Life Outside the Cage

The greatest sound in the world is the laughter of children. Little giggles never fail to make me smile or chuckle myself. In the presence of diminutive laughing bodies, my burdens disappear and I want to return to that carefree world of naps, snacks, and playtime. I’ve expressed to my family and friends the only thing they need to do if I am ever in a coma or retire to a nursing home is simply play audio of giggles, snickers, and chortles of young voices. It’ll be the next best thing to seeing Jesus!

I love the 4th of July because I get to:

• Celebrate the greatest country in the world
  

• Remember the faithfulness of God to build our nation
  

• Honor the courageous men who put their lives on the line by signing their names on a sheet of parchment

• Commemorate our independence from Great Britain

• Memorialize the sacrifices for my freedoms

• Fly my flag proudly

• Pay tribute to our current soldiers standing watch to protect the dream

• Ooh and aah over fireworks that burst and fill me with wonder, reminding me of the circumstances surrounding the penning of our national anthem

• Praise God for setting me free

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

Happy Freedom Day!!!

A person perceives God as Father according to the type of relationship they had with their earthly father. I have a tremendously healthy view of God because I was raised by the most incredible father. A gentle spirit, with a compassionate heart, and an unconditional love for his family describes my precious Dad.

We may not have had thousands in the family checking account or lived in the biggest house or drove the fanciest cars, but I had what was most important.


I had a father who:

• Came home at the end of each work day eager to see his girls and play
  


• Answered each “why” question patiently
  


• Removed the fish from my hook because I refused to touch the slimy scales
  


• Scared our friends during slumber parties so he could hear us scream and laugh

Coached my softball team every summer

• Installed a tetherball pole in my backyard so I could become playground champ
  

• Entertained us during snowstorms by turning donuts in empty parking lots

• Trained me in the proper procedure for shooting jumpshots on the basketball court

• Cried with us during sad movies while stating, “We need to squeegee the carpet.”
  


• Took us on adventurous vacations all over the west
  


• Helped me move a dozen times, even to California

• Taught us the difference between being a woman and a lady
  
  
  Thank you, Dad, for pouring yourself into your two daughters and making hundreds of sacrifices to help us grow into healthy adults who are a reflection of you.

Memorial Day is so much more than trips to the lake, homemade ice cream, and family celebrations. It’s a day of remembrance. A time set aside to recall all of our loved ones who have passed away and no longer infiltrate our lives on a daily basis.

My family continues to mark this holiday with the tradition of decorating graves in honor of those missing from the family table. This custom is a dying art, disappearing with the baby boomer generation. As Mom and I pulled through the metal gates of Maple Grove Cemetery, I noticed other individuals standing beside headstones adorned with flowers. Then I realized that each person was older. There were no young people participating in this ritual. It saddened me that another American custom was dissipating.

I strolled the treelined paths of this small-town cemetery. The same trail I dawdled along many years ago as flower assistant to my grandmother in her ritual of decorating family plots. Not only memories live among the marked headstones, but my family history dwells beneath the billowing trees. Behind the stone walls stand the emblems marking the lives of three great grandfathers, three great grandmothers, two grandmothers, two grandfathers, and a great aunt.

The foundation of who I am speaks to me from the etched names and dates. The wind whispers the heritage that time nor circumstance can erase. The flowers nestled in my hand remind me of the reason for this journey to visit my lineage. No longer the flower assistant, but now the one in charge of placing the blossoms to flash the message: “Someone special lies beneath this ground.”



Mom and I cleaned grave markers, repotted sprigs of colorful blossoms in urns, and secured wreaths to the ground. Laughter and tears mingled as we shared stories of our loved ones. Our day became a tribute to each life.

As long as I am living, these graves will always be decorated on Memorial Day weekend. What an amazing way to express your love.

On January 13, 1988, I became an aunt to Christopher Trent Baker. I always wanted to be an aunt. Growing up in a small family, I never had close ties to an uncle, aunt, or cousins. So when my sister had children, my desire was to be present, active, and involved.

Living in California at the time of his birth, I eagerly awaited the picture in the mail. Upon its arrival, I tore open the envelope and gazed upon my nephew’s precious face. Tears ran down my cheeks as I lifted up the beginning of many prayers on his behalf.

Spending a summer vacation with this charming and pleasant baby had me packing up the trailer and moving back to Oklahoma so that Christopher would know his Aunt Shelley.

As a teacher, the summers afforded the opportunity for Chris and me to peruse the animals at the zoo, feed the ducks at Swan Lake, and kick the ball around the yard.


My heart’s delight was found in the presence of this young man who loved Ninja Turtles, cowboy boots, snowmen, fireworks, and dill pickles.

The next few years included attending baseball games, school programs, swim practices, and band concerts. Countless hours were devoted to games of Monopoly and Risk.

God blessed me with an amazing mother. Her footprints on my life are quite visible.


As I reflect on my childhood, a plethora of endearing memories surface:

• Playing games or listening to her read stories while traveling in the car during summer vacations
  

• Discovering Christmas presents weeks after December 25 as she uncovered their forgotten hiding place

• Sipping water from the little plastic cups she kept in her purse so we could sample the fresh springs we discovered in the mountains

Remembering the teenage years brings forth images of her:

Giving me permission to complete my homework while watching Charlie’s Angels and Eight is Enough

Helping me with peer pressure by allowing me to “blame my mom” when I didn’t want to do something

• Being my greatest cheerleader at basketball and softball games

• Experiencing New York City at Christmas with the Rockefeller Tree and Rockettes
  

• Working in my classroom each August to prepare for the new school year
  

• Cruising to the Caribbean for my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary
  

Amid all the great flashes of fun and family, the resounding life lesson she taught that remains a part of me is: leave everything a little better than you found it.

This statement echoes through my mind every time I help a friend clean up after a party, clear my table at Taco Bueno, pick up a piece of trash blowing down my neighborhood street, or speak words of encouragement to others.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!! You made me better than you found me.