Mary Had a Little Lamb

 

Photo by Kat Jayne from Pexels

I remember her in black, though offhand, this memory may do her an injustice. Though dark her clothing, her countenance shone kindness, gentleness. Life.

This was Miss Mary. Long time supporter and encourager of the children’s ministry God led my Daddy into as a young man.

         

At her call to come in, Daddy and I stepped over the threshold into her kitchen. Her back turned, Miss Mary bustled about, readying refreshments. A tea kettle spewed steam. A random assortment of dishes lined the counter. Over the sink, vines trailed a sunny window. Cats, so many cats, curled in and out of her stocking clad legs. Somehow, she managed not to step on them with the thick heels of her black shoes. The laced ones worn by older women in the 1960s. A bun loosely twisted at the back of her head appeared as a cotton puff. Wisps of white stuck out here and there. 

When she pivoted with tray in hand, she smiled, and with a nudge of her head, directed us to follow her into the living room, cats and kittens on her heels. What a strange mix of scent—the spice of pumpkin pie with the strong odor of cat. Made me wince. Yet, her storybook house and demeanor held such fascination, I was caught in their spell.

We moved into the adjacent room, shadowed by drawn blinds with only a flicker of sunlight creeping through an open slat. She set the wooden tray on the antique coffee table. Formality otherwise cast aside, for we were frequent visitors, Daddy and I settled on the sofa, a burgundy velvet with wooden trim, richly oiled, but whose seat was anything but comfortable. I inwardly yelped when I shifted, and a spring dug into my bottom. Still, I reveled in the intrigue of the room as I nibbled on my pie, Daddy and Miss Mary chatting to the backdrop of a ticking clock. I loved making ministry calls with my Daddy, especially when he did all the talking and I could simply enjoy the ambience each visit presented.

However, on occasion, Miss Mary would pause, focus on me with twinkling eyes, and ask a question. Like grownups do who are trying to draw out a shy child. Which I certainly was around adults. I’d burrow into Daddy, and he would pat my knee. Words froze on my tongue. Still, Miss Mary, like most adults, would smile and laugh, and pass off my reticence with some reassuring excuse.

Yes! Back to my pie in peace.

Then, as if seeking to win me over, Miss Mary sprang something on me, something I’m guessing she knew I couldn’t resist.

“I have a little lamb,” she said, smoothing a hand over her lap, signaling several cats to hop aboard.

My eyebrows shot up, and I scooted to the edge of the sofa.

“That’s right.” She glimmered at me with cocked head. “And I sure need help feeding him. Sadly, his mother died. He’s so little, he still needs to take a bottle. Would you like to give him his bottle?”

Would I! I’d never fed a lamb before. Would I do it right? Would he eat for me? But here was Miss Mary inviting me to feed her little lamb, so she must trust me, at least enough.

I looked up at Daddy. He nodded his head, a signal to go for it.

Beaming, I followed Miss Mary out to the barn where she gathered up the little lamb into her arms. “Sit down on the ground.” She motioned to a soft grassy spot. I obeyed, and she lowered the lamb into my outstretched arms. A milk bottle followed. The lamb instinctively lunged for the nibble and started sucking. The power in that suckling infant overwhelmed me at first, but I held fast to the tiny creature. I felt at peace. For those few moments, the world stilled, and the only creatures who existed were that little lamb and me. Years later, I experienced a similar phenomenon with my own suckling infant girls, so vulnerable, so dependent on me for nourishment. I don’t remember ever feeding Miss Mary’s little lamb after that day, but the memory remains of a kind lady who loved her animals, my Daddy, me, and a host of other children in Johnson County. One orphaned child she took in and raised as her own, though she was a single woman.

Undergirding her life was her love for Jesus, presented more in action than in words. Her kindness and gentleness for all creatures showed me the Good Shepherd who also became the Lamb of God who took away the sin of the world, my sin, and welcomed this little lamb into His everlasting arms.  

                   

The Last Place You Wanna Be

The last place you wanna be on your birthday is in a dental chair, looking up at the ceiling.

But God has a way of showing up to celebrate your birthday when you least expect it.

Even while in a dental chair, counting the holes in the tiled ceiling.

Which in a flash took me back to my church days as a five-year-old snugged against mom during the service. Fidgety, I'd finally comfort myself by laying my head in her lap and staring at the ceiling.

Yes, a similar tiled ceiling with holes I could count.

The memory provoked a warm nostalgic flood to wash over me.

Mama would stroke my brow with a gentle sweep of my bangs to the side.

Just when I'd counted as far as I could go (maybe to twenty or so as a five-year-old), I'd get fidgety again.

Mama would pull out her pretty cloth handkerchief and fashion it into a tiny cradle with baby inside. I can still picture it, though I never learned how to do it.

I wish I had, because it would be a wonderful thing to pass down to my grandchildren from their great grandmother.

Perhaps my sister will know how. I'll ask her when I see her next.

In the meantime, I'll bask in the glow and wonder of God showing up with a warm mother memory to help me feel close to her on my birthday.

Even in the dental chair. 

Daddy's Hands

Often my grandchildren ask me to tell them a story about when I was a little girl. Here is one of their favorites in honor of my Daddy, now in heaven with His Lord. I wrote the piece when he was 87.

DADDY’S HANDS

Eileen Rife © 2000

A large hand reached down to grasp my small hand. My daddy was walking me to school. I looked up at him in wonder. He was so tall. So strong. Dark wavy hair framed his tanned face. Deep blue eyes twinkled in the morning light. A whistle spewed from his lips. I felt safe. My daddy was with me.

           

Lost in my reflection, I suddenly felt daddy's hand gently release mine and nudge me inside the school door. As he squeezed me, he planted a warm kiss on my cheek. My heart sank to let daddy go. I fought back the tears, reassuring myself that I would soon be home again.

The school bell rang and I bolted for the school door. Several yards down the sidewalk, I skidded to a stop. I waited as the traffic light changed from red to green. Then I dashed across the street to Mr. Adam's store, my routine stopping place after a tiring school day.

Inside the store, the aroma of fresh fruit filled my nostrils. I observed Mr. Adams in his blood-stained apron slicing meat behind the glass counter. Up front, the cashier rang up an elderly lady's goods as the bag boy meticulously sorted the items into a bag.

I veered to the right, past the cashier and straight to my favorite aisle--CANDY LANE! My mouth watered as I eyed the chocolate bars, lollipops, and bubble gum. 

Mmm, what am I in the mood for today? I pondered. After scanning the goodie buffet, I decided on a two-cent piece of bubble gum--the rectangular pink kind with the twin halves wrapped in cartoon paper. I reached in my pocket to retrieve my money. To my chagrin, my pockets were empty. I frantically racked my brain for a solution. The thought struck that since kind Mr. Adams often gave me candy, he probably wouldn't care if I took this tiny piece of bubble gum. Settled in my mind, I quickly shoved the gum in my pocket and hurried to the door.

Once home, I laid the gum beside my bookbag on the kitchen table and went to the sink to get a drink of water. Just then, daddy entered the kitchen. In his typical booming fashion, he spoke: "How was school today?"

"Fine," I glibly responded. 

Daddy glanced at my bookbag and then at the gum. "Where'd you get the gum?" he casually asked. 

I set my glass down and slowly turned to face daddy while bracing my body against the counter. A flicker of guilt flashed across my mind. Hot shame started at my neck and crept up into my face.

Clearing my throat, I answered, "At Adam's Store." I hoped daddy would be satisfied with that answer. He wasn't. He knew he had not given me any treat money that day. 


Daddy persisted in his line of questioning. All of a sudden, I felt like I'd stepped into a wild west show. I was the bad guy and daddy was the law. I didn't like this show-down. I wanted to run away with the dust at my heels and not look back. But there would be no running today. I was cornered and I knew it.

"Did Mr. Adams give you the gum, Eileen?" daddy asked. 


My face turned red. I felt hot again. Like a trapped firefly trying to escape from a sealed jar, I longed for release from daddy's questions.

At last I mustered the courage to speak. "Well...no," I stammered, looking down at the floor. I nervously slid one foot back and forth across the tile. "But Mr. Adams always gives us candy anyway," I shot back. My words even sounded hollow to my ears. I knew I was in serious trouble. Daddy placed a high premium on honesty. This act of treachery was going to cost me. I watched daddy's hands. I expected him to spank me. Instead, he reached for the phone and called Mr. Adams.

When daddy hung up the phone, he turned and faced me. "You best take that gum back," he said with resolve. As I started to leave, daddy softened. He took my arm and gently patted my back. "Supper will be ready when you get home," he added.

In that instant, I felt a reassuring love emanating from daddy's hands. He had used his hands not only to instruct, but also to love, reminding me of my heavenly Father. How often God’s Son had used His hands to love people, to teach, to heal, and then to submit to the nails. All for my benefit.

My dad is eighty-seven now. He shuffles when he walks. I take his weak hand in my strong hand. He looks up at me with a smile and that familiar twinkle in his clear blue eyes and I smile back. 

“Isn’t God good?” daddy says. 

“Yes, daddy, He sure is,” I respond.