Papa is Awesome

I was holding my granddaughter in my lap at a restaurant with my wife, my kids, and my grandkids a while back.  She was not the least interested in the adult conversation going on at the table so I was entertaining her by making “jewelry” for her out of the paper wrapper that covered the straws.  She was particularly taken with the paper wrapper ring I made for her.  Holding up her hand to show it off she turned to her grand mother and uttered the words that made my day, “Jan-Jan, Papa is awesome!”

Now I certainly like to think of myself as awesome, though I would admit that this isn’t where I live.  I am far more inclined to see or feel my “less than awesomeness.”  I know that my grand daughter was not addressing at any great depth who I am with her words, but nevertheless, I loved hearing her say the words, “Papa is awesome.”  One of the reasons we call them grand children, I guess, is because they think we are awesome. 

I would be foolish to think that a three year old has any real concept of how awesome I am or am not.  But hey, in her limited experience and in that particular moment, I was awesome to her.  Her expression of it in the moment felt good to me knowing full well that it comes from a limited perspective that is trite even though coming from the heart.  (Paper wrapper rings make me awesome? Really?)  But you know, one of the really cool things about three year olds is that they are not particularly concerned about being trite, they are much more inclined to be real.  They know the freedom of expressing what they feel in the moment and her freedom blesses me.

I’ve noticed that my “maturity” cramps my freedom to express genuine feelings from the heart to my Abba. (Papa)  I feel silly or trite or worse, embarrassed to tell Him He is awesome.  There is no doubt that my perspective and experience of Him is as limited as my grand daughter’s is of me.  Given the order of things, I also suspect that it gives Him just as much pleasure when I feel the inclination and the freedom to express that He is awesome.  In truth on my best days, when I am most aware and perceptive, when my heart is right, when I thinking my deepest thoughts, and I’m feeling free to say what wells up in my soul, by all comparison to what is true about an infinite God who is full of steadfast love and faithfulness... I am no less trite than my grand daughter.  But He created me for just that; to say in every way I can, including mere words, Papa you are awesome!

If I say it well and often, maybe I can be for Him a grand child.


**The incident described above actually happened four years ago.  I was reading through an old journal and ran across my entry describing the above and decided to share.  Hope you enjoy it.

Elkmont Problems

  

Original Oil by Kathie Odom of the hammock given to
us for a wedding present 42 years ago and is a fixture at
all camping trips.

Which way is the smoke blowing and why does it follow me wherever I choose to sit?

Yikes that water is cold…even in the middle of summer it will make you think twice about getting all the way in.

Just where is the best place to hang the hammock so I can hear the stream, but still be in the shade?

Why is it taking so long for the water for the coffee to heat up?

Do I have enough ice to last the day?

Am I actually going to fix lunch today or shall I just snack and take a nap?

Yep, these are what we call Elkmont problems…

My friend Buddy asked a hard question the other night, “How close are you to having spent a year at Elkmont?”  It took some figuring and ciphering for my wife and me to to estimate that we are a few days short of 200 give or take a few. The next question was an Elkmont problem, “How many years will it take to get to 365 days?  We’re working on that.

I woke early this morning before the sun came up, slipped out of the camper without waking my wife, put the water for coffee on the stove to heat, started a small fire, more for ambience than the warmth, set my chair and footstool to my liking, and then just sat in the quiet soaking up the burble of the creek, the soft morning breeze, the smell of smoke, and the sound of birds chattering in the trees. I breathed in the crisp morning air, watched the first rays of the morning sun filter through the trees and sparkle on the water, and smiled at the sound of the children in the campsite across the creek as they began to stir.

My daughter Sarah in the hammock.  She is
now 33 years of age.

The sound of the children grew steadily and I watched the bigheaded, bike helmeted, little bodies on tiny bikes circle endlessly around the loop across the river. One little girl, pony tail streaming out from under her helmet and doll tied to the back fender reminding me of my own girls a few years back.  Soon they were tubing down the river and hunting for crawdads, their delighted voices filling the air in the trees. I remember my sons comment to me a year or so ago as we walked through Elkmont trailing his kids, my grand kids, “I have a story that goes with every tree and rock in this campground.”

I rearranged my feet on my footstool and let my mind wander back over the years and memories of camping at Elkmont…my niece petting the skunk (Not a good idea.), the time the dog in the site next to us killed the deer, my son’s first fish dangling on the end of his line, laying on the bridge looking at the stars, icy baths in the swimming hole, the time the bear crossed the river and trotted through our napping friends camp site right next to ours, hiking the loop at Cucumber Gap in the snow, or to the Avant cabin, kabobs on the grill for us and 20 of our best friends, Mexican dominos or cards late into the night with a bottle of wine, rainstorms and gully washers that make you wonder, “ What were we thinking?” I remember ghost stories about Spear-finger by the storyteller in the amphitheater, s’mores and toastites (Not roasty toasties) over the fire, waking to a magical blanket of snow covering the ground, communion on a Sunday morning,  autumn leaves rustling under your feet and boggling your eyes with color, skipping rocks in the river (Most skips or closest to the bank?), the smell of smoke in the air and always, the soothing sound of the river.

Well, enough reminiscing, I need to cook some breakfast…or should I take a nap in the hammock first…there you have it, another Elkmont problem.

Elkmont campground in the Great Smoky Mountains

Kathie Odom, original oil painting of  Elkmont
titled, When Harry Met Sally,
but that is another story.

**Elkmont is that little part of heaven, a campground, that rests in the heart of The Great Smokey Mountains National Park.

Follow Kathie Odom at http://kathieodom.com