Love from Bolivia
When we lived in South America, we occasionally received care packages from friends and family back home. Boxes, envelopes or suitcases would be mailed to us or hand-carried by my in-laws when they came to visit.
It was so much fun to open them and find treats like books and magazines in English, American candy, Pop-Tarts, cheesecake mix, black olives, dill pickles, cards, notes and photos from loved ones.
Well, a little while before Christmas last year, we received our first giant care package FROM Bolivia. Our friend Caroline helped sort through some of our stuff in storage there, and then our friends Bev and Bill packed up two large suitcases full of surprises for us. Bev brought them both on a plane to Miami and sent them from there on a bus to California.
The luggage arrived to the city where my dad lives, and he drove it 33 miles further to a tiny spot on the map where one of Tom's coworkers had a business appointment. That coworker brought it another few dozen miles to us.
We were thrilled!
The bags weren't full of food products this time. No Pop-Tarts or pickles.
Instead, it was a crazy mix of things that had already been ours. Items from my hope chest, left behind for two-and-a-half years. We happily uncovered the first quilt I made with my mother-in-law, handmade Christmas ornaments, photographs, missing pieces from Tom and Peter's art collections, and a stack of clothes.
Almost an entire suitcase was full of our children's artwork. Masterpieces that had once hung on our walls, as well as drawings on notebook paper that none of us could remember. There were works in chalk, crayon, pencil, pen, paint and collage. Even little paper sculptures.
As we sorted through them, my heart swelled by the abundance of notes from my children saying, "I love you Mom." Stacks of them, with red hearts and big capital "M"s.
I guess I'd forgotten how many times those were made for me.
Sometimes, my sons would carry them home from school or church services, clasped carefully in their fingers. Sometimes, they would sit together at our table and make them for me, while I worked nearby in the kitchen. Their little heads would be bent over their projects and I would hear their laughs and whispers as they conferred together.
Seeing those beautiful creations again brought me what Max Lucado once named a "loveburst."
I think part of what overwhelmed was the sheer volume of the notes, those little displays over and over again of their deep affection for their mama. Sometimes, we forget.
My tall, teen boys are still willing to say "I love you," still apt at times to drape long arms around me and give me hugs. I am remarkably blessed and extremely grateful for them. I wouldn't trade them for their younger selves; each stage of their lives is unspeakably precious.
But sometimes, in the midst of chauffeuring them to pre-college informational meetings or discussing politics with a young man finally old enough to vote, I am reminded of the little boys with their giggles and crayons. And it makes me happy.
I'm sure some people would wonder at our ragged treasures and why we would pay even a dollar to have them shipped 5,600 miles. They might wonder why our friends would spend time packing it up for us so carefully, so that it would all arrive intact. They might wonder why my dad would drive those 66 miles over twisty mountain roads to deliver it to his daughter and her family.
But to us, our little scraps of paper, cloth, wood and clay are pretty much priceless. After all, what is the cost of a loveburst?
"You’ve witnessed sunbursts: sunlight shafting into a shadowed forest. You’ve seen starbursts: shots of light soaring through a night sky. And you’ve heard powerbursts: raw energy booming in the silence. And you’ve felt lovebursts. You may not have called them such, but you’ve felt them." . . . .
They remind you about what matters. . . . telling you to treasure the treasure you’ve got while you’ve got it. A whisper . . . reminding you that what you have is greater than what you want and that what is urgent is not always what matters.
(edited clip from the book, He Still Moves Stones, by Max Lucado)
I am so grateful for love notes. And lovebursts. To the family and friends who have shared in all of these moments, thank you. You are priceless.
Costa Rica: Peter stopped unpacking the suitcase Papa and Grandma Throssel brought,
and just started reading one of the books!
Bolivia: One year, Philip said that the only thing he wanted for Christmas was Silly Putty.
So, Grandpa George sent him an egg of it in every color available!
The luggage arrived to the city where my dad lives, and he drove it 33 miles further to a tiny spot on the map where one of Tom's coworkers had a business appointment. That coworker brought it another few dozen miles to us.
We were thrilled!
The bags weren't full of food products this time. No Pop-Tarts or pickles.
Instead, it was a crazy mix of things that had already been ours. Items from my hope chest, left behind for two-and-a-half years. We happily uncovered the first quilt I made with my mother-in-law, handmade Christmas ornaments, photographs, missing pieces from Tom and Peter's art collections, and a stack of clothes.
Almost an entire suitcase was full of our children's artwork. Masterpieces that had once hung on our walls, as well as drawings on notebook paper that none of us could remember. There were works in chalk, crayon, pencil, pen, paint and collage. Even little paper sculptures.
As we sorted through them, my heart swelled by the abundance of notes from my children saying, "I love you Mom." Stacks of them, with red hearts and big capital "M"s.
Sometimes, my sons would carry them home from school or church services, clasped carefully in their fingers. Sometimes, they would sit together at our table and make them for me, while I worked nearby in the kitchen. Their little heads would be bent over their projects and I would hear their laughs and whispers as they conferred together.
Seeing those beautiful creations again brought me what Max Lucado once named a "loveburst."
I think part of what overwhelmed was the sheer volume of the notes, those little displays over and over again of their deep affection for their mama. Sometimes, we forget.
My tall, teen boys are still willing to say "I love you," still apt at times to drape long arms around me and give me hugs. I am remarkably blessed and extremely grateful for them. I wouldn't trade them for their younger selves; each stage of their lives is unspeakably precious.
But sometimes, in the midst of chauffeuring them to pre-college informational meetings or discussing politics with a young man finally old enough to vote, I am reminded of the little boys with their giggles and crayons. And it makes me happy.
I'm sure some people would wonder at our ragged treasures and why we would pay even a dollar to have them shipped 5,600 miles. They might wonder why our friends would spend time packing it up for us so carefully, so that it would all arrive intact. They might wonder why my dad would drive those 66 miles over twisty mountain roads to deliver it to his daughter and her family.
But to us, our little scraps of paper, cloth, wood and clay are pretty much priceless. After all, what is the cost of a loveburst?
"You’ve witnessed sunbursts: sunlight shafting into a shadowed forest. You’ve seen starbursts: shots of light soaring through a night sky. And you’ve heard powerbursts: raw energy booming in the silence. And you’ve felt lovebursts. You may not have called them such, but you’ve felt them." . . . .
They remind you about what matters. . . . telling you to treasure the treasure you’ve got while you’ve got it. A whisper . . . reminding you that what you have is greater than what you want and that what is urgent is not always what matters.
(edited clip from the book, He Still Moves Stones, by Max Lucado)
I am so grateful for love notes. And lovebursts. To the family and friends who have shared in all of these moments, thank you. You are priceless.
Mom wasn't the only one that got love notes in those days.
Here are some of the ones addressed to Dad.
And one from Peter to Philip. . .
And one from Philip to Peter. . .
#grateful
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