Saturday, June 23, 2012

Her Name was Lillian

Lillian was born in Bristol, England. The foggy, soggy weather caused her to be abysmally sick most of the time, so her parents sent her to boarding school in Cairo, Egypt, to dry her out. She never went back to Bristol, but became a midwife, met her husband, a man of many languages who served as a statesman, and had five children before the Second World War broke out. Because of her husband's work, they were exiled. Lillian took her five children, moved to the north of Germany and set about helping countless Jews across the border to safety. After the war, the family reunited in Libya where Lillian taught the children and hosted many people, including missionary families. The children scattered for higher education,  then to employment around the world, Lillian's husband died, and her oldest son, Peter Junior, a dear friend of ours, brought her to Houston and settled her in a condo not far from our home.

I met Lillian at the church Ted pastored and knew I had just met a goldmine of knowledge. Lillian hosted a tea at 4 P.M. every Thursday, right smack in the middle of the worst traffic and at the time kids were getting out of school. She never could understand why more women did not come to her lovely teas (tea which was perfectly steeped, with home made "biscuits" served on English China). I was always glad when I was the only one who showed up.  It took about thirty seconds to get her headed down a story-road that would lead us to high adventure. Usually I took her home for dinner with Ted and that's when more fun began. Lillian was self-taught, but she was no doctrinal novice. She and Ted would start chewing on a doctrine and two hours later they would still be ragging it to death.

At times when my loneliness for Ted becomes nearly unbearable I force my imagination to visit Heaven and picture Ted and Lillian along with so many that we love at the feet of Jesus hearing the Truth and nothing but the Truth from the lips of our kind and blessed Saviour.

It's a lovely day, but then, after having lived the first part of my life on the windswept grasslands of Eastern Kansas, five years enduring snow from late October until late April or May in Minnesota, then four years in Dallas, panting for a breath of air all the long summer, then Palo Alto where the weather is perfect year 'round, then Bakersfield where once again we panted for breath through smoggy air, then Houston, where humid, hot air is what you get if you dare step outside,   I think every day here is next to idyllic. The Los Angelans who have moved here mutter if the sun doesn't shine for two days in a row.

This morning, I was soaping and hosing down my white satin bedspread out on the deck. (a bedspread no other woman in the world would allow two black and white cats to even dream of snoozing on).  In the tree not twenty feet from me came a blood-curdling scream/snarl of a bobcat who was begging me to toss him one of my kitties for breakfast. I screamed back at him and he high-tailed it over the mountain.

Today, some of my Bear Valley family is hiking in the lower Sierras.  I am reasonably sure that my Sacramento family is hiking, jeeping or riding Ted's motorcycle (Jeff has laminated his dad's picture on the dashboard)  in the high Sierras. After I finish this blog I plan to hang out by my pretty garden where the 150-year-old pump from my childhood farm sends a steady stream of water spashing into the little pool below , and take a nap.  Then I will go to my precious friend Sherry's for tri-tip and games with people she has invited in. Another time I will tell you about Sherry, if she will let me. What a story is hers!  ...Just think about the stories we will hear throughout eternity. ...and that includes YOURS!

                              HYMN OF THE WEEK: WOUNDED  AND COMING FOR ME

Coming for me; coming for me; One day to earth He is coming for me.
Then with what joy His dear face I shall see,
Oh, how I praise Him--He's coming for me!

Love, Jo

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