window. I stared at her form long enough to burn her picture into my vision and closed my eyes to see how long I could still see her in my eyelids. Her silhouette faded after a while and I repeated the process and again, willing myself to sleep. Finally, I whispered softly to her in case she was still awake, like me.

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

“Sure,” she mumbled, in a fake, sleepy voice.

I crawled into her twin bed a few feet away. Our nightgowns barely touching, we lay there silently on our backs, staring at the ceiling, thinking our own thoughts until at last, our eyes closed off the night around us.

The next morning, and for many mornings after, I kept my eye on Mister. He still strode though the house whistling and singing, teased the girls with a twinkle in his eye, lifted me to his lap, letting me comb the sparse gray hair around his ears and the back of his head, and did all the deliciously, wonderful things he ever did. Words were said here and there about retiring, but Mister had a store he built that sold Christian books and Bibles in another town. He spent more and more time there each day before joining the rest of us for supper and evening devotions.

I loved to hear him on the telephone placing book orders, and at night, I was sometimes allowed to sit with him at his table while he ‘figured’ his numbers. I was always quiet and sat very still, secretly admiring every move he made.

I began watching for him in the morning, and if I saw him reach for his fedora, I begged to go with him, relishing the trip, wherever it would be. I was usually pretty sure he was on his way to the Wholesalers to buy food for The Home, or to the bookstore. Most of the time, he let me tag along, offering me a piece of tangy Dentyne gum in the car.

Each day seemed the same, until I heard the word, “tomorrow”. Everyone was still acting like nothing was happening, except for one of the girls who often blurted out her emotions. Sometimes I secretly admired her for being able to tell people how she felt.

“I wish you were my parents!” she cried. I held my breath, waiting to hear how Missus would reply, because I, too, wished they were my parents, but never dared to tell them. My ears wanted very much to hear Missus say, “I wish you were my daughter,” but instead, she explained that she would never want to take the place of anyone’s mother or father, and that we are in God’s family, so in a way, we are related through Him. I had never even seen this girl’s mother, and I didn’t remember what my own looked like, though I thought she visited once or twice a long time ago, so I doubted it would be any problem at all to take her place.

My father visited us sometimes, and he even brought my sisters and I to the apartment he had set up with his new wife in Brokton, Massachusetts. We were instructed to call her “Maum”. Dad had a loud, dark voice and talked all the time, but not really ‘to’ us unless he was upset. He swore and yelled a lot, and I was afraid of him. Once, he came to visit The Home and brought us all into the den to tell us that he was not my sisters' ‘real’ father - only mine. Since he made me feel small and nervous, I wished he wasn’t my real father, either.

The girl who had wished Missus was her mother turned to me, smiling. “Liz, you are my Sister-In-Christ! We are all in God's family!”

That may have been all well and good for her, but it didn’t console me one bit. If we were all in God’s family, that would include people all over the world I didn’t even know. Adding strangers to our family took away all the meaning! Who wanted to be in a family who didn’t love each other, or really know anyone? This home, these girls were my ‘real’ family, and Mister and Missus were my parents. Weren’t they?

Looking for some time alone, I asked if I could walk our new dog, Benji, but was told I could sit in the cellar with him instead, to keep him company. Making sure no one could hear me, I poured out my heart to him, going on and on about how frightened and lonely I felt, not even really sure why.

I sat Indian-style on the floor, my back pressed against the uneven, mini-boulders that served as the cellar walls, as Benji nipped at my fingers, trying to entice me to play tug-of-war with a tattered towel he’d found. After a while, he seemed to sense my mood and curled up in my lap with his head on my leg. Eventually, running out of words, I rose to my feet and kissed my dog‘s fuzzy brown muzzle, avoiding his wet nose with my lips.

Was he really anyone’s dog? I wasn’t sure, and was just beginning to realize for the first time that I was living in a home for girls. Everything I thought was mine, every photo, every toy, my own bed and even my second-hand clothes, weren’t really mine, after all, were they? It had all been a dream. This big beautiful home was not my home. They were just letting me live here, that’s all. I slowly took the stairs one-by-one to the first floor. A pitch black fog of loneliness descended over me, chilling my seven-year-old heart.

‘Tomorrow’ came, whether I liked it, or not. The talk at breakfast was about Benji taking ill in the night, and what time were Mister and Missus leaving? At some point, the last of their belongings were loaded into the car as the girls thronged around them. I hung back, feeling invisible, wishing I was bubbly and cute enough to demand their attention as they shut the doors, rolling down the windows to finish their good-byes.

“Remember, love is for keeps!” Missus reminded us all. Sensing that I wouldn’t be able keep my emotions from spilling out and ruining everything, I retreated back into the house to the Music Room where I could fall apart in solitude. Helplessly resting my chin on the windowsill, I watched as the car inched slowly out of the driveway, blinker on, waiting for traffic to let them in. I counted up to twelve blinks before Mister’s car pulled onto the busy street.

Blankly staring at the vacant driveway, tears began streaming down my face and my whole body melted with emotion. The girls began filing back into the house and after a few minutes, the head staff worker poked her head into the doorway, finding me alone on the chair, willing the road to magically deposit Mister and Missus back in our driveway.

“What’s the matter, Liz?” she asked, “Everything is going to be ok - you‘ll see.”

“I’m sad about Benji,” I lied. My hurt was so deep, I didn’t want to share it with anyone.

“Benji will be just fine. Dogs get sick all the time. It’s time to eat, now - come on out and join the rest of us,” her voice faded as she collected girls throughout the house.

I stole one more hopeful glance out the window. Seeing that Mister and Missus were not coming back, I wiped my nose and eyes on my sleeve, sighed deeply to try to get rid of my crybaby-hiccups and bravely made my way to the dining room to join what was left of my family.

MISTER - Chapter II

Chapter Two - Summer, 1971


Mister was preaching for what seemed like forever. He had his Bible open, but always quoted most of his sermon verses from memory, just like at home. He was telling the congregation about The Boylston Home for Girls, a ministry of WCTU and Child Evangelism Fellowship, which housed ten or more of us girls at any given time, finding ourselves at The Home for many different reasons. We all had one thing in common. We weren’t able to live with our parents. Beyond that, our stories were all drastically our own. At five years old, I was the baby of the group.

We girls were supposed to be good ‘examples’, and didn’t get to play with the visitor pencils or draw on the church bulletins like the other kids, so my vision glazed over at the stained glass windows, as I conjured up my favorite Sunday sermon daydream.

Looking down, I spied my very own white, fluffy invisible dog patiently lying in the church aisle next to my pew with a parrot on his head. The parrot hopped onto my lap, then up my arm to my shoulder. It was a very tame bird and tickled my ear with its beak. The minutes ticked on and on as my imaginary bird kept me company with his tricks. My knee-sock was slipping down my right calf, causing me to absentmindedly use the toe of my other shoe to inch it up my leg as I began to wiggle and fidget in the pew, and Missus glanced down to give me a stern look. Suddenly, I realized I was supposed to bow my head. I didn’t know how long Mister had been praying, but church would be over soon, so I lowered my bird down to the dog’s head. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said the dog smiled at me.

People rose to sing, and my fluffy white dog stood too, patiently waiting for me. I tried to figure out which people in the congregation knew all the words to each song, even in the second and third stanza. It was a tie between an older woman across the aisle and an even older man in the row in front of me. Earlier, the man must have really known the hymn, because he just held the closed hymnal in front of himself the whole time while he sang. For this one, though, I caught them both peeking at the words to catch up in-between verses.

I knew the service was officially over when I heard Mister say, “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.” The dog, bird and I followed Missus to go stand with Mister in the back of the church. When our foursome reached him, he effortlessly scooped me up into his arm, handing his Bible to Missus so he could shake hands with the congregation as they meandered past us, two-by-two. My animal friends disappeared into the crowd. I was sure they would be waiting for me when I came back tonight for the evening service.

Mister’s hand was warm. It enveloped my own, blanketing me to my forearm. His fingers were rugged, knuckles dotted with black and gray hair, holding me as people shuffled past, smiling, thanking him for his sermon and asking if the cat had my tongue. I relished the crowd, the tickle of fearful shyness tamed because I was safe in his arms.

“Great message, Pastor Beal! I’ll bet this little one talks your ear off at home, doesn’t she?” a dark-haired lady with her hair pulled severely into a bun helped herself to my knee, playfully pinching it as she sidled up to Missus.

Missus smiled, “Not really. She’s normally a quiet child.”

The lady leaned in closer to Missus, “It’s a shame she isn’t up for adoption. Which ones are her sisters again? That middle one is so striking with her dark hair and pretty blue eyes. The blonde - she’s the oldest? Why don’t their parents just let them go, or at least give up this little one?”

“Elizabeth came to us when she was only eight months old, and we’ve loved her ever since,” Mister said in response to the lady, who was now smoothing my dress over his arm. “When we first met the Bennett girls, we were so thankful we could keep them all together, and that continues to be our desire.”

While the lady continued to pepper Mister and Missus with questions, my skin shrank under my ruffles at her touch. I thought she was nosey, and whatever adoption was, I was very glad I wasn’t up for it. Finally, the lady moved on after commenting on my pin-straight brown hair, and the crowd grew sparse. Mister put me down, but I remained close at his side.

The other girls were gathering in the vestibule, some vying for attention, some whispering secrets to each other, all hungry and ready to go. Today we performed Jesus Loves Me in Spanish and the dwindling congregation offered praise to each girl they met as they made their way out of the church.

I held on to Mister’s finger as we walked to the station wagon, where he lowered the armrest in the front bench seat, letting me sit on it between Missus and him. I loved being next to him, tall enough to peer out the front windshield, away from the other girls. Sometimes, I had to crouch on the floor at someone’s feet or sit on a lap when we were all together, but this day, there was enough room for us all. We traveled a few miles, down Cilly Road, which, when you said it right was pronounced “Silly Road”, past the brick houses that lined our street, and pulled into the driveway of The Home.

As we all scrambled out of the station wagon like clowns from a buggy, I stretched my neck to see whether there were any black crows perched on the roof of our three-story home. The big, white house seemed like the tallest building in the world to me with its 1800’s Victorian ceilings, steep staircases, wide banisters and cement cellar. Though it was the only home I’d ever known, it still held mystery and the promise of an ever-elusive-trap-door-that-must-lead-to-a-secret-tunnel-somewhere. I had never found said trap-door, but imagined it was hidden so secretly, it would probably take years to discover.

My sister, Lisa, raced past me, stubbing her toe on the porch step, then planted herself on the ground and began to howl as the Older Girls swarmed past her into the house. Lisa and I, at seven and five years old, respectively, were members of the group called the Younger Girls. Our older sister, Robyn, age nine, was a Younger Girl, too, but got to do things with the Older Girls, sometimes. Ade, who was almost a grown-up, helped Lisa to her feet and ushered her inside.

Bible and Sunday School papers put away and hands washed, I made my way to the table, leery of what I might find. Sunday dinners weren’t usually too bad, in my estimation, but they usually included a vegetable that came from one of those big, silver, government-sized cans that Mister got down at the Wholesaler’s. My eyes spied canned carrots - the kind that have a brownish circle in the middle and turn to mush if you press on them with your fork. I snuck into the kitchen to ask Missus if I could have raw carrots with my dinner instead, but she was talking to one of the Older Girls, and I was taught that it wasn’t polite to interrupt a conversation. I ducked back into the dining room to see what else was on the table. Not finding anything interesting there, my eye caught Lisa, rolling around on the enormous braided rug in the living room. Giggling, I ran to her, begging her give me a pony ride while we kept out of the big peoples’ way. Obliging, she crawled as fast as she could with me on her back, whinnying and snorting with laughter as I held on for dear life to the back of her dress.

“Gir-rls. Din-ner,” Missus’ sing-song-y voice rang out from the dining room. Lisa and I made our way to one of the long tables as chairs scraped in and out, taking on the girls and workers of The Home. We all bowed our heads to pray as Mister’s booming voice gave thanks for the food.

I surveyed my plate, deciding what to eat first. Lisa and I had many previous discussions about how to approach a meal with both good and bad bounty. We always agreed that we should eat the unpleasant food first, then eat the best food last as a reward, but, as most days, I filled up on the delicious mashed potatoes first, then the meat, and finally, faced the remaining orange and brown mushy carrots.

“You’d better eat those while they’re warm,” some distant voice across the table warned, “or they’re going to taste worse when they get cold.”.

I held my stare, watching the steam from the vegetable slowly fade to nothing, then touched one of them with my finger. Right. They were cold.

Mister began his departure by stating that he’s ‘sufficiently sufficed’, excusing himself. We all held our breath, wondering if we were ‘it’ today.

“Would you be so condescending, stoop so low and be so bending, to excuse me from the table, Missus, Ann, Ade, Paula, Mary, Carol, Darlene, Shirley, Rosemary, Robyn, Elizabeth - and Mable?”

My sister, Lisa, let out an indignant squeal of delight. “I am NOT Mable!!”

We all laughed as Mister flashed a grin at Lisa, patting her head on the way past, and exited the dining room. Others followed suit, politely excusing themselves and clearing dishes off the table as they went. Soon, I was alone at the table, with only the cold carrots to keep me company, the once melted butter forming a yellow, spotty film on each one. If I could just slink away when no one was looking, I might make it to the second floor Den, where Mister was already watching something on the old T.V.

Pots and pans banged in the kitchen among the cheerful chatter and banter of some of the Older Girls. I made my move, sliding my chair out in slow motion so it wouldn’t screech across the bare floor. Walking backward into the living room, I knew my best bet was to go up the front staircase, avoiding the creaky stairs next to the kitchen. Past the living room, I raced through the front entryway, up the stairs, into the Den and hopped up on Mister’s lap. He was my ‘goals’, like at recess. Having safely reached him, I knew I would only get one or two disapproving looks later from whichever worker or Older Girl found my abandoned plate of vegetables.

I nestled in and placed my ear over Mister’s heart, listening to each beat. I liked how my head raised and fell as he breathed deeply and slowly, peacefully watching Shirley Temple call out for “The Grandfather” on the television set.

Eventually, I was found and told it was time to rest. We always rested after dinner on The Lord‘s Day. Usually I engaged Missus in a discussion about what resting means, and what if I couldn’t actually sleep - what would I do then? In vain, I explained the dread of complete boredom, and how long would I have to TRY to rest, and what time is it now, and will she remember to come get me because I won’t know what time to come out of my room, and what if she forgets and I stay in my room until bedtime - will I have to stay in bed for the whole night, too?

Resigned, I was ‘resting’ in the front Guest Room on Second Floor, which faced the road, excited to realize a parade was heading up the street toward the house. I hoped no one knew I was standing at the window, because rest time meant I had to lie in bed, whether I was tired or not. The drum of the marching band beat in my chest and I spied a clown or two and a Girl Scout troup. Coming up the road, I saw a beautiful woman in a gown with a white sash slowly being driven in a convertible car, waving to a small group of people a few feet beyond my view. Suddenly, she looked up to my window and waved at me, smiling. I fought the urge to look behind me to see if the wave was meant for someone else, and pressed my hand to the window, allowing one side of my mouth to curl up into a half-twitchy grin. I just knew Missus must have seen her wave to me from the music room below, so I dove onto the bed.

Now positive that I was much too excited to sleep now, I lay there counting as high as I could, breathing in at one, out at two, in at three, on and on past one hundred. Somewhere around one-hundred-thirty-six, my breathing became deeper and I slipped into a sunny day-nap dream of crickets and daffodils under a blue sky. If anyone was not as content and peaceful as I, on this day, I was blissfully unaware.

MISTER - Chapter I

Life has certainly been full of fleeting days and my schedule seems to have me by the throat more often than not.  I want to write, and yet the joy, the confidence to share lessons learned seems to wax and wane.  As the Lord and I work together on 'whatever lies ahead', I have decided to timidly share a story with you.  This story is one I have already committed to paper, and a tribute to the greatest man I have had the pleasure of knowing in my lifetime.  I knew him as not just a pastor, as a 'houseparent', as a friend to many - I knew him as the father of my heart.

So as I work on aligning my work priorities and time constraints with my Heavenly Father's plan (or even learning what that plan might be), let me share a few chapters of tribute to Earl Beal, my foster-father.

MISTER

November 26, 1995

Breathing shallow and barely audible, his eyes were fixated on something only he could see on the far, blank wall of his room in the nursing home. The damp cloth folded in thirds on his feverish forehead dwarfed his drawn face, his lips slightly parted as though he had no energy left to hold them closed. I was surprised that I felt no fear, no worry, no dread.

Instinctively, I walked around to the other side of the bed and drew up a chair to sit beside the greatest man I had ever known. The man I first knew simply as ‘Mister’. Over the years, he became “Grampy” to me – not just a name, but a graduation of belonging, offered by him to settle the question of whether we were family or not. As far as he was concerned, I was his. And that was all that mattered, as far as I was concerned.

“Hi, Grampy, I came to see you today”. It was the basic, simple greeting I entered with each time I stopped in. Not usually at a loss for words, I always felt a little uncomfortable initiating contact upon arrival, unsure of how to greet someone who is rapidly succumbing to the ravages of Alzheimer’s Disease. ‘Hello, there, remember me?’ just never seemed quite right when he didn’t appear to recognize me most days, hence the use of his name in an effort to somehow reassure him that I knew who he was, even in the most confusing moments.

Today was the day I had often pre-played in my mind, wondering if I would be able to bear the implications of a future without him in my life when the time came. I had received the call only 48 hours ago that ‘Grampy has pneumonia, and it looks like he isn’t going to pull through’, and spent the last two days alternating between visiting him and falling apart. This morning, I was relieved I didn’t have to just stand by the bed and talk to whomever else was in the room at the time when, what I wanted more than anything, was to spend some secret time alone with my hero. This morning, I found my opportunity, entering Grampy’s solitary presence with a deep sense of reverence and respect for the frailty of life. The room was dark and hushed as my husband left us to ourselves to walk the corridor with Michael, our restless, energetic toddler.

I slipped a tape into the old tape recorder on the nightstand next to his bed, hoping the soft music might reach Grampy somewhere deep inside. George Beverly Shea softly crooned out an old hymn or two in the background. Wanting desperately to connect, I began gently stroking Grampy’s forearm, remembering hearing somewhere that the sense of touch is the last to go. Or was it hearing? Sense of smell? No matter, I felt the need to touch him, to reach him somehow, hoping my gesture was as soothing for him as it was for me.

In my heart, I knew this would be the last time I would ever be able to express how much he meant to me. For a man who had lost the ability to walk, to talk, and at the last - to even eat, I wanted him to somehow know that his life had been exceptional, marked with untold sacrifice which didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated, to hear that his love had changed history. That he mattered.

“Grampy, you’re going home, soon. I can’t thank you enough for giving yourself to me and loving me when you could have easily walked away. You are the father of my heart, and you and I have always known that, haven’t we?” A tight, hiccuppy laugh was followed by a heavy, rolling tear.

“You have meant so much to so many of us girls when we needed reassurance that there really were decent people in the world who would go to great lengths to protect and comfort us.” My mind went back to the day I found out that, when there were years of lacking funds for three little girls left in his care, Grampy supported the siblings with his personal bank account. I was one of those little girls.

“I remember how you used to preach about Joseph in the Old Testament – how he loved his brothers, no matter what. You were always moved by his emotion and forgiveness, and your sensitivity touched me. Well, Grampy, you’re going to see Joseph soon, and the apostle Paul, Stephen the martyr, King David. Just imagine – you will see your own baby Roger, just like you always said you would, and your mother, too!”

“Most importantly,” I whispered, “Jesus is waiting for you.”

Grampy’s breathing halted for a moment, then resumed with an uneven cadence. For a moment, my mind refocused to George Beverly Shea richly singing Amazing Grace on the tape player, a fitting hymn for such a spiritual and intimate marker in time. I chose to be silent for a moment, in an attempt to respect and absorb the full essence and present unspoken connection between us.

The music swirled gently around us, enveloping us in a soothing embrace.

…Through many dangers, toils and snares…

Recalling a sermon I heard Grampy preach on the topic of heaven years ago, I leaned in closer with a gentle whisper, “Grampy, I remember you preaching about the first funeral you ever officiated.”

…I have already come…

“The little boy was only two years old, and only had a few words in his vocabulary” …’

...Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far…

“Right before he took his last breath, the little boy pointed up toward heaven and exclaimed, ‘Pretty!’”

…and grace will lead me home…

“Grampy, it’s going to be so pretty!” My words floated out more like a breath than a statement.

Somewhere between the solitary rolling tear and the present dampness covering my entire face and neck, the music player clicked to a loud halt. Grampy’s eyes had moved from the distant spot on the far wall. He was looking up.

Having re-entered the room at some point I hadn’t been aware of, my husband coaxed me out of the room, whispering something comforting into my hair. “He is ok. He is not here anymore. He is home.”

Gathering my coat around my shoulders, hating to leave him there, my grieving thoughts drifted back through time to the old Boylston Home for Girls where I had spent the first seven years of my young life, with ‘Mister’ and ‘Missus’ as the directors and house parents. I longed for those simple, wholesome days when life made perfect sense, yet I was thankful to have been able to love and be loved by such a great man and his wife.

Making my way down the silent hallway and bracing myself for the raw November chill, common in our little New Hampshire town, I felt the instant blanket of grief settle on my shoulders. Though it was oppressive and weighty, this sadness was somehow mingled with a keen awareness that our next meeting would be more joyous than anything I could possibly imagine.

A gusty blast of clean, frigid air confronted me instantly as the heavy glass doors opened to the outside world. Ears and nose stinging, I paused to close my eyes against the brightness of the sun, allowing myself to drift back to years gone by, and the memories that swelled my heart with an aching wistfulness…

Temperance (or) Ten Tomatoes

Temperance:  Moderation or self restraint in action, statement, etc.; self-control (dictionary.com)

Wow, this post is tough for me to write.  It seems that self-control is easy when life is easy, but not so much when the going gets tough.  Case-in-point...tonight I texted my friend, Kris, that I was eating carrot cake just for that 'frosting coma feeling'.  Don't look at me like that - you know exactly what I'm talking about!

It's been pretty stressful at work with some changes in procedures, staffing and general busy-ness.  I've been expressing my own 'stress' in various ways, both in the way I unwind and also in my conversation.  This week has not been a stellar week by any stretch of the imagination.  As I drove to work this morning, I prayed that God would help me.  Do you ever have those two-word prayers?  "Help! Me!"

 Lately, I sense a spirit of self-reliance in myself, which leads to frustration and negativity.  Note to self - don't rely on 'you'.  You'll let yourself down every time. If I don't admit this to the Lord, it grows darker each day.  I notice I have more to be ashamed of when I replay the day's conversations and actions.  I have less to be peaceful about. 

I struggle with the flesh daily.  God has given me victory in so many areas - I was an addict years ago and turned to alcohol for pain-numbing distraction from life.  There are other areas I still struggle with.  The desire for a 'frosting coma' still exists, among other things.  The temptation to express frustration in a self-serving way lurks in the dark recesses and comes out when I am weary.  All of these things are in direct contrast to the fruit - the satisfying fruit - of self-control.

I recently heard a 'self-control' message on my local radio station, WDER.  The subject was a verse:

Galatians 6:7

King James Version (KJV)

Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.

The preacher said something I won't forget for a long time...

We are deceiving ourselves when we sow fleshy 'fruits', believing that there will be no harvest.  The consequences don't usually hit us right away, so we happily plant the seeds of self-service.  In 'real life', what happens when we plant a tiny, little, harmless tomato seed?  When the plant grows, we don't just get one tomato from that one seed.  We get ten tomatoes.  Wow.  I never thought of it that way.  I used to subconsciously think if I sowed a tiny little seed, I'd get a tiny little rotten fruit I could throw into the woods and start over.  Perhaps not.  It's a sobering thought.

If I say that one unkind word in my frustration or anger, I may reap (I have reaped) years of unforgiveness and misunderstanding.  I remember having a two-hour conversation with my daughter, making restitution for a ten word sentence blurted out in anger almost three years earlier.

Self-control.  Temperance.  I am unworthy to write my thoughts on this.  I am a sower, and not necessarily yet a reaper of the unhealthy, unkind, reckless, out-of-control behaviors I have 'enjoyed' as I planted seed after seed in my past, and yes, even in the present.

What does it boil down to for me?  Breaking bad habits is a matter of trust.  When I say I 'can't' break the habit, I'm not trusting the Lord to be my all-in-all.  God knows our tricks.  He knows I am certain that if I fail in these areas today, I am planning on throwing myself at His mercy tomorrow, asking Him to erase the consequences.  

It's time to stop planning on 'using' God's grace tomorrow to fix the results of our sins today.  He's smarter than that, and truth be told, so are we.  My former pastor used to lovingly say, when someone came to him with a failed marriage after an affair, health problems from poor habits, loss of loved ones for alcohol addiction, "What did you think was going to happen?"  What, indeed.

Temperance is the end of the fruit in Galatians 5:22, 23.  We're all sowing, all the time.  Sowing seeds of hate, divisiveness, lack of self-control and self pity grow fields of 'rotten tomatoes'. When we sow the Spirit into our hearts and lives, we will reap an abundance of fruit.  Fruit that is beautiful, delicious and fit for nourishment of those around us. 

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.

Like I said, I am the last person who should attempt to write a post about self-control.  It's been staring me in the face since my last post, and I knew I had to do it.  It is my prayer that this post will bless and help someone - anyone who can relate.  It is also my prayer that I will refer back to it often and gain strength to trust the Lord to 'Help! Me!'

Meekness

I guess if I think I don't need to study meekness, or humbleness, and you think you don't need to either, we are either the most humble or the most proud of all people.  But then again, if we are hyper-humble, we would realize we still need lessons in meekness.  But I digress...

Meekness: humbly patient or docile (Dictionary.com )


Phyllis Diller once quipped, "Want to make God laugh?  Tell Him your plans!"

I am at a crossroads right now.  My next-to-youngest is set to graduate in a few short weeks, with plans to leave for college only a matter of weeks after that.  Lately, I have thought of my own plans that could come to fruition with a change in household size and age.  The time to act would be now, before my little one begins school next fall.  Years ago, I would have dreamed and schemed to get what I want.  Now I pray, and I am reminded to pray with an open, willing heart for whatever the Lord has for me in the days, months and years ahead.  I know where my own plans have led me, and I know where God's perfect plan has placed me in spite of myself.  Yes, praying for what I desire is good.  Humbly asking God to give me what He wants is better.  My personal history is a lesson in meekness.  Do it my way and suffer.  Do it God's way and find peace.  God will amaze me with His goodness and provision. What He requires is humbleness and trust on my part: 

Micah 6:8
He hath shown thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the LORD require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God...

I'm also learning meekness lessons in other ways.  I am reaching out to a young mother I have know since she was a child, who has suffered much in her life.  Her emotions are all over the place, and she often acts before she thinks.  Sometimes I want to shake some sense into her because she reminds me so much of myself in my younger, tumultuous years.  I have to remember that most people who try to help her feel the same way.  Some have even washed their hands of her altogether.  Meekness tells me to take a breath and ask myself - what, if anything, would have helped me back when I was out of control?  I'm almost at a loss for ideas, thoughts or words, but then I remember how my Gram helped me with humble patience - never railing or chiding, never huffing and fretting.  Gram was just 'there', loving, smiling, praying, encouraging.  Maybe she knew I could get an earful from the rest of the world, but her home and heart would be a sanctuary.  It must have been a conscious decision, because I'm sure there were times she would have liked to shake me, too. 

In so many situations, there are two paths - the path of meekness and the path of pride.  I recently found myself in a situation where I had to confront an issue I thought was wrong.  I prayed for direction and sought to address things following biblical instruction.  At each turn, there was a strong urge to let pride take over.  It's so easy to see what others do wrong and jump all over it, comparing ourselves to them.  "I would never do that", we say, but do we realize there are things we do that our brother or sister would never do, either?  Thankfully, the Lord showed me over and over again that His grace covers all sin, not just my own.  If He, who is perfect, can give grace and be humble, then who am I to withhold my human grace and love? 

Galatians 6:1 Brethren, if a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual, restore such an one in the spirit of meekness; considering thyself, lest thou also be tempted.

Jesus was meek.  In human, and even 'dictionary' terms, meekness can be a sign of weakness.  The all powerful God of the universe chose to be meek as an example to His followers.

Matthew 11:29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.

When the little children wanted to see Jesus, they probably weren't attracted to His power or authority, they saw something in Him that was welcoming.  Were they drawn to His gentleness, his meekness?  Perhaps that's why the Bible tells us to be meek - so people will be drawn to us, to the Savior IN us.

Colossians 3:12 Put on therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering

Meekness - an outdated word that's rarely spoken or practiced in this day and age.  How much more gentle would our homes, workplaces and churches be if they were filled with 'humbly patient' and docile people? 

Meekness.  It's underrated.