Plain Wisdom

by Cindy Woodsmall

  From Cindy

  My mother once told me that she always had flower beds while I was growing up and that she worked in them regularly. I believed her, but I didn’t remember seeing any flowers or watching her plant them.

  I do remember her working a vegetable garden. That was food, and I liked food. I remember her canning and freezing all sorts of fruits and vegetables. That impressed me too.

  But flowers? They didn’t do anything. Why work hard planting seeds to grow something you can only look at?

  My lack of respect for her love of flowers included houseplants. Except for the aloe plant that I’d cut and apply to burns on occasion, I never understood the purpose of houseplants. So when she brought me several after I had my own home, I didn’t honor her gift. I was nice when she gave them to me, but before long they were dying. It seemed wrong to let them die when she’d spent money on them, so I tried to keep them alive—gave them plenty of sun, water, fresh soil. But my efforts came too late. I’d already either baked them in the sun or drowned them in water. Or both.

  When I confessed my failure to Mom, she laughed and said it was a fault she’d overlook. She assured me that one day I’d appreciate flowers and houseplants. I told her not to hold her breath. It became a running joke between us. Whenever a sibling asked her what gift I might like for Christmas or a birthday, she’d wink at me and say plants would be perfect! When we walked through the garden section of any store, she’d lovingly touch the plants and say they were calling my name.

  One afternoon in May of 1998, I received a phone call saying that my healthy, sixty-eight-year-old mom had been outside planting flowers when she started feeling odd. Forty minutes later she died. I was in shock.

  After the funeral, as my husband was backing out of the driveway to head for home, my sister hurried out to our car, toting a flat of three-inch seedlings with six different types of plants. “Someone gave these houseplants in lieu of flowers. Please take them with you. You know Mom would want you to have them.”

  Wondering if they’d survive the seven-hundred-mile trip home in a tightly packed vehicle with antsy children, I took them. Out of respect for my mom, I determined to do whatever it took to make sure these plants survived as long as possible.

  The grieving process was long and hard, but keeping those plants alive and thriving brought healing. I’ve replanted them into larger containers four times so far. Now, twelve years later, each of those plants has its own large, ornate pot. Except in the wintertime, they sit on my back porch. How did I not see the beauty of plants before?

  When my oldest son bought a home of his own a couple of years ago, I gave him shoots from the once-seedlings I’d received at his grandmother’s funeral. He looked at me with a funny expression and said, “What do I want with houseplants? They aren’t good for anything but sitting around and collecting dust … until they die.”

  At that moment I realized that the circle of my mom’s passing on her love of plants to her family was not yet complete—and might not ever be.

  THE UNEXPECTED

  Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love; in honour preferring one another.

  —ROMANS 12:10

  From Cindy

  The saying “Stop and smell the roses” has lost its impact through years of use, but its message is still true.

  On one occasion, when my husband and I had two preschoolers, we took a three-hour road trip to visit my parents. Our budget was tight, and we didn’t usually eat out, but we’d saved a little money so we could stop at a Cracker Barrel and have a nice breakfast.

  After ordering we played checkers with our children and drew pictures on scrap paper—the typical things parents do to keep their balls of energy in check and content. I noticed a woman about ten years older than we were who was watching our every move, but I didn’t think much about it. When it was time to pay the bill, the server said it had already been paid, including the tip. The server pointed to the table where that woman had been sitting just a few minutes earlier. She had told the server, “I used to have a family like that. Tell the parents to enjoy what they have while they can.”

  My heart wrenched when the server told us that. Perhaps she wasn’t as young as she looked and her children were grown, leaving her alone and regretting that she hadn’t used her time with them more wisely. Could she have lost her children in a divorce or to death? It became very clear that I might have only that day and that moment with my children. But had I taken time to breathe in their joy and laughter, or was I rushing through the seasons life was giving me? Even now, more than twenty years later, my heart aches at the memory of her pain.

  That incident has had a profound effect on my relationship with my husband and children. Since that day I have been more aware that any conversation with one of them could be my last one. Because of that, my anger is tempered, my disappointment is quenched, and my hope for tomorrow becomes a prayer.

  From Miriam

  Sometime ago Flaud Builders, our family business, built a boat shop in Maine for Bob and Ruth Ives. After spending a week with them constructing the timber frame, we grew quite fond of the admirable couple. Sadly, shortly after we finished the job, Ruth died of a brain tumor following a long, brave battle.

  Later my husband and I, along with three other workers and their wives, decided to return to Maine to visit Bob. We pulled out our handwritten list of people who are willing to be hired drivers for the Amish. We know most of them well, so we knew who had a van that would seat all of us. Then we called to see who had the time and would be willing to make the twelve-hour trip, stay in the area until we were ready to leave, and drive us home again.

  Once everything was arranged, we headed for Maine. When we had almost reached our destination, we decided to stop for a bite to eat so we wouldn’t arrive just before mealtime. We had already left the main roads, so finding a restaurant wasn’t going to be easy.

  Hungry and weary of traveling, I didn’t think I’d be too choosy, but when we drove up to a little diner, my heart sank. At first glance it appeared to be no more than an enclosed front porch, but they were open for business, so we went inside.

  The place was small, but it was warm and clean, and the coffee smelled good. Our group split up and sat at several tables.

  After I placed my order, I noticed the rest of the group chatting with a gentleman who had just come in. It’s not unusual for strangers to approach us and ask where we’re from—after all, we do look like we recently stepped off the Mayflower.

  A few bites of my eggs Benedict, and I felt ashamed that I had doubted the place. My breakfast was delicious. My sister raved about hers as well, calling it outstanding.

  When the waitress returned to refill our coffee, she told us the tall gentleman at the counter had picked up all our tabs! As we expressed our appreciation, he said he was familiar with the boat shop, was a friend of Bob Ives, and had known Ruth well. Then in a low voice he said, “This breakfast was from Ruth. If she were still alive, she would have insisted on making her guests breakfast.”

  My eyes welled with tears. I looked at my sister and said, “No wonder this meal tasted so good; it was made in heaven.”

  We all left there filled in more ways than one.

  We received love from a stranger that day because Ruth would have given it to us if she had been here on earth. I felt as if Ruth had reached out to us, as if I’d received a hug from heaven. And the fresh insight of how God’s love comes from heaven and fills us so that we can reach out and love others for Him became even clearer.

  Since God’s own Son was born in a barn, surely His angels can work in a humble little diner through a tall gentleman with an open heart.

  ACROSS-THE-FIELD NOTES

  Now the God of peace, that brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, that great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is wellpleasing in his sight, through Jesus Chris
t; to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.

  —HEBREWS 13:20–21

  From Miriam

  The sunshine felt warm on my back as I bent to pick fresh green beans from my garden. In the distance I heard the rumble of an approaching team of horses. Looking up, I saw my husband’s twin brother driving down the dusty field lane, most likely coming to help with the hay making.

  When his two workhorses and cart reached the end of my garden, he stopped the rig and pulled a slip of white paper from his pocket. Probably a note from my sister Sarah, what we call an across-the-field note. As our husbands help each other with their crops, we pass notes back and forth through them, sharing recipes and generally staying in touch between visits.

  Sarah recycles everything possible, so her notes are usually written on the back of discarded desk-calendar sheets, the kind with a scripture for each day. I always look forward to those little notes as well as the Bible verses. Many times that one little passage is just the right encouragement, inspiration, or discipline I need for the day.

  I don’t think this is a coincidence. God knows exactly what our needs will be long before we even realize we have them.

  From Cindy

  Whether learning at home or at public school, Tyler never enjoyed class time. He experienced a number of difficulties in his first two years of middle school. Soon after starting his third year of middle school, he began pushing me to homeschool him again.

  I’d had sixteen years of experience in homeschooling, but at that juncture of life, I was in the middle of fulfilling publishing contracts for two novels. I couldn’t juggle teaching Tyler while keeping up with my writing obligations. It would have been impossible even if he had been an independent learner, which at that time he wasn’t.

  I met with his teachers, and they expressed a number of concerns. His new friends at school were rough—some under house arrest, others not far behind. A rebellious attitude had begun to develop in Tyler. Self-destructive behavior was trying to creep into his heart as well.

  I talked to my son about this, covered him in prayer, and sent him back to school.

  What else could I do?

  A few weeks later I was walking into church one Sunday morning, my mind on the next week’s schedule and how I’d get everything done. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I heard, Get him out. Now.

  I couldn’t imagine how I’d manage to homeschool Tyler and still meet my writing obligations. But I’d ignored God’s direction on different issues in the past, and disobedience had come with a price, so I knew I had to heed His warning in order to steer clear of whatever danger was ahead.

  With great trepidation I withdrew Tyler from school, ordered curriculum, and tried to hire a tutor. Not one applicant qualified.

  For three weeks I woke at four every morning, wrote until nine, then started the school day. Tyler’s attitude showed significant improvement. I, on the other hand, was more exhausted and stressed than I’d ever been. I had no clue how I was going to make my book deadlines. Something had to give. Since I was committed to homeschooling Tyler, the only option I could see was to back out of my publishing contracts.

  Before telling my agent my decision, I talked to my pastor about our need for a tutor. He said he knew a man who might be willing to help. Later that week Dr. Lee came for an interview. He had several degrees, one in math. While waiting for God to open a door for him to become a pastor, he agreed to come to my home two days a week and work with Tyler on math. I found another qualified tutor who could come a few hours each week to teach history and science.

  Dr. Lee was a soft-spoken man, and he saw Tyler’s heart. He identified what was tripping him up, both in academics and in issues that had nothing to do with school.

  Tyler finished the year with outstanding grades, and I managed to meet my two book deadlines. Just as we completed our school year, Dr. Lee’s door of opportunity opened in another part of the country.

  When the new school year approached, I gave Tyler the choice to stay home or return to school. He chose to return. He needed to be homeschooled for eighth grade, and he needed to return to public school the following year.

  Tyler has become a better student and a better young man every year. Math clicks for him now. He gets good grades in his honors classes. He enjoys good friends and avoids bad ones. And he appreciates that God spoke up for him and that his parents did what it took to get him on track.

  Before we even withdrew Tyler from school, God had a plan of success for both of us. But I wouldn’t have discovered that if I hadn’t dared to obey.

  R-E-S-P-E-C-T

  Being justified by his grace, we should be made heirs according to the hope of eternal life.

  —TITUS 3:7

  From Miriam

  While my husband lined up our four little boys at the picnic table, I handed out paper plates full of goodies. The local milk company was sponsoring its annual picnic for milk producers and their families. Being dairy farmers, with cows to milk twice a day, we don’t get away very often. So this event is always a treat for us.

  A huge crowd had gathered, including the milk inspector. The sight of him made me anxious. Two weeks prior to the picnic, our farm had undergone its routine inspection. Similar to a restaurant inspector, a dairy inspector comes with a long list of items to check and standards that must be met. Failing to pass one of these inspections means the inspector may refuse to accept a few days’ worth of milk as a penalty … and all the milk will be dumped down the drain. The inspector would have to return and do another inspection before we could begin selling milk again.

  While my husband had cut hay, I’d worked hard scrubbing the milkers, the bulk tank, and the milk-house walls and windows. I’d scraped the cow stalls and spread barn snow, a white lime sand used to freshen the concrete floor. As far as I knew, everything should have passed the rigid inspection.

  But there we were at the picnic, and we hadn’t received the results yet. Usually no news is good news, but the suspense still affected me. We’d probably passed, but by how much? And what else would we need to do for the next inspection? The thought of all my hard work kept running through my mind, and I began to feel as if I just couldn’t take on that task again.

  As I sat down to join my husband and sons, the inspector walked up to our table. He greeted my father-in-law, who is in partnership with us. When the man mentioned something about inspection results, I froze. But before he could finish his comment, my father-in-law interrupted. “Actually,” he said, “I handed that job over to my son.”

  The inspector took a few steps down the table and greeted my husband. When he resumed his conversation about the inspection, Daniel seemed relieved to hand the possible wrath down to the next person. He said, “Well, that would be my wife’s department.”

  The inspector looked at me. I held my breath, glad I was sitting down.

  He extended his arm to shake hands with me, and then he said, “Congratulations, Mrs. Flaud. Not only did you pass inspection, but you got an outstanding score of 99 percent!”

  I didn’t want to gloat. I prayed not to, and yet … I’m human.

  From Cindy

  The journey from stay-at-home mom to author was a quiet one. While writing my first novel, I worked long hours at the same place where I’d nursed my babies, cuddled them as toddlers, and taught two of them from kindergarten to high school—at home. My circle of family and friends was small, and few people outside of that circle even knew I wrote.

  My debut novel sold out within two weeks of being published, and the popularity of the series continued to grow until my third book hit the New York Times bestseller list. To celebrate, my family and I went out to eat at a really nice restaurant. The news was fun, but I was glad that the impact seemed nominal.

  When I woke the next day, I began to feel a shift. I’d gone to bed the same woman and woke with … tangible respect. It felt truly odd. I hadn’t changed, but e-mails and phone messages were waiting. People, many of whom had known me for
years, suddenly wanted me to come speak at their book clubs, women’s functions, libraries, and bookstores. I was struck by the oddity of it. Did I know a lot more today than yesterday? Was I more qualified today?

  I had no more value after I became an author than when I was in my home tending to runny noses, little bumps and bruises, and laboring over hard-fought-for school lessons my children would never remember learning (even though the skill became a part of them). Our value can’t be wrapped inside what others think or we think, because that is too dependent on this ever-shifting world. The value God places on us makes us more than we think we are, even on our hardest days, weeks, or years.

  HOPE

  Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ: By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God.

  —ROMANS 5:1–2

  From Cindy

  When I came to Christ in my early twenties, the one characteristic of who He is that changed everything about my life was hope. It seemed to create its own sense of thankfulness and well-being.

  At first, thinking on hopeful things didn’t come naturally for me. A hopeful thought would skitter through my mind so fast I couldn’t catch it. It seemed to take about five minutes to recall the hopeful thought, but I chased it down. And every time it slipped away, I chased it down again.