Last evening began as any typical evening might in our house.
I arrived home, fretting about a jerky driver in front of me at a stoplight who'd been distracted (looked like he was texting), then proceeded to flip me off out the window when I beeped my horn at him. My hubby was in a state of anxious consternation about how to deal with a strange situation in which he's become the unwitting, unwilling liaison between two acquaintances who don't see eye to eye. And my son was in a snit because he'd gotten in trouble at school for horsing around in the hallway with a buddy.
We were all quite justifiably off-kilter as we huffed about the kitchen—or so we thought.
And then after dinner, I received an online notification.
A woman we know had died unexpectedly.
A woman I've spoken to, sung with at church, whose two children are close to the same age as my child.
A woman who was younger than I.
These past couple of months have brought a lot of bad news within my circle of friends and family, mostly news of sickness and death. Each time, though, I've been able to find comfort because those who had passed were older, and had lived good, full lives. Their existences hadn't been perfect or painless, but they'd been satisfying and successful overall. The passing of those people is still sad, but there is much to celebrate as well.
But this loss? A young wife and mom? Without warning, without any chance for loved ones to say goodbye?
This loss is a sobering reminder to me that I must stop giving energy and effort to the wrong things. Each day when I wake, I need to choose gratitude. Each time I start down the path of worry, anger, or self-pity, I must instead think of the opportunities I have been given, the gift of another day. The chance to make things better, to buoy others, to pray for them and extend kindness.
Not one of us knows the hour or day when life will be snuffed out. Our time will come, and our souls will leave this mortal coil and go... on. I must choose joy, and life, and the pursuit of good. I must choose to be thankful for every blessing, and to praise God in all circumstances. I want my life to matter. We're here for such a short time, even those of us who are granted many years of life; a centenarian is also a mere spark, truly.
In the interest of eternity, I urge anyone reading this to think about what will happen to us all, and to prepare. If you don't know Jesus, I hope you'll seek Him and let Him in. A great place to learn more is the book of John in the New Testament of the Bible. He is real, He is alive, and His presence in your heart will change you literally forever. The young woman I know who left us suddenly? She knew Him, and I am so thankful. I hope to sing with her again someday, because as you might know, there is a whole lot of praising going on in Heaven.
Whatever you choose in matters of faith, I hope you will choose not to waste time and life on trivialities; to do so is to squander our precious moments. While I'm sure I'll forget that lesson many times, I trust that God will remind me over and over again. Should I miss His reminders, I'll still be forced to revisit this realization every time someone I know passes on. And seriously? it shouldn't take a death to help me embrace life.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Escorts
Note: This isn't quite finished. I doubt it will be "finished," ever. But I want to share it anyway, instead of fussing over each detail. The gist is here, and it's finished enough. It's a little bit too close for me to be completely objective. You'll understand when you read it.
*********
We all knew my mother's days were drawing to a close.
The nearness of death was palpable. There had been other times prior, when the end had seemed certain… And then she had rallied, strengthened, come back to us. This time, though, it was different. The labored breathing, which suddenly required supplemental oxygen; the blank expression, except when it became rapt and attentive—and that, oddly, when she was looking past us. I couldn't help noticing that her most alert moments, when she murmured unintelligible words with purpose, happened when she was not looking at anyone in the room. At those moments, my mother spoke to someone else.
In a period of about 36 hours, she had changed from a somewhat functional and responsive person to a gaunt ghost of the woman she had been. It was clear the cancer and dementia were teaming up to claim her; she would not be celebrating her 84th birthday in a few weeks.
The family was in and out, my father a constant, anxious presence. My oldest sister, Sarah, had been there the day before, and now was out of town. Others had stopped by, and had ended up outside on the patio, unable to ignore her worsening condition, her obvious increased stress when noise levels rose in the room where she lay. The caregivers had been working around the clock for the past couple of months as the situation deteriorated, and had borne the brunt of it, all with unflappable patience.
On Saturday evening, the day before her passing, discussion ensued about proper care for the overnight shift. The regular night nurse, Lin, had reservations about being alone. She'd seen this stage before, had witnessed the last hours of her other charges, and she knew the signs. The Hospice packet of heavy-duty meds lay waiting in the refrigerator, and had already been accessed several times... It would likely be needed again, and soon. Lin and Lottie conferenced quietly, then approached my dad to explain Lin's concern.
I listened to their conversation. I had been there through the day, and now was heading home to be with my young son; I knew I couldn't stay to support Lin on this night.
"I can stay with you," said the main nurse, Lottie; she also happened to be Lin's sister, and the very person who had recently enlisted her.
"But you've been here all day," Lin argued.
"I'll be all right. It's typical at this point to have two people on duty," Lottie replied. This wasn't her first rodeo, she had reminded us many times as my mom got worse. Lottie knew the end-of-life signs even better than Lin, having made caring for others her life's work.
My father agreed to the double coverage without hesitation. At this point, all hands were needed on deck; we had stayed the course throughout the journey thus far, and there was no reason to falter now. We had entrusted these ladies with my mother's life, literally. She had been in very capable hands.
"I'll come back tomorrow, and stay tomorrow night. Okay?" I offered. "Tom is home tomorrow night, and that will work fine. Mark can be home with him while I'm here."
"All right, Alyssa. That will work," Lottie responded. The plan was laid.
I gathered my belongings, said my goodbyes, and stopped last at Mom's bedside. "'Bye, Mom—I'll see you tomorrow." There was no response, her eyes were mostly closed, so I kissed her on the cheek and headed out.
The drive home was uneventful, the roads fairly clear, unlike the fullness of my brain. Mostly, I prayed the same thing I'd been praying: Lord, please don't let her suffer. Lord, please take her before this gets any worse, please don't let her hang on and on when she is actually already gone from us. God had been so faithful already: there had been no pain in a situation where every doc told us to expect it. Lottie for over two years, and then also her sister—the wonderful women who had come to our aid were truly angels. The visiting Hospice nurse, the friends and family who'd brought food and laughter and distraction, the pastor who'd stopped to encourage so faithfully. Even my mother's last two weeks were blessed; she had told my father she was going to take a long journey, was going to see her family… and she was the last surviving member of her family. I think she knew, through the fog of dementia, what was happening. She was ready. So, so many answers to my prayers.
At home, I immediately sent messages to my sisters and a niece, reiterating the seriousness of the situation. The niece and her little girl had been there with me earlier in the day. She echoed my sentiments; the words "death bed" were aptly used.
Middle sister Anne was planning to go back on Monday, when kids would be back in school and she'd have a few hours free from playing taxi. "Anne—I don't think we have until Monday," I messaged back. Anne made a new plan, to visit the next day, Sunday. The evening slipped away quickly, my mind heavy.
And then it was Sunday morning, time for church, the hustle and bustle, hurrying to get there on time. We sang a praise song, and I remember feeling very peaceful, mentally rested, in spite of everything. Nothing had changed with Mom's condition—I had checked with my father earlier Sunday morning—but something had relaxed inside of me. I went home with my son, and we waited for my husband Tom to get home from his Sunday school class so I could head down with bag packed for an overnight stay.
And then, a text message. From sister Anne. They needed the Hospice nurse's private number, right now. I had left it on the refrigerator, but in the confusion of the previous day, had forgotten to mention that to anyone. I texted it to her quickly, and as I sent it on its way, it crossed paths with another note from Anne: "We think she may be gone."
Oh. My. There's a simple phrase that'll make your heart flop.
But I don't want to tell a story about my mother's passing. I want to tell a story about God's goodness. So here is where I skip ahead a bit. Of course I drove quickly down to stay as planned, thanking Jesus through tears for yet another answered prayer—a quick departure, and no lingering. As you probably have guessed, I did not see my mother alive again. We all gathered for the next three days, my father and sisters and I, and did what needed to be done. We spent a couple of days in a blur of grief diffused by a whirlwind of activity, of company, of throngs of people and hugs and tears and flowers and food and wine.
And somehow, we reached the burial day. A lovely day it was, weather-wise and otherwise. The churchyard where her body lies is situated on a hilltop, and I wondered, looking into that stunning blue sky, how much more beauty must surround my mother in Paradise. The pastor shared wonderful, hopeful words, honored her, buoyed our spirits. We held a casual luncheon with those who'd known her best, and shared a meal, but mostly we shared memories.
As we cleaned up afterward, and carried bowls and slow cookers back to vehicles, I had a moment to chat with Lin and Lottie, to thank them again for their selfless care of my mother. "We knew it was close," said Lin. "That's why I wanted Lottie to stay with me that last night. I knew. And then I saw those angels."
"What?" I asked. "What angels?"
"I saw three angels through the night. I sat facing the front door, and Lottie sat in the other chair next to the bed, and your dad lay on the couch when he wasn't sitting next to your mom… We were all trying to get some rest between checking on her… And I saw an angel in the front doorway, three times."
"What did it look like?" I asked.
"Just a bright outline of light. Just there in the doorway, three different times. And there were those voices, too."
"What?!?"
"Lottie and I both heard them, those last couple of days leading up to her passing. In the next room where the television is. I thought I was losing my mind until I mentioned them to Lottie, and then she said she'd heard them, too. Murmuring, they were, not words you could make out, just quiet talking. It wasn't scary or anything, and then the day and night before she passed, I heard them again, louder." Lin was very matter-of-fact about it.
"I'd heard them, too. You couldn't tell what they were saying, just the sound of voices, like they were having a conversation," Lottie chimed in, nodding.
I processed this for a minute. Was that who my mother had been talking with when she looked past me? And I haven't explained her last few hours on this earth, and I should. She was hanging on, stubbornly clinging to life. The pastor was called in, and then my sister Anne and her girls arrived. My mother was in her favorite place, her home; she was surrounded by love, her husband by her side; she had a chance to say goodbye to all of her close family. The pastor and a granddaughter sang to her, and she took her last breath.
She hadn't lasted more than an hour after Anne's arrival. I suspect that's what she was waiting for, to see and hear each of us. I like to think that's what she was murmuring about, with those angels, maybe with Jesus himself—arranging her departure, every detail, just the way she wanted it. She was attended by earthly and heavenly angels, and music. She said her goodbyes, and then she was escorted to the Next Place.
It was as good an end as it could have been. I think about it, and am amazed again and again. How good He was to her, to us. I am thankful. My faith is strengthened and confirmed. We are loved more than we could imagine; we need only receive, accept, be grateful. And tell people, too. My mother's story becomes my story to share, so that others can see the lovingkindness of God even in terrible trials.
I hope for a heavenly escort myself, someday. Music and blue skies? That would be icing on the cake.
*********
We all knew my mother's days were drawing to a close.
The nearness of death was palpable. There had been other times prior, when the end had seemed certain… And then she had rallied, strengthened, come back to us. This time, though, it was different. The labored breathing, which suddenly required supplemental oxygen; the blank expression, except when it became rapt and attentive—and that, oddly, when she was looking past us. I couldn't help noticing that her most alert moments, when she murmured unintelligible words with purpose, happened when she was not looking at anyone in the room. At those moments, my mother spoke to someone else.
In a period of about 36 hours, she had changed from a somewhat functional and responsive person to a gaunt ghost of the woman she had been. It was clear the cancer and dementia were teaming up to claim her; she would not be celebrating her 84th birthday in a few weeks.
The family was in and out, my father a constant, anxious presence. My oldest sister, Sarah, had been there the day before, and now was out of town. Others had stopped by, and had ended up outside on the patio, unable to ignore her worsening condition, her obvious increased stress when noise levels rose in the room where she lay. The caregivers had been working around the clock for the past couple of months as the situation deteriorated, and had borne the brunt of it, all with unflappable patience.
On Saturday evening, the day before her passing, discussion ensued about proper care for the overnight shift. The regular night nurse, Lin, had reservations about being alone. She'd seen this stage before, had witnessed the last hours of her other charges, and she knew the signs. The Hospice packet of heavy-duty meds lay waiting in the refrigerator, and had already been accessed several times... It would likely be needed again, and soon. Lin and Lottie conferenced quietly, then approached my dad to explain Lin's concern.
I listened to their conversation. I had been there through the day, and now was heading home to be with my young son; I knew I couldn't stay to support Lin on this night.
"I can stay with you," said the main nurse, Lottie; she also happened to be Lin's sister, and the very person who had recently enlisted her.
"But you've been here all day," Lin argued.
"I'll be all right. It's typical at this point to have two people on duty," Lottie replied. This wasn't her first rodeo, she had reminded us many times as my mom got worse. Lottie knew the end-of-life signs even better than Lin, having made caring for others her life's work.
My father agreed to the double coverage without hesitation. At this point, all hands were needed on deck; we had stayed the course throughout the journey thus far, and there was no reason to falter now. We had entrusted these ladies with my mother's life, literally. She had been in very capable hands.
"I'll come back tomorrow, and stay tomorrow night. Okay?" I offered. "Tom is home tomorrow night, and that will work fine. Mark can be home with him while I'm here."
"All right, Alyssa. That will work," Lottie responded. The plan was laid.
I gathered my belongings, said my goodbyes, and stopped last at Mom's bedside. "'Bye, Mom—I'll see you tomorrow." There was no response, her eyes were mostly closed, so I kissed her on the cheek and headed out.
The drive home was uneventful, the roads fairly clear, unlike the fullness of my brain. Mostly, I prayed the same thing I'd been praying: Lord, please don't let her suffer. Lord, please take her before this gets any worse, please don't let her hang on and on when she is actually already gone from us. God had been so faithful already: there had been no pain in a situation where every doc told us to expect it. Lottie for over two years, and then also her sister—the wonderful women who had come to our aid were truly angels. The visiting Hospice nurse, the friends and family who'd brought food and laughter and distraction, the pastor who'd stopped to encourage so faithfully. Even my mother's last two weeks were blessed; she had told my father she was going to take a long journey, was going to see her family… and she was the last surviving member of her family. I think she knew, through the fog of dementia, what was happening. She was ready. So, so many answers to my prayers.
At home, I immediately sent messages to my sisters and a niece, reiterating the seriousness of the situation. The niece and her little girl had been there with me earlier in the day. She echoed my sentiments; the words "death bed" were aptly used.
Middle sister Anne was planning to go back on Monday, when kids would be back in school and she'd have a few hours free from playing taxi. "Anne—I don't think we have until Monday," I messaged back. Anne made a new plan, to visit the next day, Sunday. The evening slipped away quickly, my mind heavy.
And then it was Sunday morning, time for church, the hustle and bustle, hurrying to get there on time. We sang a praise song, and I remember feeling very peaceful, mentally rested, in spite of everything. Nothing had changed with Mom's condition—I had checked with my father earlier Sunday morning—but something had relaxed inside of me. I went home with my son, and we waited for my husband Tom to get home from his Sunday school class so I could head down with bag packed for an overnight stay.
And then, a text message. From sister Anne. They needed the Hospice nurse's private number, right now. I had left it on the refrigerator, but in the confusion of the previous day, had forgotten to mention that to anyone. I texted it to her quickly, and as I sent it on its way, it crossed paths with another note from Anne: "We think she may be gone."
Oh. My. There's a simple phrase that'll make your heart flop.
But I don't want to tell a story about my mother's passing. I want to tell a story about God's goodness. So here is where I skip ahead a bit. Of course I drove quickly down to stay as planned, thanking Jesus through tears for yet another answered prayer—a quick departure, and no lingering. As you probably have guessed, I did not see my mother alive again. We all gathered for the next three days, my father and sisters and I, and did what needed to be done. We spent a couple of days in a blur of grief diffused by a whirlwind of activity, of company, of throngs of people and hugs and tears and flowers and food and wine.
And somehow, we reached the burial day. A lovely day it was, weather-wise and otherwise. The churchyard where her body lies is situated on a hilltop, and I wondered, looking into that stunning blue sky, how much more beauty must surround my mother in Paradise. The pastor shared wonderful, hopeful words, honored her, buoyed our spirits. We held a casual luncheon with those who'd known her best, and shared a meal, but mostly we shared memories.
As we cleaned up afterward, and carried bowls and slow cookers back to vehicles, I had a moment to chat with Lin and Lottie, to thank them again for their selfless care of my mother. "We knew it was close," said Lin. "That's why I wanted Lottie to stay with me that last night. I knew. And then I saw those angels."
"What?" I asked. "What angels?"
"I saw three angels through the night. I sat facing the front door, and Lottie sat in the other chair next to the bed, and your dad lay on the couch when he wasn't sitting next to your mom… We were all trying to get some rest between checking on her… And I saw an angel in the front doorway, three times."
"What did it look like?" I asked.
"Just a bright outline of light. Just there in the doorway, three different times. And there were those voices, too."
"What?!?"
"Lottie and I both heard them, those last couple of days leading up to her passing. In the next room where the television is. I thought I was losing my mind until I mentioned them to Lottie, and then she said she'd heard them, too. Murmuring, they were, not words you could make out, just quiet talking. It wasn't scary or anything, and then the day and night before she passed, I heard them again, louder." Lin was very matter-of-fact about it.
"I'd heard them, too. You couldn't tell what they were saying, just the sound of voices, like they were having a conversation," Lottie chimed in, nodding.
I processed this for a minute. Was that who my mother had been talking with when she looked past me? And I haven't explained her last few hours on this earth, and I should. She was hanging on, stubbornly clinging to life. The pastor was called in, and then my sister Anne and her girls arrived. My mother was in her favorite place, her home; she was surrounded by love, her husband by her side; she had a chance to say goodbye to all of her close family. The pastor and a granddaughter sang to her, and she took her last breath.
She hadn't lasted more than an hour after Anne's arrival. I suspect that's what she was waiting for, to see and hear each of us. I like to think that's what she was murmuring about, with those angels, maybe with Jesus himself—arranging her departure, every detail, just the way she wanted it. She was attended by earthly and heavenly angels, and music. She said her goodbyes, and then she was escorted to the Next Place.
It was as good an end as it could have been. I think about it, and am amazed again and again. How good He was to her, to us. I am thankful. My faith is strengthened and confirmed. We are loved more than we could imagine; we need only receive, accept, be grateful. And tell people, too. My mother's story becomes my story to share, so that others can see the lovingkindness of God even in terrible trials.
I hope for a heavenly escort myself, someday. Music and blue skies? That would be icing on the cake.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Putting it out there so I don't have to talk about it
So, my mom is dying.
I don't mean to be blunt. It is my nature, but I suppose some of you will find it offensive, even cold. I guess it's just the way I deal with what's happening. In general, I don't do sentiment very well, nor very often. It takes too long, makes a bad thing worse to me, and puffs my eyes until I'm unrecognizable. No, thank you.
Anyway, my mother has been dying for a while now. And yes, I realize that we're all dying; out of 1,000 people here on Earth, 1,000 of them will die. The odds are sort of stacked against us.
But my mom is dying in a slow, observable way. And it's been pretty damned difficult to watch.
Dementia is bad enough. Dementia combined with ill health is worse. Dementia plus general poor health plus the ticking time bomb of cancer? That, my friends, is the trifecta no one wants to hit. It happens, daily, probably to more folks around you than you realize. Once you become one those folks, then you begin to grasp how common this type of situation is. But you wish you didn't know, and you wouldn't wish it on anyone else.
As her memory faded, she began to fail physically as well. We all noticed, pushed the memory meds (which I suspect do nothing), and saw the general deterioration become a bit pronounced. And then a bit more. A urinary tract infection caused the first landslide, and we all saw the woman we know retreat into herself and become, temporarily, an unhappy and uncooperative person who wanted only her husband and to be left alone. A short stay in a rehab facility to help her regain strength was a necessary but difficult period of time; she was not a model patient. Finally, the infection cleared and she returned to us, somewhat less muddled but permanently affected.
That was 2 1/2 years ago. Since then, there have been more infections, falls, scans, biopsies, the deadly diagnosis of the "C" word, and a continuing decline. Help has been enlisted, then compounded. Some friends and family have been amazingly, touchingly supportive. Seeing this good in people, and spending time around the biggest helpers, have been humbling moments for me; I am a better person simply for proximity to these kind-hearted blessings in human form.
But the kindnesses and offerings and visits have not stopped the progression of the decline. Only God can do that, and I have to believe He has His reasons for permitting this. My heart has been softened considerably; never again will I be able to see a family dealing with a health crisis and not remember these days. I will certainly be slower to judge anyone facing terminal health problems; I will try to never take for granted my basic faculties and abilities. These are good ends, because I should never judge, and I should always be thankful. I wish there were easier means to acquire such wisdom.
She was never my best friend—we didn't have that kind of relationship. I was the third of three girls; I imagine that both of my parents were weary by then from the drama of all those female hormones. I didn't tell her my secrets, or give her every detail of my crushes at the high school dance. In the end, though, none of that matters. She is my mother, who protected me and bathed me and sat through my band concerts and made me do chores and helped me pick out clothes (until I was a teenager, at least). Her blood runs in my veins. I am here because of her, and thanks to her.
It feels now as if we are caring for a shell of the person we knew. Is she still in there somewhere? Does she remember bits and pieces, or is it mostly just gone? Sometimes she remembers me, but mostly she just knows that I am familiar. That's what she craves: the familiar. She is moving away from me, from us. I know we must be nearing the end because she has ceased to brag about her childhood singing voice; it has been months since she's told me that she was the smartest in her family, in her class even. Now she has begun to turn down sweets. My mother! Refusing a cookie! Not finishing a piece of cake. She used to declare how she loved to read—and she did, much more than housework!—and even though she hasn't read anything since this long, ugly journey began, it pains me that she doesn't even mention it anymore.
The person we knew is already gone, really. It's as if I'm watching a cheesy episode of Star Trek, where the crew members step onto those round platforms and disappear a little at a time (cue the shimmery, space-age sound effect). That is what's happening to my mom. She is getting more and more faint, even as I physically help her rise from her chair, even as we have to stand closer to each other than ever before so I can assist her with delicate matters in a way that the woman I used to know would never have permitted... Even then, she continues to vanish. She is disappearing right before my eyes.
I pray for her quick departure, that it is easy and light. Recently after waking, she announced to one of the wonderful ladies who help care for her, "Jesus loves me." Yes, He does. I trust He is preparing the arrival party.
I don't mean to be blunt. It is my nature, but I suppose some of you will find it offensive, even cold. I guess it's just the way I deal with what's happening. In general, I don't do sentiment very well, nor very often. It takes too long, makes a bad thing worse to me, and puffs my eyes until I'm unrecognizable. No, thank you.
Anyway, my mother has been dying for a while now. And yes, I realize that we're all dying; out of 1,000 people here on Earth, 1,000 of them will die. The odds are sort of stacked against us.
But my mom is dying in a slow, observable way. And it's been pretty damned difficult to watch.
Dementia is bad enough. Dementia combined with ill health is worse. Dementia plus general poor health plus the ticking time bomb of cancer? That, my friends, is the trifecta no one wants to hit. It happens, daily, probably to more folks around you than you realize. Once you become one those folks, then you begin to grasp how common this type of situation is. But you wish you didn't know, and you wouldn't wish it on anyone else.
As her memory faded, she began to fail physically as well. We all noticed, pushed the memory meds (which I suspect do nothing), and saw the general deterioration become a bit pronounced. And then a bit more. A urinary tract infection caused the first landslide, and we all saw the woman we know retreat into herself and become, temporarily, an unhappy and uncooperative person who wanted only her husband and to be left alone. A short stay in a rehab facility to help her regain strength was a necessary but difficult period of time; she was not a model patient. Finally, the infection cleared and she returned to us, somewhat less muddled but permanently affected.
That was 2 1/2 years ago. Since then, there have been more infections, falls, scans, biopsies, the deadly diagnosis of the "C" word, and a continuing decline. Help has been enlisted, then compounded. Some friends and family have been amazingly, touchingly supportive. Seeing this good in people, and spending time around the biggest helpers, have been humbling moments for me; I am a better person simply for proximity to these kind-hearted blessings in human form.
But the kindnesses and offerings and visits have not stopped the progression of the decline. Only God can do that, and I have to believe He has His reasons for permitting this. My heart has been softened considerably; never again will I be able to see a family dealing with a health crisis and not remember these days. I will certainly be slower to judge anyone facing terminal health problems; I will try to never take for granted my basic faculties and abilities. These are good ends, because I should never judge, and I should always be thankful. I wish there were easier means to acquire such wisdom.
She was never my best friend—we didn't have that kind of relationship. I was the third of three girls; I imagine that both of my parents were weary by then from the drama of all those female hormones. I didn't tell her my secrets, or give her every detail of my crushes at the high school dance. In the end, though, none of that matters. She is my mother, who protected me and bathed me and sat through my band concerts and made me do chores and helped me pick out clothes (until I was a teenager, at least). Her blood runs in my veins. I am here because of her, and thanks to her.
It feels now as if we are caring for a shell of the person we knew. Is she still in there somewhere? Does she remember bits and pieces, or is it mostly just gone? Sometimes she remembers me, but mostly she just knows that I am familiar. That's what she craves: the familiar. She is moving away from me, from us. I know we must be nearing the end because she has ceased to brag about her childhood singing voice; it has been months since she's told me that she was the smartest in her family, in her class even. Now she has begun to turn down sweets. My mother! Refusing a cookie! Not finishing a piece of cake. She used to declare how she loved to read—and she did, much more than housework!—and even though she hasn't read anything since this long, ugly journey began, it pains me that she doesn't even mention it anymore.
The person we knew is already gone, really. It's as if I'm watching a cheesy episode of Star Trek, where the crew members step onto those round platforms and disappear a little at a time (cue the shimmery, space-age sound effect). That is what's happening to my mom. She is getting more and more faint, even as I physically help her rise from her chair, even as we have to stand closer to each other than ever before so I can assist her with delicate matters in a way that the woman I used to know would never have permitted... Even then, she continues to vanish. She is disappearing right before my eyes.
I pray for her quick departure, that it is easy and light. Recently after waking, she announced to one of the wonderful ladies who help care for her, "Jesus loves me." Yes, He does. I trust He is preparing the arrival party.
Friday, October 23, 2015
Terms
I've been in a strange season for the past year. Longer than that, actually—but the last 11 months or so have been the strangest thus far. I'm not alone in this season; others, mostly family members, are in it too. We're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Have you experienced a season like this? Where you cannot escape the (to coin a double entendre) "terminal awareness"? Where your thoughts constantly hover between the facts that our lives are finite, and that you can never, not for a moment, escape that reality?
I truly hope that it's not the new normal for me to wake each night, while the little world around me sleeps, and lie in bed pondering all the terrible potential scenarios of my own life and the people closest to me. I'm hoping that the night frets are just part of this *#!&?$ season. I suspect they are going to stick around for a long time, but I'd happily be wrong about that suspicion.
Either way, I haven't been up and out of bed really early for quite some time. This morning, though, I rose while darkness was still settled over our home. I poured a cup of coffee, began to do dishes, and noticed the overflowing recyclables container on the floor by the garbage. I'll take that out, I thought.
When I unchained the kitchen door and stepped out on the side porch, my eyes were instantly drawn upward, to the deep midnight-blue sky hanging above. I carefully, quietly deposited the items in our recycling container, then simply stood staring into the heavens. The night had been clear; stars stared back at me, some bright, some dim and twinkly, representing galaxies that were light years away.
Words to a church worship song popped into my head: "You made the stars in the sky, and you know them by name." I studied those hand-placed balls of fire and considered the power behind such arrangements. I thought again of my mortal nature here on Earth, of illness, of worry, of broken hearts and homes. It was still so dark outside.
And then, over the trees at the tip of the hilltop, a flash, a quick arc of light, there and gone in a fraction of a second. A shooting star. Not a star at all, but a piece of something, meteor, chunk of planet, whatever—being burned up. Dying. Ending.
Terminating.
And I thought to myself, that is the message for me today: that God is in this—even this.
I have to be reminded that God is in all things, not just the lollipops and unicorns of life. Not just the sunny days, not just the happy healthy moments. In all things, He is God. (I especially need this reminder in mid-winter. Bleeeech.)
I always get annoyed at people who say, "If we didn't have winter we wouldn't appreciate summer." I suspect, however, that there is some truth to that sentiment. My son had to read Tuck Everlasting, so I read along with him, about a family that accidentally drinks water from an eternal fountain. They can't die. And it's a burden to them, to be everlasting in this messed-up world with their human emotions and needs and pains. The book, while not my favorite, made me consider how pointless would be a life without end in this setting.
That's really all I have to say right about that. Oh, and this, which happened to turn up in my Daily Bread for today:
I truly hope that it's not the new normal for me to wake each night, while the little world around me sleeps, and lie in bed pondering all the terrible potential scenarios of my own life and the people closest to me. I'm hoping that the night frets are just part of this *#!&?$ season. I suspect they are going to stick around for a long time, but I'd happily be wrong about that suspicion.
Either way, I haven't been up and out of bed really early for quite some time. This morning, though, I rose while darkness was still settled over our home. I poured a cup of coffee, began to do dishes, and noticed the overflowing recyclables container on the floor by the garbage. I'll take that out, I thought.
When I unchained the kitchen door and stepped out on the side porch, my eyes were instantly drawn upward, to the deep midnight-blue sky hanging above. I carefully, quietly deposited the items in our recycling container, then simply stood staring into the heavens. The night had been clear; stars stared back at me, some bright, some dim and twinkly, representing galaxies that were light years away.
Words to a church worship song popped into my head: "You made the stars in the sky, and you know them by name." I studied those hand-placed balls of fire and considered the power behind such arrangements. I thought again of my mortal nature here on Earth, of illness, of worry, of broken hearts and homes. It was still so dark outside.
And then, over the trees at the tip of the hilltop, a flash, a quick arc of light, there and gone in a fraction of a second. A shooting star. Not a star at all, but a piece of something, meteor, chunk of planet, whatever—being burned up. Dying. Ending.
Terminating.
And I thought to myself, that is the message for me today: that God is in this—even this.
I have to be reminded that God is in all things, not just the lollipops and unicorns of life. Not just the sunny days, not just the happy healthy moments. In all things, He is God. (I especially need this reminder in mid-winter. Bleeeech.)
I always get annoyed at people who say, "If we didn't have winter we wouldn't appreciate summer." I suspect, however, that there is some truth to that sentiment. My son had to read Tuck Everlasting, so I read along with him, about a family that accidentally drinks water from an eternal fountain. They can't die. And it's a burden to them, to be everlasting in this messed-up world with their human emotions and needs and pains. The book, while not my favorite, made me consider how pointless would be a life without end in this setting.
That's really all I have to say right about that. Oh, and this, which happened to turn up in my Daily Bread for today:
The Lord comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones. Isaiah 49:13
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Trusting in a season of loss
The past seven days have brought much loss—many endings. Some expected, some unexpected. All painful.
Summer (the school-free part, anyway) ended. My long stretch of no illness ended (thanks, stomach flu from hell). And on a more serious note, a few lives ended here on Earth. We lost an older woman my husband knew, mother to a close friend of his who preceded her in death, at 41, from cancer. I'm hoping he was there to greet his mom on her arrival. Another friend left us unexpectedly, of a heart attack. He was only a few years older than I am, and left a wife, children, and parents who never thought they'd outlast their youngest.
When people die at an old age, we can take some comfort in the length of their lives. When people die young? Suddenly? When widows are bereft with children still at home, and the one who is gone leaves big, gaping holes in many lives? There is honestly no comfort then, none that we can find here. It is tragic, and awful. No question.
I waver between acceptance, and argument. Why? I ask God. Why are evil people roaming, healthy? Why are sick, tired elderly clinging to life while elsewhere a young family mourns Dad?
There is no reply. I must return to acceptance: Acceptance of my place in this universe (quite lowly); acceptance of my gratitude that good people are among us at all, and I've been blessed to know them; acceptance of the fact that I have created nothing, and therefore have claim on neither the extension nor the snuffing out of life.
I know in my heart there is a Creator. I know He is great; I see His works and His wonders. I know the Holy Spirit is real, because I have heard that voice inside me, so sure and true and clear that it cannot possibly be attributed to any other source. I know that this world around me now is not a good one, that it is fueled and ruled by a force that wishes me to be discontent, depressed, disconsolate, and doubtful. Lastly, I remember who I was before I knew that Creator and his saving Son. She was a miserable girl, and I don't miss her.
So, I trust. I think of this hurtful place, in time and space, as a stop on a longer ride to my true destination. I will visit here, and find good here; I will try to be good here. I will also try to hold tight to promises of salvation, and an eternity of pure love and worship so fabulous that I cannot imagine it with my small, pea brain.
Sometimes faith, like contentment, is a choice.
Summer (the school-free part, anyway) ended. My long stretch of no illness ended (thanks, stomach flu from hell). And on a more serious note, a few lives ended here on Earth. We lost an older woman my husband knew, mother to a close friend of his who preceded her in death, at 41, from cancer. I'm hoping he was there to greet his mom on her arrival. Another friend left us unexpectedly, of a heart attack. He was only a few years older than I am, and left a wife, children, and parents who never thought they'd outlast their youngest.
When people die at an old age, we can take some comfort in the length of their lives. When people die young? Suddenly? When widows are bereft with children still at home, and the one who is gone leaves big, gaping holes in many lives? There is honestly no comfort then, none that we can find here. It is tragic, and awful. No question.
I waver between acceptance, and argument. Why? I ask God. Why are evil people roaming, healthy? Why are sick, tired elderly clinging to life while elsewhere a young family mourns Dad?
There is no reply. I must return to acceptance: Acceptance of my place in this universe (quite lowly); acceptance of my gratitude that good people are among us at all, and I've been blessed to know them; acceptance of the fact that I have created nothing, and therefore have claim on neither the extension nor the snuffing out of life.
I know in my heart there is a Creator. I know He is great; I see His works and His wonders. I know the Holy Spirit is real, because I have heard that voice inside me, so sure and true and clear that it cannot possibly be attributed to any other source. I know that this world around me now is not a good one, that it is fueled and ruled by a force that wishes me to be discontent, depressed, disconsolate, and doubtful. Lastly, I remember who I was before I knew that Creator and his saving Son. She was a miserable girl, and I don't miss her.
So, I trust. I think of this hurtful place, in time and space, as a stop on a longer ride to my true destination. I will visit here, and find good here; I will try to be good here. I will also try to hold tight to promises of salvation, and an eternity of pure love and worship so fabulous that I cannot imagine it with my small, pea brain.
Sometimes faith, like contentment, is a choice.
Friday, February 21, 2014
On sacrifice
I've been thinking a lot about it, sacrifice. It's a heavy topic. It has so many layers... and almost none of them appeal to base human nature.
The ultimate sacrifice is Jesus Christ: Died for us, thus allowing us eternal life if we accept the gift of His life. Salvation is a gift, so I think I am safe in saying that His offering it is a gift, too—and sacrifice was the form in which it was offered. So, could I say that sacrifice is a gift, no matter the giver? Is that a safe blanket statement?
Sometimes sacrifices are made out of a sense of duty, but is it any less a gift when it takes the dutiful form? Sacrifice is difficult at best. Even Christ Himself asked if there was another way (Luke 22:42).
The part I keep revisiting is this: that the gift was given to the unknowing. The penultimate sacrifice was done for all, not just those who knew and were grateful. In fact, probably no one knew and understood, at the time before His crucifixion, what was being done for them. Disciples tried to talk Jesus out of it; they attempted violent intervention (Matthew 26:51). We like-minded recipients, grateful though we are down the road, often don't even recognize the gift when it is first offered, let alone referenced.
We, too, are to be sacrificial in our actions; we are to love others, and to offer up ourselves on their behalf. I grasp that sacrifice is to be performed even for all, including the unknowing. Jesus was sacrificed for our sins, and the gain for us is salvation and eternal life with our Creator.
But what of the earthly, man-offered sacrifice where not even the recipient benefits? When, if ever, does sacrifice become foolish and misguided? In the same way that tough love must sometimes be enacted for the greater good of the recipient, might not sacrifice be suspended for the greater good of all involved when no one is the better for that sacrifice? When is the right time to withdraw sacrifice? When must an honest man or woman examine the situation and change directions completely? Must death be the deciding factor, or are their lesser factors that bring about the same need for re-examination of purpose and result? Do the defining actions of sacrifice change when eternal life is not at stake?
These are the ponderous, burdensome thoughts in my troubled mind these days. I pray for clear direction, for myself and those around me. I pray and I pray, and still I do not pray enough. I know there is so much more to say about this topic, yet I've fought a migraine all day, and to research the topic further would require deep reading... which would, in turn, heighten the migraine. Thus, I am deterred.
Therefore, I leave you in a swirling fog. But you are not alone there.
The ultimate sacrifice is Jesus Christ: Died for us, thus allowing us eternal life if we accept the gift of His life. Salvation is a gift, so I think I am safe in saying that His offering it is a gift, too—and sacrifice was the form in which it was offered. So, could I say that sacrifice is a gift, no matter the giver? Is that a safe blanket statement?
Sometimes sacrifices are made out of a sense of duty, but is it any less a gift when it takes the dutiful form? Sacrifice is difficult at best. Even Christ Himself asked if there was another way (Luke 22:42).
The part I keep revisiting is this: that the gift was given to the unknowing. The penultimate sacrifice was done for all, not just those who knew and were grateful. In fact, probably no one knew and understood, at the time before His crucifixion, what was being done for them. Disciples tried to talk Jesus out of it; they attempted violent intervention (Matthew 26:51). We like-minded recipients, grateful though we are down the road, often don't even recognize the gift when it is first offered, let alone referenced.
We, too, are to be sacrificial in our actions; we are to love others, and to offer up ourselves on their behalf. I grasp that sacrifice is to be performed even for all, including the unknowing. Jesus was sacrificed for our sins, and the gain for us is salvation and eternal life with our Creator.
But what of the earthly, man-offered sacrifice where not even the recipient benefits? When, if ever, does sacrifice become foolish and misguided? In the same way that tough love must sometimes be enacted for the greater good of the recipient, might not sacrifice be suspended for the greater good of all involved when no one is the better for that sacrifice? When is the right time to withdraw sacrifice? When must an honest man or woman examine the situation and change directions completely? Must death be the deciding factor, or are their lesser factors that bring about the same need for re-examination of purpose and result? Do the defining actions of sacrifice change when eternal life is not at stake?
These are the ponderous, burdensome thoughts in my troubled mind these days. I pray for clear direction, for myself and those around me. I pray and I pray, and still I do not pray enough. I know there is so much more to say about this topic, yet I've fought a migraine all day, and to research the topic further would require deep reading... which would, in turn, heighten the migraine. Thus, I am deterred.
Therefore, I leave you in a swirling fog. But you are not alone there.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Stepping aside today to give stage to a better writer
I found this very uplifting article on FoxNews.com, and I am sharing it with you. I hope it lightens your heart a bit, as it did mine.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Scrabbling for spring and clinging to hope
Here's my latest: Robbie Robin. I'm scrabbling for a toehold on springtime, and it's a slippery slope for sure when there's yet more snow falling outside and the heat continues to blast. Goodness, what a tenacious winter.(Robbie's for sale in my Etsy shop.)
Even if the weather had turned lovely, it would have been a rough few weeks. Not personally, thank goodness—but for friends, former neighbors, church family...
There have been a number of deaths. None of them were a total shock; all involved illness, sometimes a long, drawn-out illness. But as far as I can see, that doesn't make the loss easier.
Yet, while the memorial service I attended yesterday was sad, so sad, it was also uplifting. The one who'd left this earth was painfully young. A lifelong health struggle had finally worn her down. But the celebration of her life was joyful in spite of tears. She had lived well, changed people for the better, and she isn't "lost," the pastor reminded us. We know exactly where she is and Whom she is with. And that made it bearable, even when I hugged the young lady's mother, a strong woman who had suffered with and now mourned her only child.
I am very glad to have that hope. I am praying that if you don't have it, you'll stop reading right now and call out to Jesus, have a little tête-à -tête with Him. It's Holy Week. He bled and died for you and me, so we could have eternal life. What better time to invite Him in and make Him your own savior?
I can say with truth I've never regretted letting Jesus into my heart; I only regret that I didn't do it sooner.
I wish you peace, blessings, health. And warm sunshine!
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Ain't askeered
I said to my husband the other day, as a lead-in to my reminder about where I store financial records, "If I get hit by a bus tomorrow, all the receipt for the **** are in the ****."
I allude to this type of thinking in other ways, too: "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise..." is one of my stock introductory phrases. When we're going away for a few hours, the hus and I, and especially when all three of us are going somewhere near or far, I call the home phone to leave a message detailing the location of our will.
He gets annoyed with me for doing this, the husband. "You know, that's kind of awful," he says after I place the call to our answering machine. He gives me dirty looks when I mention the bus. He occasionally goes down the path of how I shouldn't say those things because I might speak them unto myself, with the power of some strange inexplicable self-fulfilling prophecy that some Christians embrace–which is why so many of them are phonies who preach how we can expect only blessings and money from God because we'll just refuse to accept whatever else might come our way.
Well, I do believe that we can affect our mood, our attitude, and our witness to others by the things we say out loud. But I also know that terrible things happen sometimes and there's not a word that could have been spoken or withheld to prevent them. People die in horrible ways sometimes, even young moms and dads, even children. We live in a fallen world and tragedies do occur here. If I refrain from leaving a voice mail message that reveals the location of our will, that doesn't mean that we're any safer as we travel. It might mean that if something bad happens, no one will know where to look and read our wishes... and then there's likely to be some ugly, nasty squabbling. And delays. And additional taxes.
I don't know why I speak of these things in such off-handed fashion, almost in jest. I guess it's my pathetic way of acknowledging the very real risks of our existence. Maybe it's my tongue-in-cheek method of trying to appear unfazed by these potential realities. There's a slim chance that deep down, a tiny part of me holds tight to the completely untrue belief that by addressing the dangers out loud, I am warding them away.
I hope and pray that none of my just-in-case pronouncements ever come true. I try to be thankful for every day that no devastation occurs in my little life. Yet, being grateful, too, is a nod to the awful possibilities; you see, if I didn't realize that with every tragedy, there by the grace of God go I, then I wouldn't have the sense to be grateful when I am spared.
It makes sense to me, in a twisted way.
I allude to this type of thinking in other ways, too: "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise..." is one of my stock introductory phrases. When we're going away for a few hours, the hus and I, and especially when all three of us are going somewhere near or far, I call the home phone to leave a message detailing the location of our will.
He gets annoyed with me for doing this, the husband. "You know, that's kind of awful," he says after I place the call to our answering machine. He gives me dirty looks when I mention the bus. He occasionally goes down the path of how I shouldn't say those things because I might speak them unto myself, with the power of some strange inexplicable self-fulfilling prophecy that some Christians embrace–which is why so many of them are phonies who preach how we can expect only blessings and money from God because we'll just refuse to accept whatever else might come our way.
Well, I do believe that we can affect our mood, our attitude, and our witness to others by the things we say out loud. But I also know that terrible things happen sometimes and there's not a word that could have been spoken or withheld to prevent them. People die in horrible ways sometimes, even young moms and dads, even children. We live in a fallen world and tragedies do occur here. If I refrain from leaving a voice mail message that reveals the location of our will, that doesn't mean that we're any safer as we travel. It might mean that if something bad happens, no one will know where to look and read our wishes... and then there's likely to be some ugly, nasty squabbling. And delays. And additional taxes.
I don't know why I speak of these things in such off-handed fashion, almost in jest. I guess it's my pathetic way of acknowledging the very real risks of our existence. Maybe it's my tongue-in-cheek method of trying to appear unfazed by these potential realities. There's a slim chance that deep down, a tiny part of me holds tight to the completely untrue belief that by addressing the dangers out loud, I am warding them away.
I hope and pray that none of my just-in-case pronouncements ever come true. I try to be thankful for every day that no devastation occurs in my little life. Yet, being grateful, too, is a nod to the awful possibilities; you see, if I didn't realize that with every tragedy, there by the grace of God go I, then I wouldn't have the sense to be grateful when I am spared.
It makes sense to me, in a twisted way.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Serious stuff
I guess it was hearing about Gary's death that brought this post to existence.
Gary, someone whom I'd barely known, but knew that I liked immensely. I "walked the aisle" with Gary over 15 years ago, as attendants in the wedding of friends we had in common. We'd never spoken before then (he was slightly older, in a different crowd in high school) but the entire event was so much more relaxed and fun because he was on the team of over-dressed people sitting at the big table. Funny, easy to know, and so comfortable in his own skin, his joie de vivre was contagious.
He's dead. I found out recently that he died a few months ago, of an aggressive form of cancer. Just a year or so older than I am. That spark of a person is gone from this place.
There are many people I used to know who've already left this orb. Those who are considerably older than I am still hurt, but don't have the same ability to shock me. It's the people who are my age that feel most unnatural. Like Zane: I still can't believe he's gone. How can someone so alive cease to be alive? Heart attack, I think. And Greg, a person I'd never formally met but whose teenage image lives indelibly in in one of my scrapbooks because he happened to be standing next to an ex-boyfriend at some gathering. Greg was murdered in what appeared to everyone to be a random shooting. I don't believe they've ever caught the killer.
And then, last week, the crazy downpour of rain which led to an unprecedented wall of water that took four lives here in our city. It happened on a stretch of road I've traveled before, not far from some regular stomping grounds of ours (the zoo). Gone. Who could have predicted that tragedy?
I don't want to be a downer. I just feel a strong tugging at my soul that I need to be a voice of truth right now. And the truth is that none of us know when we'll depart this globe. For some, it is far sooner than we ever expected; others, like my husband's going-on-91 grandmother, admit readily that she's stayed longer than she ever thought she would. But the simple fact, courtesy Jim "Jimmy Mo" Morrison, is that no one here gets out alive.
People, if you are reading this, and you don't have a clue what will happen to you when you die, I pray that you'll stop right now and think about it.
I spent more than half my life trying not to think about it. I pushed it away even while two of my high school classmates were snuffed out before finishing college. I ran the other way, pursued stupid things, tried to achieve earthly goals, convinced myself halfheartedly that my fellow humans and I had somehow crawled from slime. I didn't want to appear unworldly, you see. I didn't want to be one of "those people" who blindly follow an invisible God who judges. I didn't want to be responsible. I didn't want to be accountable.
But I was empty, and sad. I made hurtful choices. Like the song says: I was lost.
It's funny how your eyes are opened widest when you are lowest. You're emotionally naked, and you finally take a good, clear, unwavering look around you. It's then that you become aware of a loving presence Who's been waiting, walking beside you, sometimes behind you, but always within arm's reach. Once you acknowledge the presence, you are not the same. Now that the presence is real to me, Jesus is a person I know and not an unachievable ideal. Over time, the idea of people coming from monkeys, let alone muddy water, is utterly inconceivable to me. There's a line from the remake of Charlotte's Web where Fern's mom is asking the doctor whether he thinks Charlotte's web words are a miracle—and the doctor basically reminds her that the web, itself, is a miracle. All of creation reveals a creator. The eye, the ear, alone are unbelievably complex systems. The brain? Beyond explanation. Pollination? Photosynthesis? The fact that we are perfectly distanced from the sun for survival? From the moon to control tides?
Maybe there's one person out there who will read this and really think about it all. If that's you, and you're thinking about it, then please read this, this and this. There is a savior and He loves you, all of us, even when we don't deserve it. He's already given everything for you. Accepting that outstretched hand will change your heart, and the way you think about this world. And this world is a very temporary one.
Bad things still happen. Every day. This small planet can be a pretty evil place, and people will disappoint, fall short, and treat each other unspeakably. I still feel pretty down at times, and there's a lot I don't understand. But it's funny—I find that I need less and less to understand everything. My mind isn't as restless as it used to be. Is it humility? The understanding that even if someone explained it all, I still wouldn't really get it? Has God taken away my troublesome desire to comprehend everything? Either way, it doesn't really matter. What matters is this: I am not the same person that I was before I took that hand. There are days when I cling to the hand, and days when I try to pull away from its stubborn grasp, like a little child trying to extract a sweaty palm so he can stray. But I know there is more than this world, and that I am forgiven and accepted once I leave it. I know that when I wise up, that loving hand will still be there for me. And that's a pretty good feeling, especially in these God-forsaken days.
Next post will be light as a feather. Promise.
Gary, someone whom I'd barely known, but knew that I liked immensely. I "walked the aisle" with Gary over 15 years ago, as attendants in the wedding of friends we had in common. We'd never spoken before then (he was slightly older, in a different crowd in high school) but the entire event was so much more relaxed and fun because he was on the team of over-dressed people sitting at the big table. Funny, easy to know, and so comfortable in his own skin, his joie de vivre was contagious.
He's dead. I found out recently that he died a few months ago, of an aggressive form of cancer. Just a year or so older than I am. That spark of a person is gone from this place.
There are many people I used to know who've already left this orb. Those who are considerably older than I am still hurt, but don't have the same ability to shock me. It's the people who are my age that feel most unnatural. Like Zane: I still can't believe he's gone. How can someone so alive cease to be alive? Heart attack, I think. And Greg, a person I'd never formally met but whose teenage image lives indelibly in in one of my scrapbooks because he happened to be standing next to an ex-boyfriend at some gathering. Greg was murdered in what appeared to everyone to be a random shooting. I don't believe they've ever caught the killer.
And then, last week, the crazy downpour of rain which led to an unprecedented wall of water that took four lives here in our city. It happened on a stretch of road I've traveled before, not far from some regular stomping grounds of ours (the zoo). Gone. Who could have predicted that tragedy?
I don't want to be a downer. I just feel a strong tugging at my soul that I need to be a voice of truth right now. And the truth is that none of us know when we'll depart this globe. For some, it is far sooner than we ever expected; others, like my husband's going-on-91 grandmother, admit readily that she's stayed longer than she ever thought she would. But the simple fact, courtesy Jim "Jimmy Mo" Morrison, is that no one here gets out alive.
People, if you are reading this, and you don't have a clue what will happen to you when you die, I pray that you'll stop right now and think about it.
I spent more than half my life trying not to think about it. I pushed it away even while two of my high school classmates were snuffed out before finishing college. I ran the other way, pursued stupid things, tried to achieve earthly goals, convinced myself halfheartedly that my fellow humans and I had somehow crawled from slime. I didn't want to appear unworldly, you see. I didn't want to be one of "those people" who blindly follow an invisible God who judges. I didn't want to be responsible. I didn't want to be accountable.
But I was empty, and sad. I made hurtful choices. Like the song says: I was lost.
It's funny how your eyes are opened widest when you are lowest. You're emotionally naked, and you finally take a good, clear, unwavering look around you. It's then that you become aware of a loving presence Who's been waiting, walking beside you, sometimes behind you, but always within arm's reach. Once you acknowledge the presence, you are not the same. Now that the presence is real to me, Jesus is a person I know and not an unachievable ideal. Over time, the idea of people coming from monkeys, let alone muddy water, is utterly inconceivable to me. There's a line from the remake of Charlotte's Web where Fern's mom is asking the doctor whether he thinks Charlotte's web words are a miracle—and the doctor basically reminds her that the web, itself, is a miracle. All of creation reveals a creator. The eye, the ear, alone are unbelievably complex systems. The brain? Beyond explanation. Pollination? Photosynthesis? The fact that we are perfectly distanced from the sun for survival? From the moon to control tides?
Maybe there's one person out there who will read this and really think about it all. If that's you, and you're thinking about it, then please read this, this and this. There is a savior and He loves you, all of us, even when we don't deserve it. He's already given everything for you. Accepting that outstretched hand will change your heart, and the way you think about this world. And this world is a very temporary one.
Bad things still happen. Every day. This small planet can be a pretty evil place, and people will disappoint, fall short, and treat each other unspeakably. I still feel pretty down at times, and there's a lot I don't understand. But it's funny—I find that I need less and less to understand everything. My mind isn't as restless as it used to be. Is it humility? The understanding that even if someone explained it all, I still wouldn't really get it? Has God taken away my troublesome desire to comprehend everything? Either way, it doesn't really matter. What matters is this: I am not the same person that I was before I took that hand. There are days when I cling to the hand, and days when I try to pull away from its stubborn grasp, like a little child trying to extract a sweaty palm so he can stray. But I know there is more than this world, and that I am forgiven and accepted once I leave it. I know that when I wise up, that loving hand will still be there for me. And that's a pretty good feeling, especially in these God-forsaken days.
Next post will be light as a feather. Promise.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Balance in a world of agonies
I've been reading a book I borrowed from my dad: My War by Andy Rooney. Yes, the same Andy Rooney who's on 60 Minutes, or used to be—I haven't seen that show in ages so I'm uncertain as to whether Andy still offers his curmudgeonly commentaries there. Anyway, it's an interesting, sometimes funny, often brutal and upsetting account of Andy's time as a war correspondent during WWII.
A first-hand account of what someone sees during bloody wartime makes for some pretty awful stories. I wouldn't say the book is fun to read, because it's not. Parts of it are fun, parts are entertaining (his opinionated reports on George Patton and Ernest Hemingway are downright laughable), and parts of it are stomach-turning because they include factual accounts of death scenes I couldn't imagine in my worst nightmare.
Why am I reading this book? Well, I need to know more about American history, for one thing; I seem to be the member of my family most lacking in general historical knowledge. For another, I like Andy Rooney's style; I admire his succinct and sometimes caustic delivery. Lastly, I live in such an innocent little suburban bubble that I feel the need to expose myself to reality. Unpleasant, messy reality.
That sort of reality doesn't exist only in the past, as you well know. It's all around us. You can't turn on the news without hearing of death and destruction, fire and floods, murders and terrorists. Our world is a scary place. I can tune out and live in my bubble, but in order to exist in our culture, I have to expose myself to news coverage at least somewhat, especially if I want to know when the snowstorm is coming.
I guess if we want to live a balanced life, we need a little bit of both worlds: the dangerous place all around us versus the good place where most of us are blessed to be regularly. I read a book like the Andy Rooney account, and then I read an easier, happier, more escapist novel that gives me a little boost. Recently, I re-read The Secret Garden. That's a feel-good kind of story, and pretty much the antithesis of a war memoir.
I try to take the same approach to daily media consumption. Do I need to know that there are people in the world who are capable of burying a child alive? Is it necessary to hear that another drug deal went bad and someone was shot in the face? Must I be advised of a deadly dog attack, see pictures of a vandalized cemetary, or know the details of a little boy's drowning in a septic tank?
I don't know. I certainly don't want this information. Yet neither do I want to live so blissfully and ignorantly that I'm unaware of the fallen world around me. If I don't hear the bad news, perhaps the video of a soldier's homecoming won't touch me as deeply. If I'm never reminded of the evil that surrounds us, perhaps I'll forget to teach my child wariness of odd strangers or unfamiliar dogs. If I don't read the stories of tremendous casualties during combat, I might never truly appreciate a serviceman's duty done well, or the scars that service leaves.
We have to find balance. We have to be careful, because what you put in your mind stays there. If you fill it with gore, violence, and hatred, it will consume you. Likewise, if you fill it with mindlessness, with too many new cars and fashion and man-made fluff, it's probable you'll lose touch with real priorities. Lord knows it's easy to do that, with our silly, selfish, overly-comfortable lifestyles. It's important to read the comics; it's also important to read the headlines, the features stories.
I filter everything that comes into my world—books, papers, magazines, television, movies. You can't take something out once it lives in your mind. Be selective. Be perceptive. If something feels disturbing and wrong, walk away. I will forever be haunted by a taped 911 cell phone conversation I heard on a news show years ago: the last words of a woman who'd mistakenly driven off a bridge and into water, where she foolishly called 911 for help instead of getting out of the car immediately... That's a phone conversation I never wanted to hear, and it will never be out of my head.
Balance is difficult to achieve. I don't think I'll ever get it exactly right. I'm trying. Meantime, we watched It's a Wonderful Life the other night; it was nice to go there, and take a break from liberating the French countryside.
(Sorry—this is about as far from a light, Christmas-y post as you can get. But hey, Christmas is still almost two weeks away! Plenty of time left to be jolly! Now, where are those jingle bells!?)
A first-hand account of what someone sees during bloody wartime makes for some pretty awful stories. I wouldn't say the book is fun to read, because it's not. Parts of it are fun, parts are entertaining (his opinionated reports on George Patton and Ernest Hemingway are downright laughable), and parts of it are stomach-turning because they include factual accounts of death scenes I couldn't imagine in my worst nightmare.
Why am I reading this book? Well, I need to know more about American history, for one thing; I seem to be the member of my family most lacking in general historical knowledge. For another, I like Andy Rooney's style; I admire his succinct and sometimes caustic delivery. Lastly, I live in such an innocent little suburban bubble that I feel the need to expose myself to reality. Unpleasant, messy reality.
That sort of reality doesn't exist only in the past, as you well know. It's all around us. You can't turn on the news without hearing of death and destruction, fire and floods, murders and terrorists. Our world is a scary place. I can tune out and live in my bubble, but in order to exist in our culture, I have to expose myself to news coverage at least somewhat, especially if I want to know when the snowstorm is coming.
I guess if we want to live a balanced life, we need a little bit of both worlds: the dangerous place all around us versus the good place where most of us are blessed to be regularly. I read a book like the Andy Rooney account, and then I read an easier, happier, more escapist novel that gives me a little boost. Recently, I re-read The Secret Garden. That's a feel-good kind of story, and pretty much the antithesis of a war memoir.
I try to take the same approach to daily media consumption. Do I need to know that there are people in the world who are capable of burying a child alive? Is it necessary to hear that another drug deal went bad and someone was shot in the face? Must I be advised of a deadly dog attack, see pictures of a vandalized cemetary, or know the details of a little boy's drowning in a septic tank?
I don't know. I certainly don't want this information. Yet neither do I want to live so blissfully and ignorantly that I'm unaware of the fallen world around me. If I don't hear the bad news, perhaps the video of a soldier's homecoming won't touch me as deeply. If I'm never reminded of the evil that surrounds us, perhaps I'll forget to teach my child wariness of odd strangers or unfamiliar dogs. If I don't read the stories of tremendous casualties during combat, I might never truly appreciate a serviceman's duty done well, or the scars that service leaves.
We have to find balance. We have to be careful, because what you put in your mind stays there. If you fill it with gore, violence, and hatred, it will consume you. Likewise, if you fill it with mindlessness, with too many new cars and fashion and man-made fluff, it's probable you'll lose touch with real priorities. Lord knows it's easy to do that, with our silly, selfish, overly-comfortable lifestyles. It's important to read the comics; it's also important to read the headlines, the features stories.
I filter everything that comes into my world—books, papers, magazines, television, movies. You can't take something out once it lives in your mind. Be selective. Be perceptive. If something feels disturbing and wrong, walk away. I will forever be haunted by a taped 911 cell phone conversation I heard on a news show years ago: the last words of a woman who'd mistakenly driven off a bridge and into water, where she foolishly called 911 for help instead of getting out of the car immediately... That's a phone conversation I never wanted to hear, and it will never be out of my head.
Balance is difficult to achieve. I don't think I'll ever get it exactly right. I'm trying. Meantime, we watched It's a Wonderful Life the other night; it was nice to go there, and take a break from liberating the French countryside.
(Sorry—this is about as far from a light, Christmas-y post as you can get. But hey, Christmas is still almost two weeks away! Plenty of time left to be jolly! Now, where are those jingle bells!?)
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
A cold-blooded bunch
Recently, my little guy and I read aloud The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. (If you haven't yet, I highly recommend taking a couple of hours to enjoy this little book.) I'd read it years before, but while revisiting this gem, I was reminded just how amusing and unattractively truthful are the events the story details. There's the narrator's mother, trying to conduct a Christmas pageant that's always been led by another woman who unfortunately has injured herself. And there are the various "church" people who pretty much exemplify why so many folks steer clear of organized religion. By and large, though, the most entertaining characters are the story's antagonists, The Herdman kids: a band of troublemaking near-orphans who've never set foot in church until they hear about the free refreshments served therein...
One thing that stuck with me was the outrage some of the Herdman children felt when they heard that King Herod had gone unpunished for his evil (but thankfully unrealized) intentions to murder the Baby Jesus. Herod apparently died many years later of natural causes, and one Herdman kid was flummoxed and thought that the pageant should feature the hanging of King Herod instead of peaceful manger scenes.
I thought about that a lot, how we as a pop culture are fascinated by murder and murderous thoughts, and how we want justice unless it falls on our own heads. I pondered the history of men, even the Biblical history, and how often murder shows up. There's David, lusting after some babe, and he has his way with her and then has her husband killed in the front lines of battle. Yes, he was sorry, but still... And there were other murderous kings, not just Herod; many earthly kingdoms have been won and lost based on which king has been murdered. Women have been murdered because of their aspirations, or just because a younger and sexier woman came along; brothers have been murdered because they were the favorites. Children have been murdered because they were a burden, or the new girlfriend or boyfriend didn't like them.
I like to believe that we as a people are not so base, so cruel and selfish. But we are. I spoke with a friend recently who detailed how her elderly neighbor had died recently, and she explained point by point why she felt certain his children had given him an overdose of morphine. You know what? I think she's right. This wasn't an elderly man on his deathbed, or suffering from terminal illness. This was a man my friend had just visited, who'd been in good spirits, who'd received a pacemaker and was feeling quite chipper. His daughter won't let people see him, he dies suddenly, and the day after the funeral the daughter's ex-husband, which whom her father had not gotten along, suddenly shows up at the house again. Coincidence?
My own neighbor down the street a few homes? Her sister died mysteriously—drowned in the bathtub. A few months later? Her widower husband remarries. Nothing can be proven. But it surely makes you wonder, doesn't it. I don't know if any charges have followed because I'm afraid to ask the neighbor; it's not the sort of topic we feel comfortable broaching. "So, was your sister murdered?" God forbid we call it what we think it truly is; that would be so unpleasant, so morbid and sordid and all those other unattractive adjectives that we'd rather not have to use when we describe human nature.
But I suspect this sort of thing happens much more than we realize. It's not just on television. There's a great movie, one of my all-time favorites: Crimes and Misdemeanors. It's a Woody Allen film from the 80s, and yes it's a tad dated, but mostly it holds up beautifully. (Even though I think Woody is a perverted near-pedophile weirdo, I also happen to think he makes great movies.) This film is a thought-provoking piece, mostly because it twists together a series of bad, somewhat-related events, and leaves the characters (and the viewers) to decide which of those events constitute real crime—true sin in its most base form. It shows people at their very worst: evil, selfish, thoughtless, unkind, cheating, stealing, even murdering. It's a disturbing idea, but it's done so artfully that you are left feeling rather somber and disappointed—in people, generally, and that so much crime goes unpunished.
We really are a murderous bunch of cold-blooded killers, deep down. I'm very glad we have a savior, and that nothing can separate us from Him. Even David, that killer, was still a friend of God. Still, it's a pretty unflattering and humbling history to bear.
One thing that stuck with me was the outrage some of the Herdman children felt when they heard that King Herod had gone unpunished for his evil (but thankfully unrealized) intentions to murder the Baby Jesus. Herod apparently died many years later of natural causes, and one Herdman kid was flummoxed and thought that the pageant should feature the hanging of King Herod instead of peaceful manger scenes.
I thought about that a lot, how we as a pop culture are fascinated by murder and murderous thoughts, and how we want justice unless it falls on our own heads. I pondered the history of men, even the Biblical history, and how often murder shows up. There's David, lusting after some babe, and he has his way with her and then has her husband killed in the front lines of battle. Yes, he was sorry, but still... And there were other murderous kings, not just Herod; many earthly kingdoms have been won and lost based on which king has been murdered. Women have been murdered because of their aspirations, or just because a younger and sexier woman came along; brothers have been murdered because they were the favorites. Children have been murdered because they were a burden, or the new girlfriend or boyfriend didn't like them.
I like to believe that we as a people are not so base, so cruel and selfish. But we are. I spoke with a friend recently who detailed how her elderly neighbor had died recently, and she explained point by point why she felt certain his children had given him an overdose of morphine. You know what? I think she's right. This wasn't an elderly man on his deathbed, or suffering from terminal illness. This was a man my friend had just visited, who'd been in good spirits, who'd received a pacemaker and was feeling quite chipper. His daughter won't let people see him, he dies suddenly, and the day after the funeral the daughter's ex-husband, which whom her father had not gotten along, suddenly shows up at the house again. Coincidence?
My own neighbor down the street a few homes? Her sister died mysteriously—drowned in the bathtub. A few months later? Her widower husband remarries. Nothing can be proven. But it surely makes you wonder, doesn't it. I don't know if any charges have followed because I'm afraid to ask the neighbor; it's not the sort of topic we feel comfortable broaching. "So, was your sister murdered?" God forbid we call it what we think it truly is; that would be so unpleasant, so morbid and sordid and all those other unattractive adjectives that we'd rather not have to use when we describe human nature.
But I suspect this sort of thing happens much more than we realize. It's not just on television. There's a great movie, one of my all-time favorites: Crimes and Misdemeanors. It's a Woody Allen film from the 80s, and yes it's a tad dated, but mostly it holds up beautifully. (Even though I think Woody is a perverted near-pedophile weirdo, I also happen to think he makes great movies.) This film is a thought-provoking piece, mostly because it twists together a series of bad, somewhat-related events, and leaves the characters (and the viewers) to decide which of those events constitute real crime—true sin in its most base form. It shows people at their very worst: evil, selfish, thoughtless, unkind, cheating, stealing, even murdering. It's a disturbing idea, but it's done so artfully that you are left feeling rather somber and disappointed—in people, generally, and that so much crime goes unpunished.
We really are a murderous bunch of cold-blooded killers, deep down. I'm very glad we have a savior, and that nothing can separate us from Him. Even David, that killer, was still a friend of God. Still, it's a pretty unflattering and humbling history to bear.
Friday, September 18, 2009
No longer
Without much warning, after nearly 13 years, I find myself petless.
My trusted kitty, whom I adopted all those years ago from a shelter, has left this spinning orb.
He hadn't been himself lately, and the last visit to the vet revealed some serious things amiss. And he was already 4 when I brought him home. That means, in people years, my sweet cat was probably around 92 or 93 years old. Growing thinner by the day, intestinal issues, digestive issues, kidney issues all confirmed. We went round in circles and finally decided that waiting for the inevitable wouldn't make it any easier when it came. Yet I still struggle with it, this evening, in our too-quiet home that no longer needs food and water dishes at the bottom of the steps: Did we do the right thing? I think we did. But I know that none of us truly has that right, to aid the natural process, to assist the permanent vacation from the body. Am I suddenly a Kevorkian who avoided a sentence because my victim was animal, not human? Do I still have to right to express pro-life beliefs? Should I ever be entrusted with another animal?
I hope that somehow, my good ol' cat understood how hard it was. I hope, on some level at least, he was ready to go. I know that recently, he didn't much resemble the cat I loved all those years. I know that he was not at all well. I know he was, short of a miracle, not getting better. I know he was really, really old. And I know he had a good life.
It doesn't make it any easier. Tonight, the world, our little world, is absent one soft, fuzzy orange mass of fur accompanied by a purr like a rumbling motor. Tonight I will not feed the insistently mewing creature. Tonight, he will rest in our yard and not in his favorite spot in the hall, where we all tripped over him at first and then gingerly stepped over him of late.
There is a hole here.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Good news and—once again—perspective
This past week has been an odd one. Mostly good, some bad, but definitely somewhat odd.
I shouldn't downplay the mostly good part, because it is quite good indeed. Make sure you're sitting down: Okay. Ready? Todd found a job! He started today. Isn't that a miracle all by itself? In this stinky economy, my dear hubby managed to land a job at the very first company to which he sent his post-layoff resume. It's been a long few weeks, but upon re-examination, I can see God's hand in much of what's occurred here recently. I still don't know all the whys of what's happened, but I feel pretty certain that this new employer is exactly where Todd needs to be right now.
So hallelujah, we are very grateful!
And on a completely different note, I was still quietly celebrating my husband's new job on Saturday morning as I dressed in my best, made certain the boy didn't have chocolate on his face, and drove the two of us to a nearby funeral home--to pay respects to a friend who'd just lost her husband.
There we stood in a crowded throng of mourners; while one part of me deep in my soul was still singing "tra-la-la, thank you Lord," the bigger public part of me was embracing this woman whose world has fallen in around her and her young sons. A woman who, just a few days ago, was probably feeling pretty normal. A woman who has such a bigger obstacle than no job.
It was a strange experience, to have my huge concern first solved, then completely dwarfed in the face of a genuine catastrophe. Our very real problem suddenly feels a bit like a persistent hiccup when it's juxtaposed with a life-altering tragedy.
What have I learned through this experience? Hmmmmm. I'm still learning. Mostly, I think I need to consider my blessings instead of my losses, and praise God more. I need to remember that there are no guarantees; each time I see someone, it may be the last time. I need to remember that this place, this fallen world, is a temporary home and perhaps I shouldn't even unpack my bags, really.
Does anyone else out there recall the TV show Hill Street Blues? "Let's be careful out there." And while we're at it, let's be thankful and caring out there.
I shouldn't downplay the mostly good part, because it is quite good indeed. Make sure you're sitting down: Okay. Ready? Todd found a job! He started today. Isn't that a miracle all by itself? In this stinky economy, my dear hubby managed to land a job at the very first company to which he sent his post-layoff resume. It's been a long few weeks, but upon re-examination, I can see God's hand in much of what's occurred here recently. I still don't know all the whys of what's happened, but I feel pretty certain that this new employer is exactly where Todd needs to be right now.
So hallelujah, we are very grateful!
And on a completely different note, I was still quietly celebrating my husband's new job on Saturday morning as I dressed in my best, made certain the boy didn't have chocolate on his face, and drove the two of us to a nearby funeral home--to pay respects to a friend who'd just lost her husband.
There we stood in a crowded throng of mourners; while one part of me deep in my soul was still singing "tra-la-la, thank you Lord," the bigger public part of me was embracing this woman whose world has fallen in around her and her young sons. A woman who, just a few days ago, was probably feeling pretty normal. A woman who has such a bigger obstacle than no job.
It was a strange experience, to have my huge concern first solved, then completely dwarfed in the face of a genuine catastrophe. Our very real problem suddenly feels a bit like a persistent hiccup when it's juxtaposed with a life-altering tragedy.
What have I learned through this experience? Hmmmmm. I'm still learning. Mostly, I think I need to consider my blessings instead of my losses, and praise God more. I need to remember that there are no guarantees; each time I see someone, it may be the last time. I need to remember that this place, this fallen world, is a temporary home and perhaps I shouldn't even unpack my bags, really.
Does anyone else out there recall the TV show Hill Street Blues? "Let's be careful out there." And while we're at it, let's be thankful and caring out there.
Monday, January 26, 2009
From the hip
I usually draft a post and re-read it several times before I actually go public. I don't sit around obsessing over it, or changing it twenty times, but I try to make sure there are no glaring errors and that the thoughts presented can actually hold water.
I'm not doing that tonight. I'm just typing from the hip. I'm sad. Another person who's been a fixture in my life, my family's life, has lost his battle with the "c" word. Another great one has passed from among us. There was no miracle. There was suffering, and waiting, and much prayer, but he has succumbed nonetheless.
The past couple of years have brought about a landslide of losses for my family, big ones that leave unsightly gashes in the side of the mountain. I suppose it comes to this, for everyone who lives a reasonably long life—this growing certainty that you are a shrinking percentage of the population. It's never easy to lose a loved one; perhaps the loss is even more difficult to comprehend and accept when the person who is taken leaves a legacy of hope, patience, strength, and courage. This fellow who ultimately lost his battle won many, many skirmishes. He smiled when others would have frowned, pressed on when many would have given in. He seized every moment he was given, grasping its hand and pumping it up and down with genuine joy. He inspired me, and all who knew him.
I must remember his example when I'm feeling sorry for myself, feeling defeated by what is likely a small matter in the big picture—I must embrace this glorious, wonderful gift of life and never depreciate it with petty pouting. I must take this loss, although it is the latest in a long list of losses, and I must hold it up to the light so it takes on a soft, warm glow—the glow of the man whose memory it represents. I must be thankful.
If I do all that, it will be the least of what I can do. Because, you see, I am here to do those things.
----------
(Another thing I must do? I must re-read The Reason for God by Timothy Keller*. I recommend it to everyone. To those who believe in our savior, it will strengthen your faith. And those of you who just aren't sure, but can't deny that no one leaves this spinning blue orb in quite the same form they had when they inhabited it? I especially recommend it to you.)
*Thanks for sharing that book, DK!
I'm not doing that tonight. I'm just typing from the hip. I'm sad. Another person who's been a fixture in my life, my family's life, has lost his battle with the "c" word. Another great one has passed from among us. There was no miracle. There was suffering, and waiting, and much prayer, but he has succumbed nonetheless.
The past couple of years have brought about a landslide of losses for my family, big ones that leave unsightly gashes in the side of the mountain. I suppose it comes to this, for everyone who lives a reasonably long life—this growing certainty that you are a shrinking percentage of the population. It's never easy to lose a loved one; perhaps the loss is even more difficult to comprehend and accept when the person who is taken leaves a legacy of hope, patience, strength, and courage. This fellow who ultimately lost his battle won many, many skirmishes. He smiled when others would have frowned, pressed on when many would have given in. He seized every moment he was given, grasping its hand and pumping it up and down with genuine joy. He inspired me, and all who knew him.
I must remember his example when I'm feeling sorry for myself, feeling defeated by what is likely a small matter in the big picture—I must embrace this glorious, wonderful gift of life and never depreciate it with petty pouting. I must take this loss, although it is the latest in a long list of losses, and I must hold it up to the light so it takes on a soft, warm glow—the glow of the man whose memory it represents. I must be thankful.
If I do all that, it will be the least of what I can do. Because, you see, I am here to do those things.
----------
(Another thing I must do? I must re-read The Reason for God by Timothy Keller*. I recommend it to everyone. To those who believe in our savior, it will strengthen your faith. And those of you who just aren't sure, but can't deny that no one leaves this spinning blue orb in quite the same form they had when they inhabited it? I especially recommend it to you.)
*Thanks for sharing that book, DK!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The second gray hair [is silver]
The first one didn’t bother me when I found it in the mirror a few months ago. It was a fluke, I assured myself—a trick of the poor lighting, my imagination, perhaps even a very blonde hair. (Remember, I’m someone who doesn’t believe something until it’s inarguably in front of my face.) I summarily pulled the single gray strand out by the root and thought no more of it.
And then, last week, the second one showed up. And this one bothered me, more than the first one had. In the same way that being 31 bothered me a tiny bit more than being 30— “in my 30s” was worse, and finding gray “hairs” was infinitely worse.
It was undeniably gray, sprouting right from the line of my part on my scalp, in the most noticeable and obvious place on my head. I’m not sure why it offended me so. I haven’t lived under the delusion of immortality for many years; before my junior year of college, I’d lost two close friends—to cancer and a drunk driver. I’ve been well aware for a couple of decades now that we all come to an end someday, often sooner than expected. I thought for a long time that my time would come sooner than expected.
Perhaps that’s why the gray hair is so foreign and wrong to me… You see, I spent the first half of my 20s firmly convinced that I would die at 25. I never had any inkling why I thought this, never had a vision about what would cause my demise, but I was filled with a growing certainty that my future would be relatively short. Perhaps it was just my irresponsible way of excusing my typical 20s stupidity—too many late nights, not enough sleep, not enough exercise, unhealthy diet, etc. I had to fit in as much living as I could, right? My days were numbered. I didn’t need to waste time taking care of myself.
And then the “final” year came and went. My 26th birthday sneaked up on me, and then without any drama it was past and I was still alive. I was rather surprised, as you can imagine. Had I misunderstood the impression I’d had? Was that 25-year milestone merely an approximate end date? I waited, and survived. For many more years, in fact.
Now here I am in my late 30s, feeling the effects of those years I’ve accumulated and finding gray hairs, plural. Me, who wasn’t even supposed to make it into my 30s. Me, who now, suddenly, must take care of myself and eat right and try to exercise more and appreciate each day.
I’m pretty glad I was wrong. Think of all I would have missed—not just these pesky gray strands, but also my husband, my child, my salvation and the opportunities to make things better around me. I hope I can always see those gray hairs as silver—the silver lining of being given more time than I’d anticipated.
And then, last week, the second one showed up. And this one bothered me, more than the first one had. In the same way that being 31 bothered me a tiny bit more than being 30— “in my 30s” was worse, and finding gray “hairs” was infinitely worse.
It was undeniably gray, sprouting right from the line of my part on my scalp, in the most noticeable and obvious place on my head. I’m not sure why it offended me so. I haven’t lived under the delusion of immortality for many years; before my junior year of college, I’d lost two close friends—to cancer and a drunk driver. I’ve been well aware for a couple of decades now that we all come to an end someday, often sooner than expected. I thought for a long time that my time would come sooner than expected.
Perhaps that’s why the gray hair is so foreign and wrong to me… You see, I spent the first half of my 20s firmly convinced that I would die at 25. I never had any inkling why I thought this, never had a vision about what would cause my demise, but I was filled with a growing certainty that my future would be relatively short. Perhaps it was just my irresponsible way of excusing my typical 20s stupidity—too many late nights, not enough sleep, not enough exercise, unhealthy diet, etc. I had to fit in as much living as I could, right? My days were numbered. I didn’t need to waste time taking care of myself.
And then the “final” year came and went. My 26th birthday sneaked up on me, and then without any drama it was past and I was still alive. I was rather surprised, as you can imagine. Had I misunderstood the impression I’d had? Was that 25-year milestone merely an approximate end date? I waited, and survived. For many more years, in fact.
Now here I am in my late 30s, feeling the effects of those years I’ve accumulated and finding gray hairs, plural. Me, who wasn’t even supposed to make it into my 30s. Me, who now, suddenly, must take care of myself and eat right and try to exercise more and appreciate each day.
I’m pretty glad I was wrong. Think of all I would have missed—not just these pesky gray strands, but also my husband, my child, my salvation and the opportunities to make things better around me. I hope I can always see those gray hairs as silver—the silver lining of being given more time than I’d anticipated.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Somber thoughts, grateful thoughts
Hi, All.
2007 has been a rough year. We’ve lost a lot of really good people, to disease, to old age, to general infirmity…and I fear it may not be over yet. There we were at the funeral home again Tuesday night, paying our respects to a neighbor—a good-hearted woman whom we had the pleasure of getting to know for about a year. That was just long enough to begin to grasp what a hole she leaves in her absence.
It reminded me how many of those places we’ve visited this year, of how many holes have been left in 2007. It reminded me, too, that I can respond to these relentless and overwhelming losses in a couple of ways: I can think gloomy thoughts, and waste bitter hours asking why and trying to find logic and reason in the loss. Or, I can thank God every morning when I awake, and thank Him again when I rise from my comfy bed, and thank Him again when I eat my nice breakfast and enjoy my hot coffee and make a plan to drive to the market in my car and kiss my husband goodbye and hug my little boy good morning. I can choose to look at the blessings. It is a choice, after all. For some people—especially those who've lost someone they love, or who face daily hardships I can't imagine—perhaps it is a difficult choice. Hopefully, through much time and countless attempts, I can train myself to choose joy in blessings, instead of asking why. I want to ask it less and less, until hopefully my heart just stops asking, because asking why has never done me an ounce of good.
I can even take this a step further, by recalling two young friends that I lost while in college. Neither of them ever had the chance to finish that college degree. One was taken by cancer; the other was struck and killed by a drunk driver. I think of them both sometimes, even more often as I get older. I am stunned by the fact that I have now lived for twice as long as either of them did. I am saddened that they were denied the chance to experience more of life. And, I am so very glad that I was given the opportunities, the days and weeks and years, that those two friends did not have. I feel an obligation to all those folks who've been taken too soon; I am obligated to appreciate and embrace all the extra time I've been granted.
That’s about it for now. I’m putting this down in writing to make this choice a little more real, to make myself accountable in a way—and with the hope that as I articulate my desire to have a grateful heart, I plant that desire deep in myself a little bit more firmly.
Thanks for listening. Lighter days ahead.
2007 has been a rough year. We’ve lost a lot of really good people, to disease, to old age, to general infirmity…and I fear it may not be over yet. There we were at the funeral home again Tuesday night, paying our respects to a neighbor—a good-hearted woman whom we had the pleasure of getting to know for about a year. That was just long enough to begin to grasp what a hole she leaves in her absence.
It reminded me how many of those places we’ve visited this year, of how many holes have been left in 2007. It reminded me, too, that I can respond to these relentless and overwhelming losses in a couple of ways: I can think gloomy thoughts, and waste bitter hours asking why and trying to find logic and reason in the loss. Or, I can thank God every morning when I awake, and thank Him again when I rise from my comfy bed, and thank Him again when I eat my nice breakfast and enjoy my hot coffee and make a plan to drive to the market in my car and kiss my husband goodbye and hug my little boy good morning. I can choose to look at the blessings. It is a choice, after all. For some people—especially those who've lost someone they love, or who face daily hardships I can't imagine—perhaps it is a difficult choice. Hopefully, through much time and countless attempts, I can train myself to choose joy in blessings, instead of asking why. I want to ask it less and less, until hopefully my heart just stops asking, because asking why has never done me an ounce of good.
I can even take this a step further, by recalling two young friends that I lost while in college. Neither of them ever had the chance to finish that college degree. One was taken by cancer; the other was struck and killed by a drunk driver. I think of them both sometimes, even more often as I get older. I am stunned by the fact that I have now lived for twice as long as either of them did. I am saddened that they were denied the chance to experience more of life. And, I am so very glad that I was given the opportunities, the days and weeks and years, that those two friends did not have. I feel an obligation to all those folks who've been taken too soon; I am obligated to appreciate and embrace all the extra time I've been granted.
That’s about it for now. I’m putting this down in writing to make this choice a little more real, to make myself accountable in a way—and with the hope that as I articulate my desire to have a grateful heart, I plant that desire deep in myself a little bit more firmly.
Thanks for listening. Lighter days ahead.
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