I had breakfast on Wednesday with my friend Kam.  Kam is the salesman at Dunn Lumber in Seattle that I have the longest relationship with.  Aside from being the a salesman behind the counter at the Greenlake location, Kam has also been to Haiti on two missions trips.  Every time I talk to him he gives me a new phrase in Creole.  After breakfast Kam came by to see some of his materials in action.  I loved the idea of one more person in my community taking a little more ownership of my mother’s gift.

Friday was the day that the porch swing was to be delivered to the Hughes house in Edgewood.  My father and his grandsons Noah, Nathan and Luke were going to meet me in Ballard around the two-o-clock hour.  The swing was ready, but I needed a little more time.  Three days earlier, while I had been plying paint to the boxy furniture piece, a woman next door called over the fence to see if I could take a look at the railing on her porch.  By Friday I was in the final phases of completing that job when the four men arrived.  I have had my belief in God’s provision reaffirmed over and over since I’ve been home.

The boys were left charge of sweeping the job site.  The swing fit inside my father’s Ford by the grace of God alone.  I had miscalculated the width of it, but my father’s optimism coupled with our combined physical strength assured the outcome of a fit.  With a back seat taken over by two rowdy nephews, I began the long road home in our family’s auxiliary car, the Jetta.  Traffic was as bad in Seattle as it ever gets, but we were on the freeway soon enough.  Some children are beyond the ability to bore into sloth.

One of my friends is in Ireland for a month, and left me a key to her place, so I had the ideal venue for building something out of my mother’s line of sight.  Other than a few rough-measurement criteria and some preferences on finish, I was given total design authority by my sister.  I enjoy projects more when I have the freedom to be creative, and every project is happier when the clients are away.

It took about an hour to get the rough design figured out, and by the end of the first day the swing had taken shape.  My uncle once told me that the difference between a good carpenter and a great carpenter is in how they are able to hide their mistakes.  Builders of anything will tell you that the most prominent features of their creations are, to them, the scars, dings, blemishes and gaffes they etched into the final product by mistake.  My mother’s porch-swing was not the exception which proves that rule.

At some point, projects come to an end, and it is only because the builder has said “this is the end,” and not because the project was made perfect.  Having decided that the swing was completed, there were still a number of logistical elements to pin down.  My sister could get our mother out of the house on Friday for about seven hours.  I asked my dad to come to Seattle to meet me under the preamble that visiting my job site would be a good distraction for my nephews while their mother was away…

My mother’s retirement was brought on a year earlier than we all expected.  After teaching for 20 years, her breast cancer diagnosis at the end of last school year sped her acquiescence to the inevitable.  We talked about the possibility of throwing her a retirement party, but she eventually decided not to involve the family in her celebration.  How do children show their mother that she has been a part of something both admirable and laudable, something that the family celebrates, in a way that is substantial?

My great-grandparents owned a mansion in Yakima which has in recent years been converted into a bed-and-breakfast.  Not many treasures were harvested from the home after the death of my great-grandmother Blanche Derby.  However, my parents ended up with a prized porch-swing: a blue fabric wrapped, wood and steel framed, steel spring cushioned, six-by-two foot, hanging lounger.  In the tradition of the “they don’t build things like they used to,” the blue beast has been overused, and is as tattered as any toddler’s favorite blanket.

Shortly after returning home from Europe, my older sister Kara called me with a proposition.  Would I like to build a porch-swing for our mother if Kara were to pick up the tab on materials?  I thought it was a very good idea, after perusing some porch-swing web sites, I had a rough idea for what it might look like…

I have been working from a not so secret location this week, on a project I’m not permitted to talk about.  One of the many draws to living in the city is access; access to services, access to myriad kinds of people, access to potential community, and access to coffee shops.  While in Europe, I would always seek out Starbucks Coffee locations wherever I went.  These venues guaranteed three things I like the comfort of: a toilet that works, internet, and baristas who spoke the English language.  Now that I am back in Seattle, I still take comfort in these things.

En-route to a number of meetings today, I found myself in an almost alien world for the number of different species of flowering plants there are in Ballard.  It is amazing to think that of all God’s creations He takes the most pride in us.  And in the city, there are as many kinds of people as there are flowers of the Earth.  What can I do to see my fellow man in that way?  How can I grow to see budding flowers all around me all of the time?

Perhaps part of that can come from the beauty I find in my friend Stacey.  Five years ago we were strangers, between which a friendship would have seemed unlikely.  Now she is to me like a rare, sweet rose, the fragrance of which I find calming and a delight even in its absence.  As I look around at strangers (everywhere are strangers) can I imagine that in 5 years I would delight in them like I do in her?  And then would I love them better?

Every year for as long as I can remember, my mother’s side of the family has taken a day trip to lake Easton State Park for a summer gathering.  As a child this was a venue to see relatives I knew very little about; people like my grandfather’s nephew by his younger brother, or some of the wild grandchildren of a distant aunt.  In recent years, Lake Easton has become the venue for celebrating the birth of my only surviving grandparent; Carolyn Elder.

Known for the last 12 years as great-grandma, Carolyn is a link to so much more than just family.  She is our anchor to America’s past, a witness to the depression and war era United States, and a lifelong participant in the American Dream.  She embodies what has become known as the Greatest Generation, and she is still passing milestones as one impervious to statistics.   

The family gathered around my Uncle Norman, as always seems to happen, to participate in some lively discourse.  Carolyn and I had our own small side-conversation.  ”I sure would like to see another train,” she began, looking across the lake.  We spoke like two friends who were returning again to the pleasure of rare company, and I realized that my grandmother’s perception of me has changed recently.  At 36 years old, I’m not a kid anymore.   

My great-aunt Janice feels the same way, and I feel a new level of connection with each of them.  

There have been rumblings about my nephew Noah’s intentions to treat me to a trip to the movies as a way of thanking me for letting him work beside me at my construction site.  Man of Steel was Noah’s choice and so we made it a date.  I have never been much of a Superman fan, but I have been approaching my interactions with the people in my world with an openness to celebrating what they celebrate, in their fashion.  Noah obviously chose Man of Steel with me in mind, and I was not about to argue. 

Having coffee together is one of the things my family does best.  We made a trip to Starbucks before the movie, and were treated to a rare miracle of nature.  A gigantic, injured moth had landed on one of the tables outside.  Noah is a curious, critter loving boy.  I found our discovery to be providential.  Our walk back to the theater afforded me ample time to hear Noah’s best recap of why moths have the markings they do.  His mind is like a recall machine.

After the movie, Noah looked at me and said “that was like the best movie I’ve ever seen.  The Avengers was my favorite movie before, but now it’s this one.”  I found the movie to be excellent as well.  The character development was done very well, and the supporting cast was packed with Oscar winners.  In any case, if Noah loved it that much, then I did too.  Joy fosters joy in those around us.

Today was the last day of my drain-system project across the street from my family home.  It has been exciting for my three nephews to have a construction zone to visit, and good for my heart to have the surprise of a little person underfoot at any given time.  I am far less likely to curse when there might be angels hovering near-by.

Yesterday my youngest nephew, Luke, asked if he could have a scrap piece of plywood from the job.  “You can have it,” I told him, “but you have to take it right now.”  “I’ll go ask my mom,” he said. Two minutes later Luke was once again in the drive way, this time with a hand truck and his older brother Nate.  Noah, the oldest brother and my dependable assistant, followed my direction when I asked him to let the pair struggle to find answers to their transporting questions on their own.  If the boys really want something, they can work-out how to achieve it.

This morning Luke once again appeared at the top of the driveway.  This time he had a two foot by four foot sheet of plywood balanced on his head.  He wanted to show me the artistry which had resulted as a result of my donation to his creative genius the day before.  After a brief explanation of the work’s composition, he once again teetered the scrap-wood-turned-priceless-representation-of-artistic-expression onto his head, and walked back home.

As a way of saying “thank you,” Noah will be treating me to the 11:20 showing of Man of Steel tomorrow.  If I were a father, I would be proud to have Noah as my son.  I am a proud uncle nonetheless, and thankful for the opportunity to have time with my family’s future.

I have four uncles; two from my mother’s side and two from my father’s side.  My father’s family is dispersed throughout the nation while my mother was the third generation of her family to live in Washington State.  I have always had access to my mother’s brothers, but especially to my Uncle Norman.  One summer he hired me to help him turn part of his yard into a play area for his young family, and to set the form-work for an outdoor concrete staircase leading to his basement.  I have worked with my uncle off-and-on over a 20 year period since that time.

My sister’s family is visiting from Arizona.  Three of her four children are boys; each of whom is interested in what I am up to while at work.  Noah (10) had seemed less interested than Nathan (7) and Luke (6) until Wednesday.  He had wandered across the street to see the drain system I am putting in for my parents’ neighbors.  “Can I come over and help you?” he asked.  “Sure,” I replied, “but you need to have jeans on and a pair of tennis shoes, no flip-flops,” I called to his back as he ran home.

I could not have predicted how excellent my nephew could be as an assistant on my job-site.  I was especially impressed to find that Noah already knew how to read a tape-measure.  It might surprise you to know that I have been on construction sites with men in their 40s who can read neither a tape, nor a level.  It took a few extra minutes to get tasks completed, but I would wait while Noah figured out the lengths of pipe we needed in his head.  “O.K. so the measurement inside to inside is 15 and three-quarters, but what do we need to add to that?”  “Three inches?”  “That’s right.  So how much is that?”  “Um, 18 and a three-quarters?”  “Exactly, good job brother.”

I learned this afternoon that Noah was asking his mom about things he could do to thank me for letting him help out.  He has not asked for any money in return for his services, which is both surprising and encouraging.  It is a pleasure for both of us to participate in the family tradition of construction.  Being an uncle is an extra joy; an added source true life enjoyment.

On this 237th birthday of the United States of America, I am sitting beside a fire pit on the front lawn of my parents’ house, listening to the dull bumps and sharper pops of China-sourced black powder concoctions as they report from every direction.  The wild sparrows, crows and robins chatter with confusion from their perches in trees and other growth.  My nephews are wrestling in the yard.  Pop is grilling meat outside while mom prepares the rest of dinner from the kitchen within.  I’ve just been assigned a task: find four more dinner chairs.

Having eight family members together at one table for dinner brings on a sense of great wealth.  Nate needs the corn shorn because his two front teeth are loose.  Luke is using a steak knife for the first time.  Kate refuses to eat.  Noah sits quiet and contemplatively.  Even without children of my own, when my sister’s kids are around me, I take great encouragement about the future, our future.  After dinner we lit some back yard caliber fireworks of our own.

Having children around is good for the spirit and the soul, I find.  The honesty of how they perceive life’s joys and disappointments is extraordinary.  In the driveway of my family home in Edgewood, Washington, four young people danced around light flickering on the ground.  Huddled around the person who’s turn it was to strike the match that would ignite the next fused wonder; four children tasted fresh excitement, and God coordinated things so that I could be there.