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Browsing Tag: Christmas

If These Walls Could Talk

health workers wearing face mask
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During the height of Covid, I took precautions along with everyone else.  I stayed home as much as I could.  I wore a mask when I did go out.  I had a Purell pump front and center on the kitchen counter.  And I watched, and I waited. 

I watched my husband and stepson deal with symptoms and testing, initially negative and later positive.  I waited for the worst to be over and life to resume some sense of normalcy.  And I waited for the day when symptoms would find me. 

Although that day was slow in coming, it did eventually come.  After months of watching everyone else deal with it, I found myself dealing with it as well. 

Since Covid was then still prevalent, I couldn’t get an appointment for a test anywhere locally.  Literally everywhere was booked.  (Home test kits weren’t readily available yet, at least not that I was aware of.)  And since this was my first brush with Covid, I wanted to be sure.  If I had it, I wanted to know.  I booked the best slot available – one at a CVS 35 minutes away.

So it was that I found myself on a sunny Saturday afternoon a year or two ago driving from south Georgia to a small town in north Florida.  Over bridges, over hills, under canopy coverings on beautiful back roads, I drove at a leisurely pace.  The scenery that stretched out before me consisted of winding rivers and vast cypress swamps.  Scenic views in beautiful weather – even though I didn’t feel all that great physically, it wasn’t a bad way to spend the day.  Alone on the road, alone with my thoughts, and with the soothing sound of Pachelbel’s Canon filling my car, time passed quickly and easily. 

road passing through forest
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My map app finally brought me out of the woods and deposited me downtown in a small town, where standing as sentinel atop a hill, was the Wardlaw Smith House.  The brown historic marker told me the name of this impressive house and that it was somehow significant.  I made a mental note to research it later, but for now, all I had was the name and the sighting – a house with a history.  Two stories of white brick with black shutters and imposing columns on a lush lawn. 

Large old homes like this are common in small towns.  Many seem not to be private residences anymore but business offices or museums.  It made me even more curious about this place.  I continued to ponder it as I passed it and made my way to my destination. 

crop ethnic man with glorious mustache
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Wardlaw Smith.  What an interesting name.  Who was this man?  Was he kind to his wife and children, or did he view them as property?  Or was he a bachelor?  How did he make his fortune?  What did he look like?  Did he have a handlebar moustache and wear spectacles? 

Wardlaw Smith House…

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I blink and suddenly the scene changes.  It’s the summer of 1856, and Mr. Wardlaw Smith is dismounting his horse in front of the house.  He is dressed in a top hat and black suit – he is in mourning.  His father’s recent death has left him the house, the responsibility for his mother and sisters, and the pressures of providing for their future and the future of his own budding family.  He looks up as the front door opens and sees his young wife, heavily pregnant and glowing, smiling down at him.  And at that welcoming sight, his cares are eased, just for a moment.  A breeze tickles the long strands of Spanish moss draping the live oak trees in his yard, and the scent of magnolia follows him up the steps.  After a long journey, he is home. 

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I blink again, and it’s 1935.  Miss Julia Smith, Wardlaw’s great-great granddaughter is descending the grand staircase to meet young Lieutenant Harper.  All her hopes hang on this evening.  After six weeks of earnest courtship, she is certain this is the night he will propose. 

Her father likes the promise of a successful military career, her mother likes that he comes from a respectable family, but Julia just likes the way he makes her laugh.  The air is heavy with expectancy.

For his part, Lieutenant Harper also has high hopes for the evening.  His star is on the rise thanks to a recent promotion, but he doesn’t want to venture forward without this woman by his side.  He doesn’t want to envision a future without her in it.  In his pocket, he carries a small but precious burden – a ring that once belonged to his grandmother.

The Christmas tree in the foyer reaches nearly to the top of the staircase.  Holly and ivy line the banister, and the family that have gathered in this home are wrapped in the warmth of the season.  It’s a contest as to what shines more brightly – the light of the candles in the windows or the light in Miss Julia’s eyes.

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Again, I close my eyes and open them to a new scene.  It’s 1969, and the world is in uproar.  So much has changed since the first brick was laid in this house.  Mr. John Smith is at home in his study, wondering about his sons in Vietnam, worrying about finances, and wondering about the future.  He does not want to leave his home, but the repairs needed to maintain the aging house are costing a fortune.  He wants his sons to have a house to come home to, but more importantly, he wants his sons to come home. 

So many cares, so much change.  Just this summer, a man walked on the face of the moon.  Things that were never thought possible, never even dreamed of, have happened.  Where, he wonders, do we go from here? 

On this Saturday in September, his wife is enjoying a late afternoon stroll with friends, leaving him alone in the house, alone with his thoughts.

As his mind wanders, he gets up from his desk and moves to a more comfortable chair near the bookcase.  He can’t seem to focus on much of anything.  In a daze, his eyes land on a book on the bottom shelf.  It’s one of the old family books, a large leather-bound tome that he has never even opened, mixed in among genealogical records and photo albums.  He opens it and discovers the words of Mr. Wardlaw Smith, his ancestor. 

man in black suit jacket and top hat
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This is his personal diary, and it records much the same cares and questions he himself is now facing.  Questions about money, concerns for family, questions about the future – it’s all recorded in his elegant script.  How interesting that though much has changed since these words were written, much is still the same.  Family, love, struggles, hope – these remain even though horse-drawn carriages and top hats have faded. 

John smiles to himself, knowing that, though some questions remain unanswered, though winter is around the corner, spring will come again, just as it always has, year after year since the days of Wardlaw Smith.  Some things are certain. 

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Once I returned home from getting my Covid test (which was negative, thankfully), I forgot to Google this house, and I still haven’t done so.  I have no idea what its backstory is.  I don’t know what its current use is or if it’s still a private home. 

All I know is that the Wardlaw Smith house still stands.  Through war, through hurricanes, through political and social upheaval, across millennia, this house endures.  And from the outside appearance anyway, it appears relatively unchanged from what I imagine it looked like when it was built.  What a testimony to the long march of time, to the unfolding of history. 

Just as the man this house is named after took his place in history, just as every generation after him has taken their place, so we too must take ours.  We too have a place in history – purposes to fulfill, people to love, situations to impact.  We have much good to do.  And whether history records our names or not, may we do all the good we can.

I hope Mr. Wardlaw Smith, handlebar moustache and all, would be proud that the house that bears his name is still standing.

The Art of Remembering – Life, Death, and Those We Love

shallow focus photography of red bauble
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It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.  I’m typing by the light of our Christmas tree, admiring the way the ornaments shine.  The scents of balsam and fir from our Christmas candle waft throughout the room.  My chocolate pecan snowballs are baked, and my presents are wrapped.  And I look forward to seeing loved ones soon.

It’s at this time of year we remember those we lost.  And the world lost an icon this year with the passing of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

After she died, I spent hours glued to the TV.  I beheld the familiar sight of the royal standard draped over the unfamiliar sight of her coffin: a red dragon on a background of gold and a golden lion on a background of bright red.  At once, startling, sad, and beautiful. 

I watched as her coffin was carried from Balmoral Castle to Edinburgh, and it seemed to me even the land was in mourning.  The green Highland hills stood sentinel over the procession.  And the grey stone of Edinburgh seemed a little greyer that day.  It was as if the cobblestones knew who was passing over them, one last time. 

I saw people standing in incredibly long lines to pay their respects – long lines for Britain’s longest-reigning monarch.  I saw pomp and circumstance executed with military precision, though it wasn’t merely for the sake of pomp and circumstance. It was for the sake of honor.

It seemed as if all of England emptied itself as mourners gathered on the streets.  Every pub bare, every office empty, every tourist attraction silent and still.

It struck me how the proceedings incorporated every stratum of society.  Tradition meets military meets politics meets the people.  History unfolding as it has for centuries, as it ever will.

In the end, her crown lay at the foot of a cross.  In Westminster Hall, as the Abbey officiant lowered the gilded cross of Westminster into place at the head of her coffin to close the service of remembrance, the foot of the cross was just in line with the crown atop her coffin.  And with what was known of her life and faith, we can safely assume this was how she would’ve wanted it.  What enabled her reign to be so successful and memorable was her unwavering allegiance to the One who reigned over her. 

As I watched the Queen’s funeral proceedings, it reminded me of another time I was confronted with death.  When visiting my family in metro D.C., we sometimes stop at Arlington National Cemetery.  Climbing the green hills overlooking the city, beholding countless rows of names, and beholding the name of my father certainly left an impression.  Surrounded by a sea of stone slabs, row on row, it’s hard not to think about death.  Death and how we honor those who have died.  And the importance of remembering.

What Arlington shows us, what we saw in the Queen’s proceedings is that how we honor the dead says much about the living, about what kind of people we are.  We honor in death those we loved in life, and it’s good to have had people to love.  As the Queen herself said, grief is the price we pay for love.  We mourn the loss even as we celebrate the life, and we remember.  We remember because we matter. 

So, this Christmas, I remember my dad.  I remember him in his chair in our old den reading the newspaper.  I remember his warm hugs and sweet smile.

I remember a family Christmas photo when I was a teenager. My dad was holding our cat, who didn’t feel like being photographed that day, and he proceeded to soundly bite his hand just as we said cheese.

I remember how he meticulously checked my car’s fluids and even Windexed the windshield every time I got on the road after visiting. 

I remember how proud he was of my sister and me and our achievements growing up, how proud he was as our family later expanded.  I remember the love he had for my mom, a love deep down and ever present, expressed in his own way.

I remember him this Christmas as I gather with others who loved him.  Grief is indeed the price we pay for love, and that is a price I am willing to pay.  Because love is worth it.

Love matters.  People and memories matter. Tribute and traditions matter.  And these are things well worth remembering – at Christmas and always. 

So, may you have a very merry Christmas with those you love.  May we celebrate joyfully even as we remember those who are no longer with us.  May the Queen rest in peace and rise in glory. 

And may God save the king.