Janet Benlien Reeves

As I enter the Autumn of my life—Autumn, not Winter, Autumn—I’m beginning to realize that a lot of the things I once had the potential for, I no longer have the potential for. For instance, a professor of mine once told me I could be our denomination’s first female professor in one of our denomination’s universities’ religion departments. (This was the same professor who gave a whole lecture with my shoe in his pocket when one of my classmates stole it off my foot before class and slipped it to him by sleight of hand. Being one of only two female religion majors had its perils.) That nonsense aside, my professor’s compliment still means something to me, but teaching wasn’t my calling. The potential was there. Now that potential has passed. Our denomination now has several female religion department professors teaching in its universities. This example shows how our lives are built on choices: some that we make for ourselves, some that others make for us, and some that are determine...

I was just a kid when our country celebrated its bicentennial—a few years older than my oldest grandchildren are now. This means they’ll be almost my current age when our country celebrates its tricentennial. I wonder if they’ll look back on today’s semiquincentennial (half of five hundred years) as something magical in the same way I look back on the bicentennial. I don’t remember how my family celebrated that year. I’m sure there were fireworks, whether we drove twenty minutes to watch them over Disneyland or in the other direction to watch them at the beach. I do remember the bicentennial quarters and two-dollar bills; I still have a few of each, keepsakes more than currency. But our class field trip to Disneyland is my stand-out memory. In honor of the bicentennial, the amusement park invited elementary school students from all over Orange County to spend a school day at Disneyland. This was before Disneyland offered unlimited access to rides with admission. Guests purchased ticket...

I don’t think I understood the assignment. I only wish I could remember the story behind the picture, but I’m guessing my expression is somehow related to the flowery headband. Today’s expression captured in pictures or forced frills will be the same. What’s a girl to do on Father’s Day when she no longer has a living dad? One clear snapshot has impressed itself on my mind today, one that now only exists in my mind. I wonder if Dad carried the memory, too—he and I were the only ones in the foreground of this image, a moment that only belonged to us. I don’t know how old I was—older than three because we lived on Gamma Street. Not so old as five. I suspect events leading up to this moment had something to do with sibling jealousy over my brother’s arrival and the resulting demands on my mother’s time, but that is unclear. I was going through a mommy phase. I wanted Mommy to tuck me in at night. I wanted Mommy to carry me around. I wanted Mommy, just Mommy. I wanted nothing to do wit...

 What, Therefore, I Hope I'm Leaving So few so far of mine have left the world I know for heaven. Three grandparents plus one great. Two babies who gave up heart-beating before they had the chance to breathe. It’s only a matter of time before death begins its grim, but hopeful transfer of yet another older-than-me generation. I will see them again. Or maybe they’ll see me. Who can say? Our times are in God’s hands. But those who’ve gone already left treasures: Grandpa, for instance, always had a story to tell, embellished with humor, his take on events. According to Grandpa, for example, the Japanese surrendered in World War II because they heard the draft had finally captured my grandfather, who was on a ship, on his way. No coincidence of timing in Grandpa’s account of history: the war ended when he showed up. To me, he left his appreciation for poetry, imagination, a well-told story, and the deepest truth. His wife, on the other hand, always had a list of sights t...

It’s my day to play with the grandchildren while their daddy works at the Lighthouse Mission and their mommy runs errands, then teaches a class on ministry to the unhoused. Both have arrived home for a quick lunch. Bridget, my daughter-in-law, has brought Aspen, my four-year-old granddaughter, home from a ballet lesson. Aspen looks entirely too grown up in her pink tutu. Her blonde hair in a ponytail that reaches her shoulder blades swings back and forth as she walks. Aspen wants peanut butter and jelly for lunch. She gives me step-by-step instructions: “First, you spread the peanut butter on one side of the bread, Memaw. Then you put the jelly on the other and smush it together.” She demonstrates. I smush. Then I put the sandwich on a plate and cut it diagonally in half at her command. She peels the two pieces of bread apart, licks off the peanut butter and jelly, and leaves the bread. Griffin, my youngest grandson, is napping. He won’t even know he missed his parents’ brief visit hom...

 . . . When I Closed My Eyes The mid-afternoon sun fell through the upstairs window onto the comfy chair. Finding the invitation irresistible, I sat down, leaned back, and closed my eyes. Blanketed in sunshine, I fell into a false sleep through which I could hear the pitter-patter of production all around. When the little girl with golden hair shrieked and fell from the top of the garage, landing with a thump, I considered opening my eyes. Instead, I scrunched them tighter. The clanging of the firetruck assured me help was coming. The girl would pull through fine as ever as she always did, perhaps with a new scratch or two. The clatter of cars lining up was the next sound to invade my not-quite-nap. The orange-haired girl with freckles would be manning the red open-wheel racer. The boy with the orange ball cap and permanent smirk would drive the yellow prototype. Owners who never left their assets would drive those remaining cars. I didn’t have to look to know. The engines rumb...

For the past two days, I have been doing something new, yet also old. Twenty-four years ago, my husband gave me a beautiful cross-stitch project for my birthday. Our family had just moved to the Netherlands, and we were living in a hotel waiting for the home we planned to rent to become available. The owner of the home liked renting to military families and had a knack for lining up new tenants before the old ones moved out. The home was worth the wait; it remains one of my all-time favorite standouts from our many moves. The long-term hotel we were staying in, however, was not close to town, and our family had only been allowed to bring one car overseas. My husband needed it for work, so our three sons and I were somewhat hotel-bound. Furthermore, we only had the belongings we had carried in our suitcases for entertainment. We made good use of the library on weekends to keep us occupied throughout the week. The cross-stitch project was something I could do whenever the boys were eng...

Daddy taught me: When you work the puzzle without the box, Your reward is greater Wonder, surprise — Satisfaction! Build the frame first. It’s your map. Then connect colors and shapes. Use your fingers, your eyes. Seek the subtle nuance That makes one piece right for another, No other. Persist — Piece by piece, One delight of discovery at a time Until the great reveal: Picture complete. Then pause, stare. Run your hands over your smooth work Done. Life doesn’t come with a box. * * * Photo by  Ryoji Iwata  on  Unsplash