Thanksgiving Ramblings

A friend asked last week about why I hadn’t written lately, and was hoping everything was okay.  Everything is okay.  I do a weekly video for my work, now, so all of my thoughts and creative energy have been funneled into that.  I showed her the link on our Facebook page, in case she was interested.  

This friend is also Native American and a caregiver for one of our patients.  I asked if she celebrated Thanksgiving, as I asked our patient about their Thanksgiving traditions.  She said she cooks the food, but doesn’t participate.  For her, and her ancestors, our Thanksgiving is a day of mourning.  There were no pilgrims and no Squanto.  Just death and injustice.  

I was not surprised that she didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, but have never had the opportunity to hear this perspective firsthand.  Have you?

I’m pretty sure I wore a pilgrim hat made out of construction paper when I was in elementary school and I am also pretty sure I have pictures of my children wearing the same.  

I wanted to say I’m sorry, but it seemed too little and too hollow.

It is a little disorienting to lay an idea held for a lifetime on a kitchen table, out of which are borne many, many wonderful gatherings and memories, next to another idea to which it is diametrically opposed and feels instinctively “truer” than the one you’ve been espousing.

I continued to think on this the rest of the day and brought it to my own dinner table that night for discussion.  My husband replied without hesitation.  “History is written by the victors.”  

Ugh.  I really am sorry.

It is mind boggling how these things co-exist.  Or not.  If you are a Native American, “Thanksgiving” is built on a lie.  If you are like me, Thanksgiving just is, and you are grateful for it, just like the name implies, and it is not (or has not been until now) mixed with a tincture of sadness for another version of how it came to be.   

And yet, things that don’t go together at all, occupy the same space at the same time, all of the time.  Like singing a prayer of Thanksgiving to a host of friends missing their spouses, listening to old voice recordings of boys learning to speak while they tower over you and watch you cry at the memory of it, and hearing your husband’s deceased grandmother's voice, wish her daughter a Happy Thanksgiving “wherever you are”.  And that was just yesterday. 

But time just keeps moving forward, and mornings come and little boys lay on your lap and you want to freeze time, but you know you can’t.  So, you just admire the complexity of veins running through his growing body and look at your new Christmas cactus blooming days before Thanksgiving, and realize that life is simple and complicated and time can be a friend if you make good use of it. 

At Your Window

I’m sorry in advance that this is depressing.  But, the reality is stark.  I wrote this poem on my way home from work after doing another window visit today.  

I understand that nursing homes are trying to keep their residents safe, intentions are good, they have to follow the rules that other people make, and the heroes who work there are working very, very hard...

But, they are suffering trying to be all things to all people, and the people they are working so hard to serve are suffering more still.  I don’t know how to change laws or rules, but I know how to write.  And I know how to hope to be a voice for the voiceless as people languish in the silence...

At Your Window

I am standing outside your window

And you can see me there

But I cannot hold your hand 

And I cannot stroke your hair.

I yell through the glass that I miss you

And I fill your bird feeder

You yell back from your bed

That you feel bad everywhere.

I say that I am sorry

I say “This is the pits”

You lay there untouched and seen

Hoping this is it.

But it’s not and you grow tired

You’re angry they like to say

So the overworked few who can come in

No longer want to stay.

I tell you that I love you

But through the window I cannot climb

So, I turn around and walk away

And again leave you behind.

I hope that some little birds

Will come and stay awhile

Though they innocently flaunt their freedom

May they also bring a smile...

While you lay in endless wait 

For things to open up

You will not die from Covid

You will die from lack of love.

All In a Day’s Work

Today is a need-to-write-it-out day.  Not that it was a bad day.  It wasn’t.  It was a good day, full of lots of different things that all fall under the same umbrella, which is my job, which doesn’t feel like a job at all.  

It started with a team meeting to discuss plans of care for our hospice patients, just like we do - every two weeks.  

I found myself with an hour to spare before my next visit, so I made an impromptu visit to a friend and recent widow.  She served me lunch and wondered how I do my job.  She encouraged me to use the bathroom before I left for my next visit, not to speed, and sent me with cookies to go.  I marveled at how she was caring for me while learning how to get through a day in her new life.

Next, a scheduled visit to a beautiful home in the country.  (I only sped a little.)  Bath and lunch were finished just in time for a living room concert for mother and daughter.  Conversation about how glad they are to be together in their home, and not separated because of COVID visiting restrictions was a welcome topic between songs.  

This, on the heels of singing Christmas-in-July carols in the rain yesterday with some of my coworkers and volunteers at a couple of nursing facilities - because the residents aren’t sitting in their living rooms with someone they love, and because we can.

Got a call on the way home from a relative of one of our patients who recently passed away.  She taught me a lot about faith and perseverance, and a little secret about making a wish when you see a red bird, and stamping it onto your hand before the red bird flew away - just like her Mom taught her.  I only taught her how to make a paper flower.  Anyway... 

They were cleaning out her room and wanted to donate some things, so I stopped by to pick them up.  I reclaimed the hummingbird feeder I bought for her and the plant stand she no longer needed.  No doubt they will find another hook to hang on and a plant to hold.  They will continue to do their part in bringing the little bit of joy they’re able, which reminds me all of the people I have the privilege of working with and the people that we serve— and know, too, so will we. 

My Husband on Father’s Day

Today is Father’s Day.  I’ve shared a couple of sentences and pictures on Facebook to honor my husband as the father of our children, but I have so much more to say.

I’m sitting on the futon in my spot, as he makes biscuits and gravy - his usual Sunday fare.  He makes no demands, asks for nothing, nor refrains from service on his day.  When asked about his wishes and desires, he expresses his contentment and simply says “Every day is Father’s Day.”

Can you relate to this?  Because on Mother’s Day, I know I am not cooking, I’d like to do something as a family, I want handmade cards, a gift of some kind, and to take a family picture.

This is one of the many reasons my husband is a better person than I am.  When I tell him this, he tells me that that is why our marriage works so well, because he feels the same way about me.

After climbing into bed last night, I remembered that I hadn’t covered the brownies.  He’d already done it.  This scenario happens daily.  He just does what needs doing and he never, ever complains.

He teaches our sons how to drive, how to re-side our house, how to mow and weed-eat, how to build guns, how to shoot, how to paint, how to clean the kitchen, how to clean driveways when spray painting was done carelessly, how to use tools of every kind, how to fish, how to serve, and how to love.

His own father died before he was 6-years-old.  He had to figure things out for himself and gleaned the best of everything from the other people in his life.  And now he is giving it to our sons.

According to John and Stasi Eldridge, the questions children are asking of their fathers are...

For boys:  “Do I have what it takes?”

For girls:  “Am I captivating?”

Thank you for saying yes 1,000 times in a 1,000 different ways.

Happy Father’s Day to my husband, my Dad, and all fathers who grew up without a model, and are rocking fatherhood anyway!

Digging Down to the Rainbow Tree

After the death of George Floyd, racial tension, righteous anger, civil unrest, and division have spread across our country.  For me, my 5-year-old neighbor, Amy, C.T. Fletcher, and Louis Armstrong remind me of how things are supposed to be.

Amy painted this picture several weeks ago and told her grandparents, “This is a rainbow tree.  If you touch the rainbow tree, you love everyone.  A long, long time ago, before you, Grammy and Granddad, when I was a baby, I dug down to the rainbow tree and touched it.  That’s why I love everyone.  I touched the blue.  That’s why I have blue eyes.”

Amy’s story reminds me of a book by Betty Eadie, entitled Embraced by the Light, which recounts her near-death experience.  In it, she talks about our existence as souls before we’re given earthly bodies and missions.  Maybe it was during that time when Amy dug down to the rainbow tree?  And maybe when I touched the blue, too?  Since my eyes are blue?  Thank you, Amy.  Your rainbow tree is my favorite.

C.T. Fletcher is a famous 60-year-old weightlifter, world record holder for bench press, actor, personal trainer, and so on.  His nickname is Superman and he looks like this…

Last year, at age 59, Mr. Fletcher required a heart transplant due to an inherited heart condition.  He learned after surgery that he was given a woman’s heart.  An “old woman’s” heart.  She was the same age he was.  Not only that, but it was too small.  When he questioned the doctors about why they did that to him, they simply replied that they wanted him to live.

Well, that “too small” heart grew into the right size in a week’s time.  Unsure of what’s normal, he considers it a miracle and credits God with that…

He says he has “no idea of the nationality or race of the donor of his heart”, but he has feelings and would really like to know if his feelings are right…He believes she is an Asian lady and says, “I feel like I can see this woman with her husband and kids.  It’s like I can look into her existence, her life.”

He notices he has lost his ability to hate and often talks to his “lady” friend and asks her for help.  “I talk to her a lot... “Come on lady, I need your help.”

So, Mr. C.T. Fletcher, “Superman from Compton with a lady’s heart”,  reminds us that even our hearts are interchangeable, and God can grow them into the right size.

As the Vietnam War wore on and race riots were spreading through our country in the late 1960’s, What a Wonderful World was released.  In response to the question, “What do you mean, what a wonderful world?”  Louis Armstrong said, “Seems to me, it ain’t the world that’s so bad, but what we’re doing to it, and all I’m saying is:  see what a wonderful world it would be, if only we’d give it a chance.  Love, baby – love.  That’s the secret.”

May God grant us the love and wisdom of a certain 5-year-old, an increase of faith, the perspective of C.T. Fletcher and anyone living with another’s heart, unwavering hope, and lots and lots of rainbow trees.  Amen.  

Stained Notebooks

I’m sitting at my desk in my bedroom.  Feeling contemplative after talking with children who can’t be with their mother who is dying in a facility, and looking at graduation pictures of other children I used to watch play on the floor.

The notebooks I use for work sit quietly by.  Some are used up and some are brand new.  Side by side, I notice the difference between them.  The used ones seem to have thicker pages, wrinkles, rips, and coffee stains.  The new ones are crisp.  Simply blank and available for use, having no more of an idea what will fill their pages than I do.

I imagine what each of our books looks like.  Not a bunch of little books with lots of names.  But, a big book with only one name.  Yours.  Mine.

I purchased the printed version of this blog last November.  It is printed on 8.5 x 11 paper, weighs about seven pounds, and is over an inch thick.  When it arrived, I marveled at its substance.  Did writing periodically over seven years really amount to something that I could hold?  Something that would feel heavy in my hands?  

Can you imagine if the story of each one of our lives were actually written down on paper?  The number and weight of the pages?  

In the physical life, they are written in our bodies, our hearts, and on our faces.  Grandma Bert is the perfect example, and my favorite, as well.

Her birthday was May 16th.  She would have been a spicy 93.  Her story was written on her face.  Her beautiful face.  Her lack of education and finances, her abusive husband, a murdered sister, losing three of her five sons to traumatic deaths, including the Vietnam War, and all of the long years in between.  And she smiled in spite of it all.  Man, I love (and miss) her.  

I imagine the weight of her book, containing all of the stuff of her 86 years.  I would love to read it in its entirety.  

Actually, I would rather she read it to me.  

I believe she is in Heaven and I hope to see her again there one day.  Should that happen, I may ask her.  But, maybe it isn’t as important there as it is here.  Or maybe it is.

Your eyes beheld my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them...     Psalm 139:16

To All the Moms With Empty Birdfeeders

It’s Mother’s Day.  This day feels a little like Christmas to me, because it is a celebration of one of my most-prized roles and my greatest contribution to the world - my three sons.

But, as is often the case, when my joy surges, I remember that the same causes for my joy are sources of pain and sadness for others.  And I need to acknowledgement that.

I recently did a “window visit” to a woman in a nursing home, per ongoing COVID-19 visiting restrictions.  She is and has been many things, but is most often identified as a hospice patient and a mother.  As I knelt down by her window A/C unit and her empty bird feeder, we conversed about how we got here, how we didn’t all start out trying to live into the 100’s, how she would gladly give what time she has to someone else, how no one will touch her, and how she has to manage her expectations of her children so she’s not perpetually disappointed, and subsequently heartbroken.

Motherhood.  The source of the greatest joy and greatest pain.

For all mothers whose pain outweighs or comes in equal measure with your joys, this is for you.
 
If Mother’s Day is something to be endured rather than enjoyed, this is for you.
If you always wanted children, but were never able to conceive, this is for you.
If your children lived only long enough to catch a glimpse on an ultrasound, this is for you.
If you carried your child to term, and they went to heaven before you got them home, this is for you.
If your children got a “head start” in the life beyond and left you behind, this is for you.
If your children blame you for everything, this is for you.
If your children struggle with depression or addiction, this is for you.
If you’re a grandmother raising your grandchildren, this is for you.
If you’re waiting for your children to visit and your bird feeder is empty, this is for you.

Mothers are people who make room for others.  Very often within our very own bodies, but very often in other ways, too.  Children can come to us in many ways, and sometimes, it is through the front door.  After all, I am often visiting someone else’s mother while someone else is visiting mine.

Thank you to all of you who have sacrificed your own bodies, preferences, comforts, safety, and living for yourselves, so that others may have life.   Happy Mother’s Day!

Sheltering In Place - Week Four

Just wanted to capture and share a few thoughts during this fourth week of “sheltering in place” for my own mental time capsule, and in case you are wondering what other people are thinking (since it has been about a hundred years since anything like this has happened).

We are continuing to make an effort to prevent the continuous and rapid spread of COVID-19 by keeping to ourselves, 6-feet apart.  My county is up to 97 confirmed cases with 7 dead.  These are the only numbers I check daily.  This practice reminds me of a line in an old Jewel song.  “I’m sensitive and I’d like to stay that way.”  Big numbers in places far away just feel like more than I can carry, or do anything about. I’m afraid that makes me small-minded, but not afraid enough to change what’s working.  Not yet.

I’m writing this post from my new work-from-home station - A folding table set up in my bedroom with a sheet for a tablecloth, and a lamp I will move back to my bedside table each night.

This came about yesterday evening, after finding myself increasingly grumpy throughout the day.  I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, so I did what I do.  Sat down and wrote a list of all of the things that were stealing my peace.  I was surprised at its length.

- Increased emotional pain for the sick, dying, and grieving due to social distancing
- Decreased ability to allay it or accompany those who are hurting.
- Slow computer
- Website access issues
- Uploading issues (for kids’ homework submission)
- No comfortable work-from-home space
- Tension between feeling the need to be at home and need to be elsewhere
- Tension between the risk and benefit of visiting those who are most vulnerable

I felt better when I saw the list had some legitimate and substantial items, and even better when my husband offered and created a solution for the one thing he could fix.  (My solution for the same problem was to go sit in the car.)

So, here I sit in my new “office”, fully aware that if/when this virus affects anyone in my family or anyone we are responsible for, my list will look like a Christmas list rather than a list of reasons I was struggling.

This silent accumulation of things adding their own unique weight, however slight, helps me to understand the way people have been asking, “How are things going with you?” as though we’ve suffered a loss unique to us.  I can see their question as an extension of the compassion they are feeling for themselves and for all of us in our “collective grief”, as we live without our routines, fast food, and contact with the people who bring variety, love, and respite from our own thoughts.

As I rack my brain for ways to love those who are hurting and mitigate the other things on my list, I find myself thinking more and more like a 5-year-old.  In fact, I got my first blister from drawing with chalk today, at age 42.

I would scoff at a physician if she handed me a prescription for surviving a pandemic that read “Draw with chalk on a friend’s driveway”.  But, I wrote the same prescription for myself today and it didn’t seem so laughable.  “Go outside.  Do something for someone else.  Be creative and get chalk dust on your hands p.r.n. for duration of COVID-19 pandemic.” (signed illegibly, H. Dixon)

While I’m writing prescriptions on my new imaginary prescription pad, I am loaning some out, too.  Particularly to the dying who don’t think about dying, but about taking one day at a time, and to the person who said, “Stay out of your head because it is too dangerous a neighborhood to be in alone.”

COVID-19: Another Perspective

We are on day two of schools being closed and all other activities limited or stopped completely to slow the spread of COVID-19, a novel coronavirus.  People are hoarding groceries and toilet paper, facing extreme illness and mortality, unemployment or crazy overtime, decreased personal interaction, no childcare, and no idea when or where it will end.  Fears for our personal health and for those we love abound.

But, I just keep coming back to what Naomi said.

“I’ve survived the worst thing of my life.”

Naomi is a newly bereaved wife with four young children to raise.  She was one of the ones that didn’t stock up and knows this will pass, as most things do.  She recognizes her outlook on everything has changed, and in this case, that is a good thing.

Naomi inspires me and makes me think about the beatitudes.  Matthew 5:4 to be exact.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

When normalcy, pleasure, fantasies, and distractions melt away because of a worldwide pandemic, a terminal illness, or the death of someone you love, maybe part of the comfort promised in these mystifying verses is that the fear of anything worse ceases to exist.  Your worst fear is behind you and you’ve survived it.  And you know this.   

This gives me hope for those who have faced unimaginable loss and who persevere in living, as well as hope for the rest of us.  Especially now. 

As I ponder the most likely impact of COVID-19 on my immediate family, my thoughts turn to food. It is embarrassing even to admit this considering the threat to life itself, but the shortages tell the truth.  It is on everyone’s mind.  The canned food aisle won the most-ransacked-award when I went shopping a few days ago.  Except for canned peas.  There were plenty of those.  (Who knew?!)

Canned peas aside, we eat well. We could pare down a lot and be just fine.  But, it makes me think about the divide between what we have and what we actually need to live.  This divide is what makes us panic over empty shelves and stocking delays.  We are used to having way more than we need.  We don’t know what we can get by with, and we don’t want to know. 

But, there is a group of people who do know what they need because that is all they have, and all they are used to having.  There is no surplus and no division between have and need,  and yet, an entire kingdom seems to have their name on it.  They are called the poor in spirit.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” 

   Matt 5:3

Being poor and poor in spirit are not necessarily, nor always the same thing.  But, our poor are often poor in spirit, and I am thinking about them.  They are used to limited supply.  Not because the shelves are empty, but because their wallets are.  Food stamps and food banks routinely remind them they are beneficiaries.  People at the mercy of other people.  Making room for blessings not earned is mandatory.  Going without, a way of life.

Mother Teresa said, “Even God Himself cannot fill what is already full.”  Well, guess what?  We are making room.  Our circumstances demand it.  As we tackle the uncertainties of living day-to-day in a scenario we never could have imagined, our shelves and calendars have emptied, but our capacity to survive, serve, bless, love, and receive is growing (if we let it).

Amidst all of the unknowing, my hope is that those who can recognize themselves in the beatitudes will find the comfort and the kingdom they have been promised — and that the rest of us can learn something from their hard-won perspective secured along the way.

 God be with us.

Mom's Heart

I am reposting this with permission of the author, the daughter of one of our hospice patients.  She sent it to me by email earlier this week.  I appreciate her allowing me to share it here, so you can allow her Mom and her writing to inspire and bless you, too...

Life lessons come in unexpected packages. I have long known of a company Artful Ashes in Seattle. They take a small amount of your loved ones cremated remains and hand blow either a heart or an orb incorporating the ashes into the glass. They are extraordinary and there are many color choices for the glass. After much consideration, I chose a heart with brown and amber gold swirls. It reminded me of her.

The heart arrived this week and it is beautiful - and comforting to have a bit of Mother with me. After the first day, I noticed that the heart is more than just a bit asymmetrical as one side is decidedly bigger than the other. My first reaction was that while the heart is beautiful, it was not perfect. I wanted it to be perfect. In anticipation of my call to Artful Ashes, I was prepared to tell them that of course they never knew my Mom, but perfectionism was something she was known for.

I have a vivid memory of accompanying Mom on a visit with her alteration lady, Mrs. Simmons, at her home. She had a fitting room complete with a three sided tall mirror on a raised platform and all the fascinating accouterments of sewing - pincushions of all sorts, one of which was worn on her wrist, and a skirt hem marker that with a squeeze of the rubber bulb would make little horizontal lines of chalk as the client slowly turned. Fascinating stuff indeed. The purpose of this visit was to correct a back zipper in a skirt that did not lay completely flat against Mom's backside. This newly purchased suit still had the tags, but Mom absolutely would not wear it until the offending zipper was replaced with one that laid properly. In my child's mind, and perhaps in Mrs. Simmons' as well, was the thought - who cares, the jacket covers it! I can still see Mom on that raised platform in her stiletto heels patiently saying to Mrs. Simmons, "It simply does not lay right." It was not perfect.  Mother struggled with this idea that all had to be perfect for most all of her adult life. A notion that also dovetailed with the "I'll be happy when . . . " issue.

So as I gazed at this imperfect, asymmetrical heart I thought that Mom simply would not want this to be how a part of her spent her eternity - in this decidedly one sided heart. And then I began to think. I thought about how Mom was in the last few years and I started to form this realization that she definitely had two sides to her heart. Almost to the very end, Mother could be demanding, petulant, and critical. She could make you wish you were anywhere else on the planet rather than have to deal with her! But more and more in those last few years, that side of her heart got smaller and smaller, and the side of her heart that was kind, generous, and loving got larger and larger.

Daughters inherit many things from their Mothers and both my sister and me inherited this desire for perfectionism - we struggle with it even now. When I would call Mom with some complaint that something I had attempted to do did not come out as I wanted - that it wasn't perfect - she would say, "Oh honey, I'm sure it's beautiful. It will be okay just like it is." And then I thought - she was always like this with us - loving us in spite of our imperfections.

This heart, that I will look at every day for the remainder of my life on this earth, will be a reminder to me to let the good side of my heart always be bigger than the other. So Mom, thank you for the life lesson. You continue to inspire me.

Fruit, Death, and Reason

My little neighbor brought me a bowl of fruit yesterday.

A wonderful thing to receive from a 5-year-old, anytime. Only it was completely her idea and inspired by a dream that she gave me a bowl of fruit.  With lemons.

I can’t help but wonder about the timing of the delivery and the dream that inspired it.

Sometimes, children are placed on hospice.  I’ve known this, but I got to know it in a new way last week.  She was 6-years-old and died on the same day my little neighbor dreamed she brought me a bowl of fruit.

I told my neighbor’s Grammy about my emotional week and how a fruit delivery from a little one couldn’t have come at a better time.

I explained that I couldn’t sleep during the wee hours of the previous morning, so I got up and prayed.  I prayed most especially for our newest and youngest patient and learned later it was at that time when “our” earthly angel became a heavenly one.

She thought that was interesting because my little neighbor had the same trouble sleeping and called for her, at the same time.  Grammy mentioned something about us being “connected”.

Are we connected beyond living next door and having a mutual love for one another?  Are we connected in ways that sometimes wake us up or we can sometimes feel, but never see or comprehend?

During that couple of hours of way-too-early, I was searching for God’s presence.  I needed to know He was aware and at work amidst the upside-downness of a child dying.  I needed to know that I wasn’t showing up without Him.

He is used to hearing from me on my way to situations that are too hard for me.  “If You aren’t coming, I ain’t going!”  He hasn’t let me down, yet.

And this is what He gave me that morning when I was looking for Him...

“Who has ever said that the presence of God - in his actions and his words - has to be felt?  Sometimes God grants that sensation.  At other times, he doesn’t.”

This, from Blessed Conchita.   A wife, mother, and laywoman who just happened to be beatified when we were in Mexico this past May.  We sat in folding chairs outside the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the blazing sun, and we watched the man who was healed through her intercession, walk into the Mass of her Beatification.

Attending a Beatification Mass because we were “in the area”, two people not sleeping at the same time, a timely quote from the beatified, the death of a child, a child’s dream and conviction to act, and a bowl of fruit, hand-delivered.

Maybe they are only connected because I put them together in the same sentence.  But, maybe not.  

I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m okay with that.  I am enjoying the possibilities. 

“For they reasoned unsoundly, saying to themselves, 

‘Short and sorrowful is our life, and there is no remedy when a man comes to his end...

Because we were born by mere chance, and hereafter we shall be as though we had never been; because the breath in our nostrils is smoke, and reason is a spark kindled by the beating of our hearts...

The Wisdom of Solomon 2:1-2