What is a Family? , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Edith Schaeffer

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93 pages

English

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Extrait

Description

All the moving, changing shapes of a family are shown in Edith Schaeffer's imaginative reflections on infancy to grandmotherhood. She gives readers great ideas on how to support their family members and make moments memorable.

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 août 1997
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441212948
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0576€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 1975 by Edith Schaeffer Published by Baker Books a division of Baker Publishing Group P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287 www.bakerbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-1294-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture is taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Scripture marked TNIV is taken from the Holy Bible, Today’s New International Version™ Copyright © 2001 by International Bible Society. All rights reserved.
My gift to Fran for our fortieth wedding anniversary . . . 1975
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1 A Changing Life Mobile
2 An Ecologically Balanced Environment
3 The Birthplace of Creativity
4 A Formation Center for Human Relationships
5 A Shelter in the Time of Storm
6 A Perpetual Relay of Truth
7 An Economic Unit
8 An Educational Control
9 A Museum of Memories
10 A Door That Has Hinges and a Lock
11 Blended Balances
Other Books by Author
Back Cover
Acknowledgments
The writing of this book was an unexpected surprise to me during this year which marks the sixtieth year of living in a family (starting as a baby and continuing now as a grandmother) and also marks the fortieth year of being a wife and the thirty-eighth year of being a mother! If ever I was to write a book about what a family is, this seems to be the logical time. Although who knows what “too young” or “too old” really refers to? I would never have thought of writing it, if my good friends Billy and Marilyn Zeoli had not urged me to put a lecture into written form—the lecture entitled “What Is a Family?” My hesitancy was shoved aside when time and place opened up to write. There were hindrances, such as bruised muscles and concussion of ribs resulting from a fall, but nothing that stopped the writing.
A theoretical book about the family could not come from me. It had to be what had been lived through or observed. Therefore, I need to thank my husband and children and children-in-law and grandchildren for allowing me to use examples from their own lives and experiences. I also want to thank Marry Berg-Meester for allowing me to tell her story. Additional thanks need to be given to my husband for agreeing to our working in two rooms on two projects, side by side, when it would have been easier for him had I concentrated on being an “ear.” Writing a book cannot be separated from the other parts of life. The period of writing time is threaded into the lives of all who are in the family, and affects them in many ways. The finished product—and its results among the scattered places it goes—also affects the lives of those who are mentioned.
And so a book is written, and another pebble dropped into the lake! Ripples result which affect various people, including the writer and those who inspired the writing. “Thanks” on my part would be inadequate, but may God fulfill the needs of any who have helped put forth this volume by urging it on or walking in and out of the pages.
1
A Changing Life Mobile
Browsing through a handcrafts shop, one’s eye is caught by paper-thin chips of grained wood, shaped as birds flying together, ships sailing in a breeze, fish moving through transparent water. “How lovely to bring alive the dullness of the baby’s room, and for the breakfast nook with its dead view of bricks instead of trees.”
“I must have that for the hospital children’s ward.”—“What a good thing for the nursing home people I visit each Wednesday”—“Whooee—Look!—Wheeeee—Just a tiny breath of air and they come alive.” Mobiles .
Lingering before a painting, standing afar off to look at a statue, and then moving close to feel the smoothness of the marble, one turns to step into the next room of the art museum and the eye is caught and held by a mobile, twisting, turning, moving, changing—form and freedom demonstrated vividly in the space of a few square feet—a mobile! Whether copper or brass, wrought iron or blown glass, silver or dark wood, the threads that hold this artwork are almost invisible, and the combination of angles and arrangement are never the same at any moment. An almost-living artwork—the mobile.
Spring—chartreuse-colored leaves on the long, thin, stemlike branches of blowing willow trees dip into the lakes and bob up again, spraying drops of water. The movement becomes doubled as the rippling lake reflects the branches and breaks into a whole series of concentric circles as each drop becomes a center of its own widening little momentary world. Fascinated, one sees that this movement and reflected movement is increased by swans and ducks swishing through the water, making their own V-shaped wakes, moving to their own important destinations. The eyes move to include the dipping, bobbing, black-and-white diving birds mysteriously appearing and disappearing in their search for proper food below the lake’s surface. Without realizing that one’s look has caused the head to be suddenly thrown back to catch another quickly moving set of forms, eyes are now riveted on the wonder of lake gulls swooping and whirling as if in practised ballet formations guided by some fantastic choreographer. And the lighting keeps changing as clouds drift and gather, disperse and float into sight, covering the sun, bringing its rays in spotlight emphasis to brighten the shifting shadows in the water, and to be itself reflected dramatically beside a bobbing sailboat tied to a post. Mobiles of nature.
Walking along the Montreux quay, we see the view of the lake framed in stone-bordered gardens interspersed by trees. Spring flowers stand straight and proud, gloriously diverse tulips—reds, dark purples, apricots streaked with white, orange tipped with deep rust—mingle with daffodils in fresh, bright-yellow shades and white-cupped jonquils. Passing a hotel lawn, one sees the drifting petals of a heavily loaded magnolia tree carpeting the green grass with curls of pale pink. And suddenly there is Castle Chillon, silently guarding its stories of centuries within the stones, moss covered at the base where the moat’s water darkly flows, moving the fronds of bushes which have pushed out between cracks in the wall.
After passing the boat dock, we come to a widening in the quay, just under the wall which securely holds back the earth well enough to keep the railroad tracks up where they belong. Perpetual movement seems to be taking place in this widened area on the promenade. Two little girls are concentrating on keeping their arms moving in the same rhythm as they turn a long rope, while a third one, braids flying and cheeks pink, is jumping expertly, missing the rope as it skims under her feet—jump, jump, jump-jump-jump—while voices chant a singsong verse. Adult voices, male voices, female voices, young voices, older voices, childish voices, baby voices adding odd syllables, together in unison the chant comes forth:

Baby in the high chair,
Can’t sit still.
Ma-Pa OOOooo-la-la—
How many hours can the baby sleep?
One, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—
“Ohhh, that’s good—Margaret did fifteen—I’m next, I’m next—I’m next.”
“No, let me be.”
“No, let Uncle Ran!”—“Let Franky!”—“No, John wants to!” “Then Udo is next after that!”
Now the adults enter in. The chant begins again, the counting goes on, “Ran did seventeen. Uncle Ran did seventeen. Hey, Kirsty, you weren’t watching; Uncle Ran did seventeen.”
Kirsty, with her curly, dark red hair bobbing up and down, is jumping with her own little rope, biting her lip in fierce concentration as she keeps track of her own count and narrowly misses being hit by a trio of three-year-olds trying to race each other on their tricycles. “Watch out—ooo—ouch!”
“I know another jump-rope song!”—“I do, too; mine has different things to do in it, like turn around, touch the ground, kick the can, get out of town!”—“Mine has red-hot pepper at the end, and then you have to turn the rope fast, fast, fast!”—“Let’s do that one!”—“Look, look how fast Genie can go!”
Amazed now, you—as you have become an invisible part of the background—determine to follow this grouping of people to try to determine what they are. Why this combination? Is it a school? How many are there?
The rope jumping finally comes to an end, but not the perpetual motion. You have to run to keep up, then slow down to a stroll. There is a gray-bearded man, looking like a professor, with hair ruffling in the flow of air as he pushes himself along on a scooter, raced by a young fellow with a mustache on another scooter. Behind them, wobbling a bit, comes a five-year-old on a bicycle a little too big for her. “Look, look! I can ride Becky’s bike.” An eight-year-old is on roller skates, and there goes a tall, thin fellow, his hair thinning on top, a mustache, too—but look at his knees pushed out in that ridiculous fashion as he rides the three-year-old’s tricycle, careening down a slight incline.
“OOOoooo—Samantha fell in the lake, Samantha fell in the lake.” A sharp squeal causes several to move over to look at a projection of a few rocks at the shore, where, sure enough, a perspiring young woman, her hair falling around her shoulders, having escaped its pins in her quick movements, is hauling up a curly-haired three-year-old from the slippery ledge of rock where she had gone in up to her shoulders, but happily had been reached in the nick of time. Cameras are quickly pointed in th