if only I woof known, I'd have done this sooner

So, it turns out I might not need to maintain that fitness club membership. It served its purpose, got me moving, helped me loosen up the bad knee—but what I really needed? An active dog.

We recently adopted a female Vizsla. She came from friends, so it wasn't a completely clueless adoption; we had met the dog several times, had even spent a few days with her when we visited with said friends after Christmas last year. However. I still had some reservations. This type of dog is a particularly energetic breed known for running all day and hunting to exhaustion.

A high-energy, boundless beast? Probably not what I would have chosen for our family. I was thinking of something small, harmless, fuzzy and lazy.

And yet, the plan had been laid; after much preparation and many texted Q&A sessions between the previous owners and us, we brought the dog home. She was confused, we were confused, the already-tiny house suddenly seemed to shrink by half... What had we done? The dog alternately fetched a newly purchased squeaker ball and paced, barked at us a bit, quivered with fear the first night, and seemed generally lonely and depressed. I had doubts, my husband tried to assuage them, and our son watched it all with raised eyebrows.

Fast forward three-and-a-half weeks, and we are all adjusting rather nicely.

She's a lovely girl, well-behaved, polite, unbelievably pretty, and extremely expressive. Her light brown eyes can convey an expansive array of feelings, she accepts a biscuit in the dainty fashion of a fine lady, and we are all three of us completely smitten. The energy level is there, no doubt about it—but heck, we needed some shaking up, right? Who wants to sit around and do nothing? I've been outside more than normal, have been back in the woods and on farms, have smiled more, and have solemnly pondered life and the world much less. Pros, all of those things.

And the timing? Perfect. My son is old enough to help care for her. She gives our little family something else to hug, a warm wriggly body when I want to snuggle my son and he wants only to be left alone. And when he needs comforting or feels cuddly but doesn't want to compromise his newly discovered independence from his overly affectionate parents? There's the dog, begging for a belly rub.

Isn't it funny—and wonderful—how God gives you what you need? Even when it wasn't what you asked for, He knows best.

So, it's been an eventful month at our little homestead. Blessings abound. I have always believed that animal companions lend much warmth to a home, but this darling dog has exceeded my expectations pleasantly.

P.S. Learned the hard way to proactively repel ticks. On her and on us. Also? She's going to cost us a fortune in food, toys, and various accoutrements. Oh, well. I'll get back the fitness club fee, I suppose...

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.

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.

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:

The Lord comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones. Isaiah 49:13

Melmantra

Always leave while you're still having fun.

That's it. Honestly, that's the mantra. So simple. And yet, so hard for some people to do.

I guess it began in the "early summer" of my lifespan, when I was venturing out at night with friends, winking at occasions and locations that skirted the edge of "trouble," and partaking of legal libations in said situations. I began to see that sticking around, late at night, usually resulted in my wishing I'd departed earlier. I had some friends, too, who never quite absorbed the truth of this realization—those people who never knew when to quit. Eventually, our different philosophies caused some tension at times... And then, we simply got older, and/or parted ways due to unrelated circumstances... and over-staying night-life events became a non-issue.

But I still fall back on that mantra. It's my own, it has served me well—and it's still true today. Although nowadays, we're not talking about clubs or parties. Now, it applies to family life: vacation, Kennywood, school events, picnics, canoe excursions. Leave while you're still having fun. Leave so that the good memories prevail, instead of being erased by memories of tempers flaring, or crowds surging, or sunburn and bug bites overtaking all else. Leave while you're still wide awake to drive home, before you overeat, or injure yourself pretending you're still youthful. Leave the park before you become nauseous from one more ride; depart the lovely beach before you have sufficient time to grow weary of sand in your undergarments. Be decisive, be disciplined, be a leader, and declare a finish time. Then, stick to it within reason.

Since I am the ruiner of fun in my home, this forthright task usually falls on me. Most of the unsavory tasks do. I'm at home more; it's inevitable. But I resignedly don my bleak crown.

Does this mantra work in all things? No, of course not. You can't apply it to marriage; there would be very few marriages remaining! You can't apply it to jobs, at least not on a daily basis. (However, I do believe that for those of us with choices, you can apply the mantra in a bigger way when you see an emerging pattern of unhappiness, dissatisfaction, or poor management in a workplace). You can't apply my fab mantra to family, either. You're sort of stuck there. I've learned the hard way, too, that you shouldn't apply it to church life within short spans. Some folks do, skipping from place to place each time they are bored or offended... only to find that other churches are full of flawed people, too. All of them.

I have found, though, that the melmantra makes sense for excursions of all kinds, and for hobbies and pastimes. My family grows weary of hearing it. I tire of repeating it. Yet, I think back on times when I did not apply it... And I press on.

Appropriate

Given the day, I figured I'd share these song lyrics; we sang this song in church recently, and it was so simple yet so sincere. I have been humming this for days now, and that is a genuinely good thing. Praise and thanks precede blessing, in my experience at least...

Give thanks with a grateful heart
Give thanks to the Holy One
Give thanks because He's given Jesus Christ, His Son

And now let the weak say, "I am strong"
Let the poor say, "I am rich
Because of what the Lord has done for us"
Give thanks

Have a happy Thanksgiving, and I hope that you spend the majority of it doing just that: giving thanks. There is strife, there are trials, but there is always a Companion by your side.

Facing the front

I'm a light sleeper. I believe I've already written about that here, probably more than once.

For the past few days, I've been mulling a post about how frequently things change in our lives. It's the same kind of post that just about everyone in the world has read, usually penned by someone in the midst of personal upheaval. The gist of my thoughts is quite familiar: The only thing that's truly permanent is change. It's the one constant factor upon which we can rely.

It became crystal clear to me overnight, as I was awakened countless times by the noise of wind punishing the trees outside and rain trying determinedly to beat its way into our home. All those noises that woke me were the indicators of change coming—colder temperatures, precipitation where there had been none, wind rushing forth to usher in the new weather pattern. Each time the gusts blew with vehemence, I was reminded anew that I'd wake to a very different kind of day than the one that had preceded it.

My husband? My son? They slept through it peacefully, oblivious to the disturbances just a few feet away.

I think it must be nice to sleep through the approaching storm. I can't do it. I feel it, I hear it, I'm jerked awake over and over again with each new gust front. There are things swirling around me in my life, the lives of my family members, and I feel them full force: New patterns, difficulties and obstacles, unwelcome shifts in behavior and lifestyle.

I guess I am a person who directly faces the gust front in order to feel prepared to handle what's coming. I want to be ready each time a front nears... but is that even possible? Knowing that it's lurking doesn't really prepare you for what it's bringing. And yet, you can't spend your life waiting in an underground shelter. Sometimes I'd prefer to be like those folks who simply sleep through the oncoming storm, but I wonder how they do it. Are they standing sideways, weathering the blast without even realizing it's here? And what about those who never see it coming at all? Are their backs to the wind? Doesn't it blow them right over? How can they withstand the force without ending up on their faces?

I suppose there's a comfortable balance, of knowing but not dreading—preparing, but not suspending life during the prep. I have yet to achieve that balance. I face the front, and fret, and watch its swirling destruction. And yet, as someone recently reminded me, we humans are a resilient bunch for the most part. The changes wash over us, and we adjust our internal gauge to accommodate the "new normal." And happily, our stalks usually grow stronger when the wind is damaging. Sometimes we break, but far more often, we endure.

With help, we endure.

The Lord is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; he knows those who take refuge in him. -Nahum 1:7

Doggedly making my way

Hello! Here is a dog painting I squeezed in recently. His name is Jack. Don't you just want to fondle his ears?

Life goes on, and the leaves change colors, then stiff breezes blow them down from their branches into the yard and driveway. Suddenly, I'm smelling pine and dry grass and wood smoke. There are a plethora of Octoberfest activities from which to choose; I have yet to make it to one of them. Family health concerns and serious discussions of all sorts have sapped my enthusiasm for autumn.

Still, it's here. And it is a thing of beauty—even if you're oblivious most of the time. Let's both try to notice it today. Deal?

Life lines

I don't mean the line that runs across your palm, that favorite of palm-readers the world over. My reference is supposed to be a play on words, a twisting of the utterly inappropriate term "laugh lines." You know, that lighthearted misnomer that some joker created to describe the deep indentations near mouth and eyes that are supposedly caused by too much joviality?

Yeah, right.

Mine are now Life Lines. As in, caused by life. It's been a stressful couple of weeks. I won't burden you, dear reader. But please pray that my family and I will have wisdom and compassion in generous doses.

This painting is a few days old, completed before things became too topsy-turvy. It features a quick rendering of our very own garden-grown, heirloom tomatoes. We've eaten plenty, and will eat more. One must indulge when the indulgence is in season.

Take nothing for granted. Perhaps that will be my new mantra. Can a Christian have a mantra?

Ssshhhhhh

Wow, life has sped up recently and doesn't show signs of slowing anytime soon. I am trying to find my [figurative] sneakers so I can keep up.

And once again, Thanksgiving is upon us. A lovely holiday, truly. Like any holiday, though, it can become fraught with idealistic expectations and high drama. Will the turkey be perfect? Will everyone make it to Grandma's on time? Will anyone eat too much and feel ill? Will someone make awkward comments about when so-and-so might finally get married and/or have a baby? Will anyone fight in public, or loudly discuss matters that should remain private?

Well, you'll have to see for yourself. We'll all be celebrating in our own little worlds, or choosing not to participate in the over-fed madness. Some folks will not be celebrating at all, and will be alone; I am hoping God puts those people on my heart, because for many folks, that emptiness will be a sad state, and it doesn't have to be that way...

Re: expectations and drama, I'll say only this. In the Bible study I'm taking, we met in our small groups, and were all instructed to take turns telling about the happiest time of our lives. Many of the women in my group mentioned the obvious big days: birth of children, wedding, anniversaries... But one woman who's a cancer survivor mentioned how she's begun to cherish the quiet, un-momentous occasions in her life—those moments when she is subtly aware of contentedness, when she can hear God's still, small voice, when she feels blessed and fully aware of her blessings. Those glimpses are more precious to her now, because they offer views into a deeper happiness that is based on much more than circumstances.

And she is right, I think. I pondered how big, happy moments tend to make me feel uneasy, suspicious—when I experience that state, I immediately begin waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. In my pre-diabetic sensibility, I suppose that "happy" has begun to feel like a sugar rush to me... A rush that, as we all should know by now, is followed shortly thereafter by a blood sugar crash.

So, like my acquaintance, I'll be seeking the softer, subtler happy. It's unlikely that the upcoming holidays will be perfect, and that's okay. We are, after all, more than our food and families. We are more than what we buy, or what we experience. Our lives are a tapestry, not all bright colors and splashy designs, but tattered sections and dull, sparrow-like shades, too. We need to adjust our vision to see all the moments around us, even the quiet beige ones. To my way of thinking, sugar-rush emotions will never compare to simple delights of this world.

Wishing you a grateful heart that can see blessings,

mel

Oceanic thoughts

My son has eyes the color of the sea—
Sometimes a blue-grey, other times grey-green.
The twinkle of the sun upon his gaze?
The sweetest sight my own brown eyes have seen.

We visited the shore last weekend. Cape May, NJ is one of my favorite places. To walk through that town is akin to stepping back in time. Families go biking together, huge farm horses clip-clop along, pulling rubber-necking tourists in buggies, and everywhere you look are grand, elegant Victorian homes decked out in luscious colors and fine details. Not to mention the salty air and the crash of waves upon sand.

There is no other realm like the seashore. It's one of the few places where I can honestly say that my mind is a blank page. In the real world, my brain is in overdrive, poring over plans and thoughts, fighting through moments of confusion or anxiety, trying to extricate facts and memories. But on the sand, watching the waves roll, feeling the power of those countless gallons? Nada. Empty brain.

Majestic, land-locked sights can transport me, too, but they have to be pretty darned huge and impressive to actually clear my mind of thoughts. Rocky Mountains, canyons, waterfalls, yes—but even those beauties do not have the power to erase that the ocean has.

Now we're home, and school has begun. That cleansing salty air is nowhere near. It's up to me to seek that same mental place, here amid the crowded green hills of western PA.

Wish me luck; it ain't gonna be easy.

Piney*

A rare, quiet, calm Saturday morning—a chance to ponder one of God's amazing gifts:

Heavy, pink, with sweet perfume
Must be the wondrous peony bloom,
My very favorite petal bearer.

Its heady, old-world scent steals out
To every ant that lurks about
And lures them to that flower fair.

They try to peek in, as do I—
When will its brilliance greet the sky?
We watch, wait on appointed time,

And then, a pale magenta shade!
The very sight for which I'd prayed:
I lean in close, inhale—it's fine.

*My mom tells me this was the preferred pronunciation of my grandmother. She loved them, too.

A heaping helping of stuffing balls and nostalgia

When I was a teen, Thanksgiving took place at Ma-Ma's home.

Ma-Ma was my paternal grandmother. She shared a gigantic second-floor apartment in my home town, living there until the end of her life with her youngest son and, for awhile, his son—her oldest grandson. The place had to be nearly 3,000 square feet. It had tall ceilings, and a ridiculous staircase at both the front and back entrances (where both doors sported multiple locks, always securely locked). Running down one side of the length of the place was a spacious but dark hallway that could easily have been divided into three or four decent-sized rooms; off this hall there were several bedrooms, and a bath, with another half-bath accessible from the dining room. A cheerful sun porch faced the back parking lot, crammed from top to bottom with the bulk of Ma-Ma's bounteous plant collection. Anchoring the other end of the place was a huge living room complete with decorative fireplace. The living room conveniently faced the street, so you could sit in Ma-Ma's favorite rocker by the middle window—if you were lucky enough to land such a prime seat—and there you could watch the comings and goings of the entire town. You could look up the hill to a nearby park, to the college campus housed there, or you could look down the street toward the middle of Main Street (High Street, as it is named in that small town).

When we arrived, others were almost always there already—aunts, uncles, cousins of various ages, all wandering to and fro and getting in the way at times. The turkey was roasting, the potatoes were being mashed to perfection, the corn pudding and green bean casserole were warming somewhere safe... and the stuffing balls were likely being fussed over by my grandmother. Generously portioned, not too wet and not too dry, she formed them all by hand, and they were never baked to perfection inside a bird's carcass! Absolutely not. They were wonderfully browned on cookie sheets, I think. She was always very concerned about their safety, or at least that's what I recall. Would they dry out? Become too hard? We didn't want to bat them in a sports event, we wanted to savor their crispy-tender wonder. The stuffing balls must be protected. The gravy was very important, too; it was another delicate delight to be nurtured and watched.

The dining room in that apartment was grand, right out of the 20s I suppose, with beautiful woodwork, double glass-paned doors leading in from the grand hallway, and my grandmother's table in the center of the room as its stupendous crowning glory. I seem to remember that the big wooden table was always pulled out to its full length, even when the holidays were done. The room was large, the table almost as large, and we filled it and still required a kids' table; I think that was a card table at the end of the room opposite those swinging double doors.

When the meal was ready, we all took plates and filled them, or had help filling them in the case of little ones. We sat, we usually remembered to say a grace and ponder the things we felt thankful about having, and then we ate like the hungry, fragrance-teased people we were. The food was always fabulous. The whole experience was loud, confusing, a bit crowded, and immense fun.

When the meal was done and the kids long gone from the room, the adults lingered, eating more, talking more. I think I lingered most of the time, perhaps realizing even in my spoiled youth that these were precious moments, that some day I would be penning a memory as I am right now. Talk of family, of the people in town, of political developments, all swirled around the warm room. And then, everyone gathered dishes and carried them to the kitchen, and the great food preservation and dish-washing events began in earnest.

I do remember being expected to help wash or dry dishes. I think I usually dried, probably not yet trusted in my girlish giddiness to handle Ma-Ma's pretty China when fully submerged in soapy suds. I don't recall us ever breaking into song or anything, but the mood even while we worked was festive and upbeat. I've never minded getting up and doing something immediately after a big meal, so the clean-up was a welcome chance to move around and remain standing instead of folding my stuffed belly into a soft chair. (That still just impedes my digestion, truly.)

Then it would all be done, or at least the main meal. Maybe we delayed the pies; I really can't remember. I feel as if we held off on desserts and enjoyed them a bit later, after people had squeezed in a rest. When everyone had eaten, that vast living room was like a morgue, bodies everywhere, the couch and recliner always occupied but also large portions of the floor; people everywhere were flung in the half-joyful, half-suffering poses of the gorged. The room was never silent, though; that was the decade of MTV's birth, those early days when the station actually played music videos. My lucky grandmother had a cable subscription, something that we country folk couldn't even fathom, and a day at Ma-Ma's was one of my only chances to absorb as many videos as possible. I never napped, but I did jockey for a position on the floor in front of the television, so I could stretch out on my stomach and gaze, in my overfed stupor, at the musical mindlessness before me.

Now, I am about the same age that my aunts and uncles were at that gathering. Now, my child is small, and my nieces and nephews are teens and young adults. Now, that apartment is inhabited by someone else. My parents are the grandparents. MTV has become something unrecognizable; indeed, much of this culture is unrecognizable to me—strange and empty. Ungrounded. Shallow.

I am realizing, in my old age, that there are scenes and people that you will never stop missing.

Happy belated Thanksgiving. Remember it all, cherish it. Take photos. Write it down. It will fade, and change, and then suddenly it will be part of the past.

A confession...and a question

I'm going to reveal something to you.

I like my own kid best.

Yeah, I know. He's my child, of course I prefer him, he's my own, my family, my little boy whom I've nurtured since his arrival in the world. He's the one I have fed, and snuggled, and disciplined, and taught, and guided, and dressed. I've comforted him after nightmares, fought to put medicine in his mouth when he's sick, held him still for painful shots from nurses. Of course he's my favorite kid.

But I'm not talking parental love here. I love him dearly, but that's different. That's the love that God gives you for your child (or children), the all-consuming, protective love that grows bigger as needed. At least that's what I'm guessing, based on what I've heard from every other parent I know, and what I've heard about large families and about children who've grown up.

I'm talking here, though, about liking your kid. It's different. Of course you love your child. But I really, truly like my child. I like him better than any other kid in the world. And we know lots of great kids: nieces and nephews, my son's friends and classmates, children we've met at church, etc. There are hoards of wonderful, charming, very likable little people out there. I know some of them.

But I still prefer my own small guy. Maybe because I see little pieces of myself and my husband in his mannerisms and his speech. Maybe because I can think of countless examples of his kindness, times when he's thought of the well-being of others, observances he's made that required sensitivity and awareness. I can think of innumerable moments when I've simply been proud of him. (I can think of other times, too, when I wasn't so proud—but honestly, I can't recall too many.)

None of these observances are earth-shattering in depth or meaning. I'm guessing that many parents who pondered this subject would agree. But it all begs the question: Does every parent feel this way? I'm guessing that they don't, and that is sad to me. I'm not thinking of awful parents who abuse or mistreat their children. I'm thinking of parents who adore their kids, who care deeply for them like no one else could.

Are their some loving, caring parents who just honestly don't like their kid(s)? Is that possible?

I mean, there have to be kids who are vastly different from the people who are rearing them. There have to be examples of children who resemble not at all, in thought or deed, the people who are responsible for those children. Right?

I just don't know. It seems hard to believe, but it seems equally hard to believe that it never happens. I hope it doesn't, but I suspect that occasionally it does.

And if it does—what a shame, for everyone involved.

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.

And yet more about expectations

I've been thinking about expectations, and how they shape our perception of—well, of everything.

(I touched on expectations here once before. Here I go again.)

We spent a long weekend in Cape May, NJ, and arrived home this past Sunday evening. It was nice to get away, the town was as beautiful as always, we climbed lighthouse steps and rode in a horse-drawn carriage and visited a Civil War village and ate far too much food that someone else had prepared and consequently cleaned up. It was fun.

But the weather mostly stunk. We knew, thanks to internet weather reports, that an unseasonable cold snap was expected, both here and there. We packed jackets, and rain coats, and umbrellas. And we didn't use them the whole time, but we did use them a significant portion of the time. We squeezed in some beach fun, but we also spent time looking longingly, through mist and raindrops and wind, at the nearly inhospitable shore. I fumed a bit on the drive home, felt sorry for myself, composed various blog posts with silly titles such as 'Scuse Me while I Curse the Sky... (I kid you not.)

Yet, the weekend was nice, and relaxing, and trouble-free. Even the rides there and back weren't bad. The newly purchased used car ran like a champ, we saw mountains, and Amish buggies, and rolling hills with barns tucked neatly within. We neatly avoided Philly at rush hour. Whew.

So what was lacking? Not much. Some sunshine, some warmer temperatures, I guess—I was expecting air temps to match the water temps (upper 70s) as they normally do in mid-September. (The water was great; the air, not so.) And there's the problem word: expecting. I was anticipating a certain type of visit, and we didn't have it. So now I feel disenchanted, disappointed, cheated of what should have been a warm, balmy weekend. But why? We're all humans living on this changeable orb. We know, by now, that weather is not a sure thing in any direction. We know that it isn't always sunny at the beach. Yet still, there's this pervasive feeling of discontentment in my gut.

Expectations can get us into trouble emotionally. If I'm learning any lesson consistently and repeatedly, it's that I need to expect less from life. I need to stop expecting good weather, uncomplicated days, and excellent health. I need to stop expecting people to be good, and thoughtful, and unselfish. I need to remember which world I'm currently inhabiting, and start living with more appreciation for the many times when things actually do go well and I ride the wave of relative ease of living. Truly, for most of us these days, life is pretty easy. We have so many gadgets, countless conveniences, comforts, and abundance, that it seems we've lost sight of the harsh reality that there's still so much we can't control.

Like the weather at the beach.

So, I need to turn my foolish little expectations on their heads. Let's see what that looks like:

I'm so glad that a hurricane didn't hit land while we were there! I'm so thankful that our tire didn't fall off en route and roll down a mountainside. I'm so happy that the horse pulling our Cape May carriage was obedient and stopped at the light instead of rolling through the busy intersection or charging a pedestrian. I'm really delighted that Marcus's slight cold didn't turn into a full-fledged illness with fever and chills. I'm very relieved that no one mugged me because this was one of the few times each year when I actually had cash in my purse. I'm thankful that I was blessed enough to have my own great little family to accompany me on this drizzly escapade.

There. That wasn't so hard, was it? No. It wasn't. We aren't perfect. Life isn't perfect. It's good, but not perfect. And that's okay. I can hope for better weather next time, but I need to steer clear of "why, why, woe unto us."

It was fun. And the last positive spin? All that cold wetness made it much easier to depart on the final day. Here's to realistic expectations, and nurturing a grateful heart.

This IS the something

It's easy to get sucked into the rhythm of our ridiculously high-tech, over-scheduled culture. In summer, so many of our friends are taking multiple vacations, or their children are attending various camps, or they're juggling a busy schedule of work and sitter and grandparent pick-ups. Plus, the weather is nice and warm; no one is stuck at home, staring at a snowstorm. There are festivals galore, crafts and food and ethnicity and music all being featured here or there. The pool beckons, as do museums, and the zoo, and hiking trails, and the library...

There's a bit of pressure to make the most of the couple of months you have: where should we go today? What's in season? What's on the agenda? Have we been to this place yet? Or should we go to that place? Which is closer? More expensive? Do you friends like this one? I heard this one is fun.

By mid-summer, our steam is beginning to run thin. By August? It's pretty much gone, without even a whistle. It's canning season, there's harvesting to be done, and we're running low on both personal fuel and family budgets. August, I suppose, is the month when you come to appreciate the back yard most of all. It's the month when you truly embrace, out of both weariness and comfort, the beckoning sway of the glider. The very glider where you once read stories to your child is where he now reads them to you. The same glider where you witnessed the first hummingbird of the season will be your seat when you soon bid farewell to those hummers. The glider where you've watched the chipmunks run madly to cover, where you saw the hawk swoop down for a defenseless animal. The very glider where you've welcomed countless mornings and evenings, with their rosy pink skies and array of either chirping birds or prowling bats.

That same patio, that glider, that backyard garden, all of them will provide company when you welcome autumn, and a new classroom teacher for your child. All those yard factors will be present, sitting still, while life moves forward without ceasing. They will comfort you with their sameness even as you mourn the loss of other places, people, traditions.

I'm realizing anew that I don't need to keep telling myself we should be "doing something." Sometimes it's good enough to just sit, and talk, and think. That familiar patio and yard are the setting for my son's most imaginative games, for our best and deepest discussions about what he wants to be and do someday. Yes, we reminisce about Kennywood and the beach. But we also share thoughts, and dreams, and secrets. The baring of hearts happens on that familiar (dare I say boring?) concrete and turf. Those are the places where we permit vulnerability, where we face some frightening and honest truths. Those worn seats and paths bring out what is hidden and real and true.

We don't need to always be "doing something." This is the something, this sharing of selves. It can't happen when we're constantly busy. It must be coaxed by languid minds, into the light of well-known, well-loved territories.

It's not too late. Stop doing something. Start letting out the real.

A class act? Del yeah!

One evening last week, the husband, the kid, and I made our hurried, scrambling way to the South Hills to witness a bluegrass legend: the Del McCoury Band. Del and the boys were playing in one of a string of giant stone churches atop Washington Road; the event was a fund-raiser for both a youth organization that began at our church, and for a group for kids based in Dormont, I think.

Anyway, for days before making a decision, we went back and forth about whether to go. Todd loves this guy and his music, I like him too, he's known all through the music industry as the guy who brought back and re-energized bluegrass music, other artists laud and revere him, etc. But the timing couldn't be much worse for us, both schedule-wise and spending-wise. Still, it was for a good cause, and we both knew we might never get such an opportunity so close to home again.

So we scarfed down dinner and jumped into the car. We just made it, tickets were still available, and we got decent seats. The huge, beautifully appointed church was warm and getting warmer, but no one cared too much. We parked ourselves near a fan standing in an outer walkway and waited with anticipation. I took a quick look around at the crowd, a mostly middle-aged to older gathering with a smattering of young adults, a number of families, and a handful of small children sprinkled here and there (ours among them).

Then the lights dimmed, the resident pastor addressed the crowd briefly and told us no video was permitted, and the show began. McCoury and his crew walked onto the small stage, all dressed in suits with ties, carrying their beautifully shined, perfectly tuned instruments.

Del himself addressed their audience at first and many times throughout the show. He was a white-haired, well-groomed man with a kind-hearted, quirky sense of humor; he explained at one point that he'd worked with Bill Monroe (father of bluegrass music) in the early 60s, so I figured Del had to be at least 70. He joked several times about his mind and how it's not what it used to be, but then would tease us that he could only remember the songs that he liked best or the ones that weren't as challenging to play. He spoke to the crowd often, affably and comfortably, telling anecdotes about his past experience, other performers, and the history of the genre. I got the feeling that whether playing a small show inside a church, or performing at Carnegie Hall (which they have), this guy would be the same. In a word, he was delightful.

The other members of the group were clean-cut, well-spoken men, two of whom happened to be named McCoury as well (Del's sons, I'm sure); the youngest appeared to be no more than 30. Each of them was a consummate musical genius, bringing forth unbelievably complex, blisteringly fast melodies from their strings with ease, then switching to quieter, slower tones, then back to traditional driving bluegrass rhythms. The topper, of course, was that in addition to their unbelievable mastery of their instruments, they all could sing fabulously well, and in perfect harmony. While they played.

Even if you abhor this type of music (and I used to really despise it, I'll confess), you could not argue that these fellows are amazingly talented, multi-faceted musicians. Remember this type of entertainer? The dancers/singers/musicians of yesteryear? The type of groups and individuals who looked nice and respectable, who had layers of talent, humility, and good manners on stage to boot? Del and his band covered a couple of tunes, talked about some of the songwriters whose work they'd covered at other shows, and in every instance the man had only good things to say about each of those artists. How refreshing is that, eh? I'll bet I will never read a stupid news story about Del twittering some unkind statements to a competitor, or posting something unflattering on his Facebook wall about another musician. And the band played a long time, two sets, plus a few more songs as an encore. With the suits and ties on the whole time, mopping their sweaty foreheads while they thanked us all for coming. For a charitable show that I'm certain could not have been too profitable for them, if they saw any profit at all.

At one point, Del asked for the mikes to be shut off, and they performed an amazing, quietly moving song about getting down on your knees and praying. There was no pretense, no drama, just heartfelt rendering of words and notes. These folks were, and are, the real deal, or putting on such a good show that they bamboozled me—a scathing skeptic—with ease.

I am so, so glad we went to the trouble to attend. It was rushed, it was hot, my boy got weary before it all ended, but I left that show with hope for the future of entertainment. There are still class acts in the world, even in America. You won't often find them in the headlines, but you can find them.

*****

Here's a little sampling of Del and the boys. Sorry you missed them.

Second-hand furry goods

I am a big proponent of buying second-hand items, especially with big things like furniture and cars. I've tried to instill this mindset in my son. Perhaps with too much success...

We talk here and there about getting a dog. Our neighbor dog is a sweet little pup that we sometimes help care for, as I mentioned here. And since the loss of our kitty, I rather miss the soft, furry presence of a pet in our home (although I don't miss the hair, nor the messes and strange behaviors).

We were discussing a pet, the boy and I, and he said he might want a puppy. I reminded him that puppies can be a lot like babies. "They whine more, and also poop and pee more often, not in the appropriate places," I said. "Besides, we should adopt an adult dog—puppies are always more successful at finding homes, because they're small and cute. They're way more likely to be adopted."

"Would we get a big dog?" he asked.

"Not necessarily big, just full-grown. Those dogs are less likely to find homes," I told him. "Plus, you don't want to buy puppies from a pet store. Some of those puppies aren't healthy." I didn't mention the horrors of puppy mills that I've read about. Sadly, some of them in our very own beloved Pennsylvania... There are some pretty cruel people in this world.

"So where would we get one?" the kid asked me.

"At an animal shelter, Honey."

"Oh, we could get a used dog," he replied, with sudden understanding. I burst out laughing. A used dog. Then we both started giggling.

"Well, they're not used." Then I considered it again. "I guess they are used dogs. But that's okay. We like used stuff, right?"

"Yeah." We chuckled some more. I was picturing the animals, from like-new to lightly loved, all the way to heavily adored, looking wan and worn. It made me a little sad even though we were laughing about it, because it's just another example of how people get a new thing, then lose interest or don't find immediate satisfaction in the thing and dump it somewhere. Except sometimes the thing is alive.

So, yes, if we get a pet, it'll be used. Which is just up our alley.

Duck, duck... and that's all

You won't find a goose here. I figure they've pretty much taken over every small lake or pond within 50 miles, so if I choose to exclude them from my painting, the population will not be adversely affected whatsoever.

We saw these little ducks at my sister's a few weeks ago. Her family has chickens, ponies, cats, a dog, and the space to accommodate them. The ducklings were adorable, if loose-boweled (I know, I know, too much information) and the chicks had just progressed beyond that ball o' fluff stage, or so I was told. The down-covered darlings were all milling on the kitchen floor, and then in a giant plastic tote that was tall enough to contain them. I took photos like crazy, but those little birds just would not be still. Additionally, the big tote was bright blue and made a terrible background. So, after the fact, I pulled out my artist's license and proceeded to place the ducklings in a more appropriate setting.

If only real life were as easy to alter as art and digital images are. I suppose our memories can do that for us... and often do.

Anyway, the painting will be available in my Etsy shop later today.