tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27105134737843945732024-02-21T05:39:14.915-06:00A Soul Laid BareA chronicle of reflections to help you on your own (spiritual) journeyHeidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.comBlogger286125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-86078638736819701402024-01-12T09:24:00.002-06:002024-01-12T09:24:47.151-06:00Dying Alone With a Tiny Rainbow in the Sky<p>My eyes are welling again and I was wondering if I could just tell you something? I don’t feel like I can get anything else done unless I get it out and separate it from the rest of life which will eventually blur together. </p><p>I think I said goodbye to two friends yesterday. They came and went during the conversation, in and out of sleep or consciousness-it’s not always easy to tell. But they were there long enough to tell me I was a beautiful person and that I’ve been a wonderful friend, and I told them the same thing. </p><p>For me, it’s a little easier to be with the dying when they are closer to death. When they can no longer look into your face and tell you that your eyes are beautiful and they love you. When they express their love and deep appreciation for knowing you, you can’t pretend it is one-sided or that it’s all just part of the job. But the hardest parts are also the best parts.</p><p>It was easier earlier in the week when I got to be alone with a dying woman I’d never met before. Her spirit felt far away and her body was trailing close behind. I sat at her bedside for a couple of hours—praying and singing and feeling as observant and objective about death as I’ve ever been. There was no conversation nor grief to distract me from bearing witness to the sacred act of dying—the rise and fall of peaceful breaths with space growing gently between them…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzTXAbNywaoUAr9KyALpuArkKcQu5Z3p-Cbtv24Asbgh9hModMohw0AbDnL2qEpFlkCKfmKWTO7A3KnDiejyYrBp3MN10dWwDgZ1Ci6rHNrEXnDkxMDDzQoa3s3wH7Ug2uRMi8Ybqq4r1NJ6JY0rEj52V7taWpWW7oUWgaGdzU4J2bTnE6ztQUco8Vipwd/s1080/IMG_0122.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="1080" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzTXAbNywaoUAr9KyALpuArkKcQu5Z3p-Cbtv24Asbgh9hModMohw0AbDnL2qEpFlkCKfmKWTO7A3KnDiejyYrBp3MN10dWwDgZ1Ci6rHNrEXnDkxMDDzQoa3s3wH7Ug2uRMi8Ybqq4r1NJ6JY0rEj52V7taWpWW7oUWgaGdzU4J2bTnE6ztQUco8Vipwd/s320/IMG_0122.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">But there was a rainbow. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">And that little rainbow</span><span style="text-align: left;"> reminded me that sometimes I don’t believe dying alone is </span><span style="text-align: left;">necessarily a bad thing. Because how alone are we? </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">There is wonder and stillness which becomes the thin place where heaven and earth meet. Death </span><span style="text-align: left;">is personal and private, no matter how many people are in the room. </span><span style="text-align: left;">When my time comes, I think it will be hard for me to let go if someone is holding my hand. I feel certain I will try to stay for them, even if I’m past ready and feeling impatient. I might have to wait until they go to Whataburger or the bathroom.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">But it’s not my time to die. It’s my time to write and to let you know that it’s not your time either. But when the time comes, you should know that there might be a tiny rainbow in the sky, even if no one else is around to see it. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-5838650040008259692023-12-26T21:38:00.003-06:002023-12-26T22:13:01.352-06:00When Christmas Isn’t the Most Wonderful Time of the Year<p>I thought I’d be better by now. I don’t know why it’s so hard this year. I feel like I’m on a ladder whose bottom has been chopped off and I just can’t get out of this pit…</p><p>Christmas seems to be the most horrible time of the year if it isn’t the most wonderful, like the song says. </p><p>As I continue to accompany my grieving friends, it makes sense to me that a Christmas list once fulfilled in a time that has passed, is very heavy indeed. Especially with well wishes, short days and long nights, wistfulness for love and burning hearths, romantic and cheery songs, and Hallmark movies doing their darndest to keep everyone but well-paid actors in miserable shape. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoba3ygwDK37BZ_jj8OfkM4XPEjh4MUaKGKEONqiiXMf5WMsYjQbgiLEB3TOHZX2us9dqUkLnCMLTS2xgOmlZnhmu-h5O-OxwtQSY1REUJd_vU3MoHnsPiex4SD4veiZbqKfrtJBRyjBNcqGswadTdn7uQBAe1O5WS9robyIOYLzskxbylY3dqZ_k48QH/s1440/IMG_0120.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoba3ygwDK37BZ_jj8OfkM4XPEjh4MUaKGKEONqiiXMf5WMsYjQbgiLEB3TOHZX2us9dqUkLnCMLTS2xgOmlZnhmu-h5O-OxwtQSY1REUJd_vU3MoHnsPiex4SD4veiZbqKfrtJBRyjBNcqGswadTdn7uQBAe1O5WS9robyIOYLzskxbylY3dqZ_k48QH/s320/IMG_0120.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I took this picture on Christmas Eve. It captured well what I have been pondering. The task at hand.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">Knowing that life has ended (and how) or that it will end one day, will you still choose to celebrate? </span><span style="text-align: left;">Can you? </span></p><p>The painful ending is already known and displayed for all to see in the background. In the foreground, the Christmas tree urges us to celebrate the beginning, the present, and the future. Each seems to be in its rightful place. Background. Foreground. Past. Present and future. Grief and joy seem to insist on co-mingling.</p><p>I’ve noticed a temptation to hold on to sorrow. It seems more honoring of the one who has gone or our painful pasts. To leave sorrow behind seems to betray depth of love and pain and grief, especially if it is perceived to be a lessening in any way. But does one emotion honor love or pain better than all others? Perhaps, we can choose. </p><p>This day, I will honor you with my ________________.</p><p>Sadness. Joy. Laughter. Tears. Creativity. Memories. Adventure-seeking. Christmas lights.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AvPxLJPmt8F1W2u5fsuZ65RugNEK0VydawJ98oHopX99AwzXzRQBjIxcqdowHruV2WlFm72wdy4ZE5SlU0rOvYGiHzmBL4j1n40NR7uiKMftMFIrSq4BA0PoSWuWsc5BiiXN7Nzx_cCEwNzC4eD9I2sYEuwblFWwVzqAfJErcNGnjSL_rSSR_-IgBSa6/s1080/IMG_0121.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AvPxLJPmt8F1W2u5fsuZ65RugNEK0VydawJ98oHopX99AwzXzRQBjIxcqdowHruV2WlFm72wdy4ZE5SlU0rOvYGiHzmBL4j1n40NR7uiKMftMFIrSq4BA0PoSWuWsc5BiiXN7Nzx_cCEwNzC4eD9I2sYEuwblFWwVzqAfJErcNGnjSL_rSSR_-IgBSa6/s320/IMG_0121.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I took this picture on my walk tonight. </span><span style="text-align: left;">I can’t help but wonder about the atmosphere inside this home outlined by Christmas lights-just enough to separate it from the surrounding landscape. What do the lights mean for those who hung them? </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I don’t know and will probably never knock on that door, but I know what they mean to me. And since I am writing this post and nearing the end, I’m going with faith - that when the sun has set and light is waning, we can continue to remember the light of day and lives well-lived and keep them burning until the sun rises again in the morning. With joy and sorrow and whatever the day may bring.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-73911141159677918562023-11-09T19:29:00.001-06:002023-11-09T19:29:53.859-06:00Chick Fil A-nniversary<p>Today is our 21st wedding anniversary. If our marriage wanted to publicly consume alcohol, it may legally do so now. And I think it may.</p><p>But not today. Today our marriage wants to celebrate by staying in and eating this. Pictured together, but eaten separately.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_vGr113QNcmBumtKOlRhNdeE-gDeXsTu9rMtWXYjLPhFRmrrwezKlsIYRb4idUy_zilObiheIMVNjyQYROouv5NCIb6vSH5pAEJCInZbbIKfLqmldLoNbl4Rck4q8-jlV1ZZ4bMX8Sx-Mg5YYv3p_uqGXhVMgH-8B8dQxzi4cDIQXjQdyNIbCH4lGn4R/s657/IMG_0109.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="608" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_vGr113QNcmBumtKOlRhNdeE-gDeXsTu9rMtWXYjLPhFRmrrwezKlsIYRb4idUy_zilObiheIMVNjyQYROouv5NCIb6vSH5pAEJCInZbbIKfLqmldLoNbl4Rck4q8-jlV1ZZ4bMX8Sx-Mg5YYv3p_uqGXhVMgH-8B8dQxzi4cDIQXjQdyNIbCH4lGn4R/s320/IMG_0109.jpeg" width="296" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">My husband of 21 years is sick with one of those bugs going around. But I dressed up for work just in case he was feeling better and wanted to go to dinner when I got home. He was willing but common sense prevailed. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I gave him his gift in the plastic bag I brought it home in, changed into my sweats, and thought about what I would make of this anniversary with no flowers, dressing up, or dinner out. After shrugging off disappointment and completing a quick mental review of other disappointments (because we do that, don’t we?), I will tell you my conclusion is different than ever before. </p><p style="text-align: left;">It’s different because yesterday my grief support group for spouses learned that one of our newest members took her life. She missed her husband so desperately and could not imagine living even one more day without him. She received ongoing and tireless love and support from our members: Phone calls, texts, visits at her house and theirs, lunches, dinners, and walks with people who have been there and are there—and yet we could not take away the one choice she chose.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Today, we grieve together and ask ourselves all of the same questions. What a comfort we receive in one another as we face the limits of our power but never, ever our love.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Marriage is not Hallmark movies and walks on the beach. At least not always or even most of the time.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Sometimes it is being left behind and losing yourself afterward. Sometimes it is weeks (months?) of ships-passing-in-the-night dotted by fleeting moments of profound connection. Sometimes it is caregiving or being disappointed. Sometimes it is splitting up so you can cart kids to different places at different times on different planets. Sometimes it is being grateful for Alzheimer’s disease because it gave you the opportunity to be together 24/7 for 15 years, along with the realization that without it you would still have been working (and apart). Sometimes it is years of living together followed by years of living alone. And sometimes it is eating chicken noodle soup by yourself from a cardboard bowl on your 21st anniversary. </p><p style="text-align: left;">When you do life with married people who have been left behind by their spouse, you’re grateful for however you can get it. You know how profoundly interwoven two lives can become and you know how separation leaves every thread bare and aching. </p><p style="text-align: left;">And because you know this, you can be content on a rainy anniversary—knowing that not grieving the one you love is gift enough. Except when you’re wishing for a little bit more, at which time you can remember he de-bones the chicken every time without being asked and a hundred other things just like it, because he loves you every day and not just on the special ones.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPz4YHVr7Lhm5n-ceC5FIlTxAYqi_ie-cEUN9lgV4iscUAFQhGX2JFQwEHUeR5ibJglsxgXJsr3qH1d0OKPhOs6kwteyN44LMso0NSry9aabjieOM_KJ3VK3eQmv2F9vvwe3D0iZJ9cFpDocsUobu5o5UvrS6mfUDvVglZeFn0W_GeOCzPNVC6IlaqCAHX/s1080/IMG_0110.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="486" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPz4YHVr7Lhm5n-ceC5FIlTxAYqi_ie-cEUN9lgV4iscUAFQhGX2JFQwEHUeR5ibJglsxgXJsr3qH1d0OKPhOs6kwteyN44LMso0NSry9aabjieOM_KJ3VK3eQmv2F9vvwe3D0iZJ9cFpDocsUobu5o5UvrS6mfUDvVglZeFn0W_GeOCzPNVC6IlaqCAHX/s320/IMG_0110.jpeg" width="144" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-72075955458261394222023-08-16T19:32:00.006-05:002023-08-16T20:42:26.935-05:00Pushing The Call Button<p>Our mom has been in the hospital for nearly a week with a severe infection. The antibiotics they thought were treating it weren't touching it. The correct and apparently the <i>only</i> antibiotic that could treat it wasn't started until the fifth day after admission. </p><p>She woke up long enough to answer questions and hopefully take two bites of something. I have never seen her so sick nor been so afraid for her life. I spent four nights with her in the hospital and have a new appreciation for that little red circle with a white cross in the middle. When you push it, someone comes.</p><p>The call button.</p><p>Some nurses and aides were great, some weren't. None of them took the time to learn or use my name. But someone always came.</p><p>The antibiotic worked within a couple of hours and returned Mom to herself. She is being discharged today. I am filled with awe and gratitude and am thinking about call buttons--how they show up and when they show up in our lives. My premature conclusion is that we should all have one. </p><p>One push. No need to dial 911. That's too many separate actions for someone who is really in trouble. Physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually.</p><p>However, based on recent experience with a patient that should be too young to die by today's standard, I know that having a call button doesn't mean that it is easy to push. In this case, I am not talking about muscle weakness but that can be true too. I am talking about pride and expectation.</p><p>When you spend 65 years walking to the bathroom and wiping yourself, pushing a button for someone to come and help you is one of the hardest things there is. Unless you count pooping or peeing in a diaper before you push the button. You can call it a brief if it makes you feel better. Hopefully, we can find comfort in language when we can't find it anywhere else.</p><p>Pushing a button for someone to come and help you for any reason—unless you are a boss with a secretary or personal assistant-- requires a conscious acknowledgment and willingness to admit that you are no longer independent every.time.you.push.it.</p><p>Unfortunately, this is how we define death in our culture. Just not openly. </p><p>As a wise woman in a nursing home once told me, it is a good thing we don't have an on/off button, or we would push it way too soon.</p><p>As I was returning to my mom's hospital room after getting some dinner, I saw an elderly man in the lobby. He had a highly bandaged leg whose signs of seepage indicated that it might be time for a dressing change. But he wasn't there for himself. He was trying to get a wheelchair to get himself to his wife's room as she had just had brain surgery. </p><p>The man working the front desk said he could get him one but it would be a minute. The elderly man insisted he could not wait, as he told his wife he would be there at 8:30 and he did not want to be late. He limped off in the direction of her room. </p><p>By the time I signed in and caught up with him in the hall, he was leaning with his head against the wall to rest. I sidled up beside him and offered my arm. He eagerly accepted, thanked me, and leaned into every other step. </p><p>At the long-awaited door on the third floor, I told him he made it. He looked at me and said “<i>we</i> made it.” I said okay, and smiled. He introduced his wife and we shared a little small talk. As I closed the door behind me I heard her say “Who was that?!” I laughed as I recognized myself in her.</p><p>I just had to put words to all of these things because that's what happens when my head and heart are full. Plus, I like how it all goes together.</p><p> Sometimes, we have to push the call button and sometimes we get to answer it. That’s how call buttons work. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-51917073329860449912023-08-10T08:06:00.001-05:002023-08-10T08:06:52.292-05:00Life Goals at 46<p>I’m 46 now—as of yesterday. I’m still trying to figure out how I was halfway to 90 last year and this year I’m halfway to 92, but only one year has passed. Sometimes I think I’m getting dumber. </p><p>After a sleepless night owed to coffee-too-confidently-consumed-after-8pm like a younger person might do, I am hearing my son’s voice in my head. A new year, a new you. And I’m wondering, is that what I’m going for?</p><p>Mostly, my thoughts are filled with wonderment at the lavishness of the love of the people in my life over the last several days. It started with a surprise party given by my grief support group—a feast and gifts for days. I thought it was just another Monday with people I love and admire, a time for them and about them. But they had thoughts of their own. About me.</p><p>Isn’t it touching just to know someone <i>thinks</i> about you? </p><p>Receiving 36 thoughts embodied in 36 persons<i> </i>at one time is simply overwhelming. In a good way, of course. When I was telling my sister about it, she said “<i>I</i> need a grief group!” I laughed. I think everyone does, really. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE9xRvyKBWJWeBUJaPVMOgtWN1LhPLavdJufZ3CtGrL1uF0Iafkep6TGQU62ypFITxzV7bwp9GrsJVZilh0mfUdsN3dKWUBOHzQ5hKeVctegtsA7irJ_yFvJeZh_i2FArqyNaM5swhSqZYgoP09EyyOn7iLCAXsbif1YkWlgsfQ0ALjHnMsdx4TgcSb1ez/s2048/IMG_0095.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="2048" height="83" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE9xRvyKBWJWeBUJaPVMOgtWN1LhPLavdJufZ3CtGrL1uF0Iafkep6TGQU62ypFITxzV7bwp9GrsJVZilh0mfUdsN3dKWUBOHzQ5hKeVctegtsA7irJ_yFvJeZh_i2FArqyNaM5swhSqZYgoP09EyyOn7iLCAXsbif1YkWlgsfQ0ALjHnMsdx4TgcSb1ez/s320/IMG_0095.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIms-bFFMG7kCuV3XqRDjtaBwg4Fku45GYxceya3R7cAhFvekqBo_h0VWYZdOYjdnBDGqrQRD14wU2YxizXHFspH6po3tWb9lCj9iofeXVOqVbtcV0THuMdcn3v_s49_ZIx1OVVzW-BVTNwBiwsfhVDCMMWvQrznaZU1ZyGd06OMfpcCWAvTIcOiqHfbfP/s2048/IMG_0096.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIms-bFFMG7kCuV3XqRDjtaBwg4Fku45GYxceya3R7cAhFvekqBo_h0VWYZdOYjdnBDGqrQRD14wU2YxizXHFspH6po3tWb9lCj9iofeXVOqVbtcV0THuMdcn3v_s49_ZIx1OVVzW-BVTNwBiwsfhVDCMMWvQrznaZU1ZyGd06OMfpcCWAvTIcOiqHfbfP/s320/IMG_0096.jpeg" width="180" /></a></div><p>To my utter amazement and delight, I was off on my birthday and my boys were all free and up for a float down the Guadalupe, as was my long-time friend, Sylvia.</p><p>Our oldest moved out last week and our middle son will be two months into Marine Corps boot camp this time next year, so having them say yes to a whole day with me on my day was <i>everything</i>. Five hours of driving for an hour-and-a-half on the water is a lot of driving for a little bit of floating, but well worth it to me. And them, at least this time.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp1PsWAkLXxWukRAiEyusNgpSXekUbBXxoqtcYx9zwYjtDCWQe8WYzfVh1WUHbECTSB37EzHG_ISloV0izWjcqnHBeHynO9jk5I8ynLLVT_JZzrvYAmOO6559G7R79FRMlLjPNnUpDn41fh_D9H-5KbuWj4RMRt3DnhTBdch_WoJtq9yXUEWDyML8_Nvn1/s2048/IMG_0094.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="921" data-original-width="2048" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp1PsWAkLXxWukRAiEyusNgpSXekUbBXxoqtcYx9zwYjtDCWQe8WYzfVh1WUHbECTSB37EzHG_ISloV0izWjcqnHBeHynO9jk5I8ynLLVT_JZzrvYAmOO6559G7R79FRMlLjPNnUpDn41fh_D9H-5KbuWj4RMRt3DnhTBdch_WoJtq9yXUEWDyML8_Nvn1/s320/IMG_0094.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>We came home to gifts on the front porch, gifts dropped by later, a phone full of messages to be returned, steaks cooked to perfection by my hardworking husband, and chocolate cake made by my mother-in-law. You know, to go with the pistachio cake and key lime pie from Monday. Love is good leftover, especially with a little whipped cream on top. </p><p>This morning’s quiet time found me in the book of Mark. Chapter 8, verse 37. <i>For what can a man give in return for his life?</i></p><p>That question on this day of overwhelming gratitude begs an answer. How can one repay such a gift?! It feels too big even to address. But a blank mind hardly seems right, either.</p><p>An image from last Sunday’s worship comes to mind. A little girl, maybe 4 or 5 years old, came in mouth-hanging-open-asleep in her mother’s arms. After some time, she awoke, only to be passed to her older brother. Another brother seemed to be eagerly awaiting his turn when his arms got tired, and Dad got the final turn and finished out the service.</p><p>I found myself thinking, <i>her feet never touched the floor! </i></p><p>I don’t know who enjoyed the holding more, the little girl or each family member as they took their turn. But for me, they answer the giant question Jesus poses in the book of Mark. </p><p style="text-align: center;">Love and be loved. </p><p style="text-align: center;">That’s what we give in return for our life. </p><p>I work with so many people who grieve the loss of their independence. To become dependent on others is one of the things we fear most in our ultra-independent culture. And we are poorer because of it. If we all want to give love and serve, but no one wants to receive it, the system breaks down. The flow and power of love is stunted.</p><p>Sometimes, our job is simply to <i>receive</i> what others want to give, as humbling as it may be! And it is so very humbling. Feelings of unworthiness ooze out of the cracks in our being with thoughts of if-you-only-knew-who-I-really-am and you’re-such-a-better-person-than-me. . . </p><p>Please excuse my French, but that is crap. None of us are fooling everybody. There might be some truth to the beauty and goodness they see in you. (Sorry, it is easier for me to pretend I am talking to you when I am talking to myself.)</p><p>So, I am receiving it! Yes, it is more comfortable to be on the giving end. A little power differential. </p><p>To date, the best compliment I have ever heard was from talking with a son about his recently deceased mother. He said. . . </p><p><span style="text-align: center;">“She had an infinite capacity to love.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;">I didn’t get to meet his Mom, but I suspect she was able to receive the love he gave her too. However it was, she gave me my own life goal that day. As I consider “A new year, a new you” I resolve to grow my capacity to love and graciously receive what is offered in return. And meet that woman one day.</p><p><i>Thank you all for your love, in all of the ways you share it. May you have days when your feet never touch the floor because there is a line of people waiting to hold you. Amen.</i></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-43194540394297105842023-05-29T11:05:00.002-05:002023-05-30T05:46:49.008-05:00Marines in my Garage on Memorial Day<p>My former Marine and my future Marine are working out in our garage. Doing the “Murph” on Memorial Day. Some Marine chant/song just finished, situated between a lot of other death metal songs, which supplied all of the motivation I needed to relocate from our front porch to my spot in the living room. </p><p>In a string of events related to enlisting our son in the Marines this past month, I am more aware than ever that there is something in these boys and men that I do not possess and will never understand.</p><p>I wore a red shirt, nice jeans, heels and pearl earrings so I could channel strength and red, white, and blue while not feeling the least bit patriotic, entering the recruiting office that Monday morning. I've seen it coming for a dozen years, but this meeting was only scheduled after a 5-minute conversation with the recruiter the previous Thursday (after a 5-minute heads up with a house full of people). </p><p>I thought we were giving permission for our 17-year-old son to train with the Marines a couple of days a week and to undergo medical testing as a safety and liability measure. I learned the following week that “that” was called “enlisting”. Even though he is still free to change his mind for the next year. Even though he “swore in” during his medical exam. All which I learned after the fact, in casual conversation with my husband and son, in two separate coversations in the span of a week.</p><p>Annnd, I found a threshhold. </p><p>I called the recruiter and told them there is no WAY it should be possible for a mother to go through this process and be able to miss these <i>very important details.</i> I’m not dumb, I was paying close attention, and THIS IS HARD ENOUGH WITH GOOD INFORMATION! </p><p>He listened, said he saw me reading the papers we signed, so thought I understood, and put me on the phone with his boss. I unsuccessfully try not to call him names in my head.</p><p>Still at the recruiting office, I thought I was holding it together pretty well until the recruiter said to my son, “In the event you pass away, your beneficiary will receive $500,000, who would you like that to be?” My husband looked at me, with my wet face growing wetter, turned back around and said, “You should probably just make it me.” Or something like that.</p><p>That very question is the reason this whole thing can turn my blood to ice and my dry eyes into wet ones. I can’t seem to separate Marines, war, and death in my mind. But, I’m trying. </p><p>I am haunted by unopened letters written by my grandmother to her son during the Vietnam war. My Uncle was drafted and later killed at age 20. My brother is named after him. My Dad, also in the war and privy to the situation surrounding his death in real time, escorted his body home. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tQ6t3h7iVhaleeXOtSSGQgabTUv4eAnZQS4UfS6hfEEPMrizjx9bWmzyTON5fDTSlc8_umgqxf-WEp5Rw1y8FcjHqURGOzaTMtlYAhE3etSBvWPTwXutwezB8zsgU64CGefipeRHgVHlplRVxiDAxuf6Wa47Ltprb7q_UvObISpXvvY-T9jOIpAh1g/s2160/0D592A9D-A4B9-4A54-B3E1-CF0224ED1B3C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1297" data-original-width="2160" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tQ6t3h7iVhaleeXOtSSGQgabTUv4eAnZQS4UfS6hfEEPMrizjx9bWmzyTON5fDTSlc8_umgqxf-WEp5Rw1y8FcjHqURGOzaTMtlYAhE3etSBvWPTwXutwezB8zsgU64CGefipeRHgVHlplRVxiDAxuf6Wa47Ltprb7q_UvObISpXvvY-T9jOIpAh1g/s320/0D592A9D-A4B9-4A54-B3E1-CF0224ED1B3C.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoL8np9EZD-6DVtglKUdletSk5JwZwLdS8Eu5ForZzJ2eQ0wgVzDwn3RoLCMSmLOHj8ylPh4xJchsXiUhhh_OP2tcOs2Ec9ZCUgBAoPeQiES0AA-CC9Iv55JqlxnbNju-axP0dtrVkbTaQMewXmESKY7ZL4DPUsHMoFq4qThgIJFzsk3lut5t7FtbXfw/s2159/34C02D2F-2B48-41D3-9BF0-39091F5C25B3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1445" data-original-width="2159" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoL8np9EZD-6DVtglKUdletSk5JwZwLdS8Eu5ForZzJ2eQ0wgVzDwn3RoLCMSmLOHj8ylPh4xJchsXiUhhh_OP2tcOs2Ec9ZCUgBAoPeQiES0AA-CC9Iv55JqlxnbNju-axP0dtrVkbTaQMewXmESKY7ZL4DPUsHMoFq4qThgIJFzsk3lut5t7FtbXfw/s320/34C02D2F-2B48-41D3-9BF0-39091F5C25B3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoNXK8DkHbv7fOxMuu_9NxQCU5g7JTwNCsXln1BakcCah1IQCssL5qpZ8TKWdXBu4Q1iaAEfXquMVB7zvUe6UyX5oe0udUGiCdRj7VKs3WmzCiml2lKhgm7IBk-nSTMMscLFEgbvdJ1f3zSZ67qmI1yFr3Gj3vSHd_XbS3BPyb0PVsdEPhwhhsCXMtg/s2160/FB1DA879-6AFE-4502-A272-5FD1C9BEC36F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1329" data-original-width="2160" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoNXK8DkHbv7fOxMuu_9NxQCU5g7JTwNCsXln1BakcCah1IQCssL5qpZ8TKWdXBu4Q1iaAEfXquMVB7zvUe6UyX5oe0udUGiCdRj7VKs3WmzCiml2lKhgm7IBk-nSTMMscLFEgbvdJ1f3zSZ67qmI1yFr3Gj3vSHd_XbS3BPyb0PVsdEPhwhhsCXMtg/s320/FB1DA879-6AFE-4502-A272-5FD1C9BEC36F.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbweW2e8gTVSN5p0r2yW5tLICTEjQU3_zzw2-y1mFaZkejH0IE82PB4CiLm6zKYgtFf-0q0bCxOYEOS-ff0ecFBlv2l44mIPzpycGxXv_LsZBSQ-ePqe6Ir5WyLybOlQqwHgdYX6A_WnA0s7uMaXVp27fJBASIcuCsoFo_a1AFC6T2WE4pj3pwkVn1KA/s4032/20230506_194721.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbweW2e8gTVSN5p0r2yW5tLICTEjQU3_zzw2-y1mFaZkejH0IE82PB4CiLm6zKYgtFf-0q0bCxOYEOS-ff0ecFBlv2l44mIPzpycGxXv_LsZBSQ-ePqe6Ir5WyLybOlQqwHgdYX6A_WnA0s7uMaXVp27fJBASIcuCsoFo_a1AFC6T2WE4pj3pwkVn1KA/w285-h180/20230506_194721.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Yesterday, my stepmom and I placed our hand on my Dad’s shoulder as we listened to Taps in church. She and I were tearful. He was stoic, standing as straight and strong as ever.</span></p><p>And this is what I am talking about. I don’t get what these men are made of.</p><p>While I was still enjoying the front porch, I heard the familiar clank of the extension ladder being placed against our tree. My husband, hanging a full-sized American flag in the Oak tree in our front yard, just like he does every year. Strong. Faithful. Proud. Free. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tgGQ6kirbGT01sFH2vBKcP5_cCmIwPYdJUIENsmwYvIlFMpuOj1ekutaaeEXzgtq7FKYIa9mNGotb5EeUbvJtURBXpFQc2tlft2b-7ofKltzT_2Y4-qTnOv8IxFPrrrTADQsqLJy089hnAGsInWAW7uXNRjeloO72sINm_aEH6RyYkoBlwZDn95rBw/s3594/20230529_103012.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3594" data-original-width="2022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tgGQ6kirbGT01sFH2vBKcP5_cCmIwPYdJUIENsmwYvIlFMpuOj1ekutaaeEXzgtq7FKYIa9mNGotb5EeUbvJtURBXpFQc2tlft2b-7ofKltzT_2Y4-qTnOv8IxFPrrrTADQsqLJy089hnAGsInWAW7uXNRjeloO72sINm_aEH6RyYkoBlwZDn95rBw/s320/20230529_103012.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I remain proud and in awe of the Marine I married. He knows what is important, does what needs doing before anyone else notices, asks, or does it themselves. I am proud, yet angsty about the Marine we’ve raised. I remind myself that my husband is the product of the institution he is entering, which helps. A little. He is still the one I’m trying to let go of, while supporting him in his lifelong dream and tickling his </span><span style="text-align: left;">back at night, like his little 4-year-old self. </span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I am grateful to those who are serving, will serve, have served, and to those who lost their lives in service of our country, as well as people like my Dad who brought them home. God bless you all who continue to honor their sacrifice by living your best life and never forgetting.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-86856020898737992062023-03-26T12:39:00.001-05:002023-03-26T12:39:15.042-05:00Middle of the Night Fight<p>I just wanted to share a few thoughts as your marriage and family therapist in training. </p><p> Because when was the last time you got to hear every word of someone else's fight?!</p><p>I had an intense observational session with my hotel neighbors between midnight and 1am this morning. </p><p>No, it wasn’t scheduled. </p><p>But, I showed up anyway because the wall was so thin, they may as well have been sitting on my bed.</p><p>I'm not sure who she called, but there was a strong opinion it wasn't her Mom, like she said.</p><p>My takeaways:</p><p>1. Don't talk over your significant other, or anyone. Ever. This is verbal bullying and very disrespectful. Let them finish.</p><p>2. You may be able to cut the conversation length in half, if you simply acknowledge what you allowed your person to fully express.</p><p>3. Consider saying, "I think you're lying" rather than "You are a liar!" </p><p>4. Go old school. Use the phrase I really, I strongly, or I passionately fill-in-the-blank instead of I f-ing fill-in-the-blank.</p><p>5. Avoid mocking your beloved in the tone or phrases they communicate with.</p><p>6. Always and Never should not be your friends.</p><p>7. If it's late and you feel like you are not making any progress, say "I'm done talking about this, now. I love you. Let's revisit this in the morning." *Your neighbors will REALLY appreciate this one.</p><p>That is all.</p><p>Thank you and have a great day!</p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-22823050966816515322023-03-20T23:35:00.005-05:002023-03-21T18:24:32.050-05:00Bridging the Gap<p>Our Mom was paralyzed in a car accident 29 years ago today. She didn’t realize that today was the day because she was playing Bingo. But, her kids did. </p><p>My younger brother and I remember the knock on the door in the wee hours of the morning. We were the only ones still living at home. I was 16, he was 14. My sister was newly married and my older brother was in boot camp at the Naval Training Center in Illinois. </p><p>It was our Uncle and Mom’s best friend at the door. Mom had been in an accident. She hurt her back, so she was flown to the nearest city with better doctors, is what I remember. But, I also remember thinking she just wouldn’t be able to lift anything heavy for awhile. </p><p>That turned out to be true. But, how true, I had no way of knowing. </p><p>My brother remembers a yellow envelope with her belongings, cut rings, and money covered in blood. I remember seeing her in the ICU, how bad the room smelled, metal coming out of her head and arm, asking her how she got some random abrasion, and hearing her robot voice say she would walk again. </p><p>I left the next day for Disney World for my planned Spring Break trip with my high school choir. I didn’t want to go, but staying wasn’t helpful to anyone. She came home from the rehabilitation hospital three months later. My brother and I became caregivers, and adults who looked like children.</p><p>Today, 29 years later, I’ve been very unlike me. Fighting tears most of the day, actually.</p><p>I heard <i>River of Dreams</i> on Saturday while I was making dinner. I heard it because I put it on my Spotify playlist awhile ago, because it reminds me of my Mom. She used to play it on the piano and the piano itself would come to life. But, Saturday, while standing in my kitchen, it brought my walking, piano-playing Mom and my little girl self into Room 167 at the nursing home, and I wept for all of us. </p><p>So many losses over such a long period of time. If you’re 29 years of age, you’re still young. But, if you’ve been in a wheelchair for 29 years, or caring for and loving someone who has, it seems like a different kind of 29. Maybe like dog years, where 1 year is really 7 years. Or something like that. </p><p>But, I need to write today, because I’m still surprised by my emotions, which tells me I’m not as smart as I think I am. Especially after sooo long, and after Saturday. I thought I got “it” out of my system. Whatever “it” is, exactly. </p><p>After talking to Mom today, and realizing that today is just another day for her, I think I am figuring it out. </p><p>Today, I am sad for me and my brother, and for losing the last few years of our childhood. I am sad for my older siblings, too, but in a different way. We all bear and have borne different kinds, levels, and layers of suffering because of our Mom’s accident and the upside-downness that follows. Where we went to college, or not. Where we lived, or not. How far we dared to dream, or not…</p><p>Even now, she is often at the center of our thoughts. Our emotions vary widely, depending on what is happening with her, what she needs, or what we wish were different. </p><p>But, because her suffering is and has been so great, her children’s suffering, as it relates to her own, remains unseen. She is like a ship making her way through the ocean. We are tied off in little inner tubes bumping along behind her, riding the waves as they come. </p><p>It’s not that she doesn’t care, she just can’t see us back there. </p><p>I was recently trying to convey some uneasiness I had about some changes in her health. She said, “Well, how do you think <i>I</i> feel?” </p><p>She’s right, of course. </p><p>But, that didn’t keep me from feeling my feelings, just like it hasn’t for 29 years. But, there’s often no place for them because her suffering is so giant and unending, it hogs all the room. So, I stuff them, and cry for her instead because there’s plenty to cry about. </p><p>And now I know something else. I am familiar with pain created by a gap in understanding. </p><p>I am writing a story about what life is like after losing a spouse. I am an interesting author for such a story, because I have not lived that life. I hope I never will, but am not naive enough to think I won’t. But, I meet weekly with people who are. I hear their stories and recognize their great suffering because their spouse died, but also that their suffering is unnecessarily greater because it is not seen nor understood. </p><p>After today, I understand my motivation and my ability to write about someone else’s suffering a little better. I see them and I see a gap. </p><p>I don’t like gaps. They’re unnecessary. Love and compassion and listening and trying to understand can close them, or at least come close.</p><p>Dear Mom, Josh, Mike, and Michelle, spouses missing their spouses and all who live with a gap in understanding,</p><p>I see you. I hear you. I love you. And I want to understand…</p><p>P.S. Heidi, same goes for you…</p><p>Love, </p><p>Me</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkwMTOEy_3pR5jAeh25ojDFIE-qYscWHHYzuZGtg48NSyWQF4L0RN0YTx7DwbNMhg5uxV7qt0ZWmDlNdWCH-h48gTVx1csbi35-6AVgOEon51zWZTyGzYxWJAxm_WLSPfFdXOlGFcHPXKTd7nCyLyjg-Qx4TYXcf-H9rjaG5mFod5OYmzqUheKO2kQw/s1080/594A98EF-8E62-4C67-9270-57607274682D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="486" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkwMTOEy_3pR5jAeh25ojDFIE-qYscWHHYzuZGtg48NSyWQF4L0RN0YTx7DwbNMhg5uxV7qt0ZWmDlNdWCH-h48gTVx1csbi35-6AVgOEon51zWZTyGzYxWJAxm_WLSPfFdXOlGFcHPXKTd7nCyLyjg-Qx4TYXcf-H9rjaG5mFod5OYmzqUheKO2kQw/s320/594A98EF-8E62-4C67-9270-57607274682D.jpeg" width="144" /></a> </div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-34013638188378689162023-02-26T13:20:00.004-06:002023-02-26T20:53:20.780-06:00Givers and Takers<p>A friend recently pointed out that we are givers or takers. Overall, I think I am a giver. Except when I go home to my parents' house where I become a taker, like the child I really am.</p><p>It is so nice to go there. Meals are provided, my bed and pots of coffee are made, and towels are set out. With chocolates. Like VIP treatment at a fancy hotel, I imagine...</p><p>We often hear it said that "it is better to give than to receive." But, if we don't learn how to receive, we remain poorer than we ought. Not only that, but we increase the poverty of the giver. For they are deprived of the joy of giving and the satisfaction of a gift well-received.</p><p>I think one of the whole points of living, beyond knowing, loving, and serving God, is to grow the other side of yourself. Takers must learn how to give and givers must learn how to receive.</p><p>I realize that some of the greatest tension in my life comes when I am unable to love people the way I want to. Because they are unable to receive it. Walls are built for self-protection and fortified through the years. Efforts to become invisible are rewarded with invisibility, and intimacy keeps paying the bill that never shrinks. </p><p> As I make my way from Kansas to Texas, from the family I was born into to the family that gives life to me daily, I look for silver linings. (I wonder if this is also something I have learned or if I have always been this way.) As I see it, the silver lining is that aging brains and bodies, disability, and decline help us shift the eternal balance between giving, taking, and receiving. The side we keep in the shade is forced into the sunlight and given one option only. </p><p>Grow.</p><p>These hard things disguised as ugliness and decay are more like old friends coming unbidden - to help you move your old upright piano, because you can't move it by yourself. And they're glad to do it.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-19839316661323268222023-01-04T20:41:00.002-06:002023-01-05T07:09:55.365-06:00Don’t Let an Aisle Be an Ocean<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;">Posting a little late due to travel, but I</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> captured a few thoughts on New Year’s Eve for myself and anyone else who cares to read them…</span></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;">It’s the last day of 2022.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;">I’m with the fam, heading to Steamboat Springs for our first family ski trip – Senior graduation/20</span><sup style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; text-size-adjust: auto;">th</sup><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;">anniversary/Because we’ve-been-talking-about-it-for-years ski trip.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;">We’re</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;">on the second flight of the day and I have fresh inspiration for 2023.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">We’re flying Southwest, so seats are catch as catch can. I sat between my youngest, who called dibs on the window seat, and a man who was sitting across the aisle from his entire family. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">But, the aisle may as well have been an ocean. His wife, across the aisle/ocean had a kindergartner on her left (by the window), an autistic son who kept hitting her on her right, and a newly-walking, very antsy toddler on her lap. And this man literally got his book out (<i>Letters from the Stoics</i>) and put his headphones on. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">I learned the husband’s name fairly early on, but heard it more often than he did. I even got to help her get his attention once…After he didn’t hear her saying his name or see her waving her arms. But, he did put the book down after awhile. To watch a movie on his phone. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">A couple of us offered to hold the little one, and she took the lady behind me up on it, when things just got to be too much. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">The edge in the woman’s voice would have made my ears bleed, but my heart was already bleeding from imagining the rest of her life – when she’s not vacationing (Ha!)<span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">She</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">was </i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">doing it by herself, just like she said (when he seemed annoyed that things weren’t being handled better <i>over there). </i></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> I was afraid the only departure from normal was</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">us</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">going on a ski trip.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">I read and I colored, wondering what I could do without a hot poker and a good dose of courage. I did nothing, but smile at the Mom whenever I could catch her eye, and silently loathe her beloved. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">I thought about writing her a little note, too. But, <b>LEAVE HIM!</b> isn’t exactly in line with my beliefs about marriage. And <b>HANG IN THERE </b>didn’t seem very helpful. And <b>ENJOY IT, IT GOES QUICKLY </b>downright ridiculous, and <i>unbelievably</i> insensitive. Perhaps the most validating, but still unwritten… <b>I SEE YOU. YOU ARE JUSTIFIED IN YOUR FEELINGS. </b>P.S. I’m going to be a marriage and family therapist in two years. Call me if you can’t find anyone between now and then.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">Well over halfway into the 2-hour flight, he came around, and offered to cross the aisle to help. She eagerly accepted. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">Hallelujah. Lord, have mercy. Maybe I should have given him the benefit of the doubt. He certainly provided a lot of timely inspiration<span style="font-size: 11pt;"> for 2023…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">Take your headphones off. Hold a kid. Make eye contact. Be a partner and a friend. Anticipate the needs of people you love. Don’t make them beg or plead. Look at your spouse and your kids- Many are wishing they could do that very thing. If you can’t do your share, be appreciative of the one(s) who are. Express your gratitude, and don’t let an aisle be an ocean. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;">In the words of Thich Nhat Hanh, Don’t “miss your appointment with life.” Happy New Year! Thank you for flying with Southwest. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-35269465596131210382022-12-04T10:42:00.005-06:002022-12-04T12:59:32.240-06:00Circling Sea Glass<p>Some people think the world is going to hell in a hand basket. But, not me. Because, there’s Mitch.</p><p>I’m tagging along with my husband and son on their hunting trip, which happens to be 15 miles from Surfside Beach. Seems like a weird combination to me, but no matter. </p><p>The guys left early this morning to hunt, and I walked out behind them to have a cup of coffee on the beach and watch the sunrise. I’m not a morning person, so I haven’t seen a lot of sunrises, and I’ve seen fewer on the beach.</p><p><span face=""Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVd7jBItYgrEGrgD0ppAEArcTrAjgTFsGEti8S59ARhObb-FhWolqSLeA0q9-kzCt5xMZrC5YVJthJITg5WkmGhhjUTGHBYC4_jPkIoJv_XDpWxvnCb6JvG3-T3W5HizYeLxssXUdO4zzB-f7xVLv1ILonda0MHJ6vQic0IO90ggQ4fKTAB_xujqwPQ/s4032/inbound3945867650700428644.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVd7jBItYgrEGrgD0ppAEArcTrAjgTFsGEti8S59ARhObb-FhWolqSLeA0q9-kzCt5xMZrC5YVJthJITg5WkmGhhjUTGHBYC4_jPkIoJv_XDpWxvnCb6JvG3-T3W5HizYeLxssXUdO4zzB-f7xVLv1ILonda0MHJ6vQic0IO90ggQ4fKTAB_xujqwPQ/s320/inbound3945867650700428644.jpg" width="144" /></a></div><p>Without planning to, I got up with my empty coffee cup and started walking. After awhile, I started looking where I was walking. After another while, I noticed that someone had drawn what looked like eyes in the sand. One here, one there.</p><p>I assumed someone up earlier than me, needed to mark a moment of some great vision or insight. </p><p>But, then there was one close enough to my feet, that I couldn’t miss what was inside of it.</p><p>Sea glass. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5zM5Irf75ClIzO9Q6ACDSsNmvpyPEwspWzVMwodZeWWpVGt7Rqa5LXm1mOaOgVhb3PJzHBrJipUCAMJXCUwnoZ98Nnpuq-7D8yEhkZJm_CUVRP9dtlpVSFQszR1BHIqMLENECG3r-lQcwYi8GfReu2T-TZXzNQilKcg0vBih4HMgBJL2FxUTeRfLGA/s1080/201874B3-6D62-458F-BE19-787A3C0F26F7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="486" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5zM5Irf75ClIzO9Q6ACDSsNmvpyPEwspWzVMwodZeWWpVGt7Rqa5LXm1mOaOgVhb3PJzHBrJipUCAMJXCUwnoZ98Nnpuq-7D8yEhkZJm_CUVRP9dtlpVSFQszR1BHIqMLENECG3r-lQcwYi8GfReu2T-TZXzNQilKcg0vBih4HMgBJL2FxUTeRfLGA/s320/201874B3-6D62-458F-BE19-787A3C0F26F7.jpeg" width="144" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It took me a minute, but it dawned on me that someone was walking this beach, circling sea glass for others to find.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV70EjI-1FNoCOjvhY17aetueUlFllC6-mZybvoaX40fUQwHyuVUWZxyZQjnKuODBrATQr0v_ijyOZJ9j_iLutuVwuWvxAr2kF01U9SJOgoSYqrLZV_1oAMlOoxFklAAq0siYZBPHwmbP6XfxgYzwQMgyhRBAA-4gwKL_Nb26pVoFiMpg0IrJJgu_9Lw/s1080/10697A70-89C5-4AE8-80E8-8AA13F5D1CD7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="486" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV70EjI-1FNoCOjvhY17aetueUlFllC6-mZybvoaX40fUQwHyuVUWZxyZQjnKuODBrATQr0v_ijyOZJ9j_iLutuVwuWvxAr2kF01U9SJOgoSYqrLZV_1oAMlOoxFklAAq0siYZBPHwmbP6XfxgYzwQMgyhRBAA-4gwKL_Nb26pVoFiMpg0IrJJgu_9Lw/s320/10697A70-89C5-4AE8-80E8-8AA13F5D1CD7.jpeg" width="144" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Really? It’s only 7 in the morning, and somebody has already been here, pointing the way to a treasure that a later traveler might miss? </span></div><div><p>It doesn’t seem like a thing of great magnitude when you write it, but it is dumbfounding when you discover it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaME1Z1XKrQn0g-UMX33szYobhu6Vw-r3CcQIwCF6e89vE6jItbsYJnD9tUrg7x7g-3_jHBrY1fzTN9dT-pK7skDbHD4XmnIouQbq5tKlGEs78bcENGSGxgLcUmluKecUYSGEVdECvsPfOoT7ykuPXgzflkIvzfTCTVdxQ-uCfYAAIJjvEwGPJJNCyIw/s1080/9EEDB287-51E1-4721-8597-5312C74E9214.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="486" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaME1Z1XKrQn0g-UMX33szYobhu6Vw-r3CcQIwCF6e89vE6jItbsYJnD9tUrg7x7g-3_jHBrY1fzTN9dT-pK7skDbHD4XmnIouQbq5tKlGEs78bcENGSGxgLcUmluKecUYSGEVdECvsPfOoT7ykuPXgzflkIvzfTCTVdxQ-uCfYAAIJjvEwGPJJNCyIw/s320/9EEDB287-51E1-4721-8597-5312C74E9214.jpeg" width="144" /></a></div><p>I kept walking, but now, I was walking and wondering “Who is doing this?!” </p><p>I stopped long enough to take pictures of the evidence, but never took the glass. I was too eager for someone else to find the treasure I found. Evidence of the person who found it first, and wanted you to find it, too. </p><p>I only saw one other person coming from the direction I was going, so I stopped her. “Was it you?” “Did you draw the circles around the sea glass?!”</p><p>She, Michelle, head of beach clean up on their "4 miles of heaven", smiled knowingly. “No, that was Mitch.” </p><p>Mitch?</p><p>“Yes, he walks the beach every morning at sunrise. He’s 85. He couldn’t walk and was near death a year ago. But, now he walks two miles every morning and volunteers to clean up the beach. He only wanted a bucket and a grabber, so that’s what he got. His wife Susie goes when he gets back, so she can use the bucket and grabber, too.” </p><p>She said, “If you’re here tomorrow morning at sunrise…”</p><p>But, I won’t be. I’m leaving soon. </p><p>But, I’m taking Mitch with me. Along with all of the treasures I found (outside of his circles). But, leaving knowing Mitch walks the beach at sunrise, picking up trash and circling sea glass for others to find, is the greatest treasure of all.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuHFC2TIVFXKz0inIldG0k5foMKEFmN8NyKGCAjMa-LcTaseKvUvJWVukI7dNjxaw0IhndNr2NYqsh667KsG73vij8nVniG3A4nq_RR_bBh66jfLIQalElKdXtLBovCVBSkuHmRuof1XVI_9tFXWZLRUfyEV0V_DIY6jtAfppcHARPM-b6duW5Jrasg/s1820/7ED31120-12C9-4F4A-99D9-44F3887AC67B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1820" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuHFC2TIVFXKz0inIldG0k5foMKEFmN8NyKGCAjMa-LcTaseKvUvJWVukI7dNjxaw0IhndNr2NYqsh667KsG73vij8nVniG3A4nq_RR_bBh66jfLIQalElKdXtLBovCVBSkuHmRuof1XVI_9tFXWZLRUfyEV0V_DIY6jtAfppcHARPM-b6duW5Jrasg/s320/7ED31120-12C9-4F4A-99D9-44F3887AC67B.jpeg" width="190" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p></div>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-85411846902284753822022-11-09T00:58:00.002-06:002022-11-09T01:01:33.026-06:00A Case For Marriage<p>Today is our 20th wedding anniversary. Yes, we can believe it. And no, we can’t believe it! </p><p>Once upon a time, a ranch foreman who had given up on women and a horse trainer with a boyfriend back in Kansas, met on Valentine’s Day in the Hill Country…</p><p>“Your boyfriend let you come to Texas without a ring on your finger?! Your boyfriend is a fool.”</p><p>We were engaged a month later and married eight months after that. St. Isidore’s Catholic Church. K-State campus. November 9, 2002. A fall wedding in Kansas is a bit of a gamble, but it was 70-something and sunny. Because, why wouldn’t it be? It was a game day and there were a lot of happy Wildcats honking and cheering us on as we crossed the threshold as husband and wife.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0_dmhRDduxodkGr9wZ7tTVBd0eQ3scFxpamA-ttMktz6IXPXd_DP_Wd-VfTiWxT0ZGSfpxyLZikEKzw8sleHndIEgPUoF5e6cGvqXSxDxN5aSySZ20jma7nfXJzufqIuNe006Gx1Q5H-Lwhc9EydbV5DpDDwGYpq7XHif-4Gf18nwZlQh5PjlH-vVw/s1080/C9501183-0610-49B8-9632-D39A4B9182BE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1080" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0_dmhRDduxodkGr9wZ7tTVBd0eQ3scFxpamA-ttMktz6IXPXd_DP_Wd-VfTiWxT0ZGSfpxyLZikEKzw8sleHndIEgPUoF5e6cGvqXSxDxN5aSySZ20jma7nfXJzufqIuNe006Gx1Q5H-Lwhc9EydbV5DpDDwGYpq7XHif-4Gf18nwZlQh5PjlH-vVw/w327-h317/C9501183-0610-49B8-9632-D39A4B9182BE.jpeg" width="327" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">20 years later, we have three teenage boys, good jobs, and all we need. I just finished my second class in my graduate program, and my husband has been unbelievably supportive. Not only like not complaining when I’m holed up on the computer, or saying “You’ve got this!”, but also like…</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUBLyDzsE8dbGg4i1LCeiznXDWkkkVHnS_3ZyhsNdsJyqVYzEVLreChX7G3lT5RabFXt4boADnW0IN4BLj8LvQ_afvz4bm2BuYbUaJLRUoxKl1haxtidohjO1F2NoQ3OOMhKZ0W9io2BvfvM1ebzCST3z9dQrOs15AMtfksgPnpuO9JuxuyMYy3k2Bg/s1080/F4308075-2DD0-4F7A-9581-CDDE6CE2B530.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="1080" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUBLyDzsE8dbGg4i1LCeiznXDWkkkVHnS_3ZyhsNdsJyqVYzEVLreChX7G3lT5RabFXt4boADnW0IN4BLj8LvQ_afvz4bm2BuYbUaJLRUoxKl1haxtidohjO1F2NoQ3OOMhKZ0W9io2BvfvM1ebzCST3z9dQrOs15AMtfksgPnpuO9JuxuyMYy3k2Bg/s320/F4308075-2DD0-4F7A-9581-CDDE6CE2B530.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Plate delivered, meat cut up, potato mashed and buttered with salt and pepper, and salad with just the right amount of the right kind of dressing. I mean, freaking amazing. <div><br /><div>I could go on and on and on about all of the reasons I love my husband and why he is the best and why I am so glad I married him. But, you might think your husband is better than mine and then we might have to fight, or you might think your husband is a loser compared to mine and then I would have to console you, so I’m going to switch tracks, because as much as I want to celebrate our 20 years, which I will, with him, tonight, I want to encourage you in your marriage, right now. <br /><p>Marriage is one of the best and hardest things there is. I have talked to three different people <i>this week</i> who may or may not have used the “D” word, but are wondering if their marriages are going to survive, or if they’re going to die trying to make it work. I’ve never forgotten what my married friends said, both having been married twice before…</p><p>“We could have made our first marriage work, if we had just known how much work marriage is.” Yesterday, she lived through the date of his death for the fourth time. It’s hard to call it an anniversary. </p><p>I no longer have the privilege of celebrating an anniversary without thinking about a time when celebrating them might end, and dreading them might begin. Grieving spouses are great teachers. They help me believe in the depth of my husband’s love for me.</p><p>Two years after her death, a grieving husband told me on Monday, “I still look for her.”</p><p style="text-align: center;">“I know she’s not there, but I still look for her.”</p><p>This helps me to know that if I should die, I will not be dead to my husband. Even after a long time. It also reminds me that he is looking for me, now. </p><p>And this is a really good thing to see and know and be reminded of. Because sometimes my husband is bringing me a plate of bite-sized meat and buttered potatoes, and sometimes he’s gone for two weeks, and I feel like an acquaintance on a good day and a beggar on a bad one. Please, sir, can you spare just a little bit of time? Under the right circumstances, I can convince myself that I am destined for leftovers, and it’s embarrassingly easy to despair.</p><p>As much I would like to say this is old news, I just about blew it again this weekend. More time away for him, a big paper due for me, and patience, charity, and anything that feels like love at all seems to fly right out the window. We were supposed to overnight in San Antonio to watch a boy and a band march at the Alamodome and go for a hike the next day. Storms were coming in, I was on the fence, and he didn’t want to spend the trip in silence, so…</p><p>So, after 20 years, I realized something. I realized that I was withholding my love because in my wounded and selfish heart, I didn’t think he <i>deserved</i> it. When I actually admitted this to myself, I was ashamed. I was ashamed because that is not who I am. I believe in giving my love to everyone, especially to those who don’t deserve it. And he <i>does</i> deserve it. Every bit of it. </p><p>I assured him the weekend wouldn’t pass in silence. We went, and had a wonderful time. </p><p>I cringe at the thought that I almost bagged the whole thing. Over seven miles, we walked and talked about the meaning of life and happiness and the two times in our 20 years of marriage I told him to go-fly-a-kite with fewer words and no kite. He’s forgiven me, but he still remembers how many times it happened. Twice…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHPzFNjOAJ3-uMZ5xAqcsugMVXWWNRHgQnS6j5tmmzbef2o_eZh-pAZwZJ1fXPLfquB34jHi0Cgi742Hih9MMq7ns-RdHkLf0aQulnf4n_9pi9mInC2EXSW-3Z8Kwbyf5q2WqCGYAWCRuuQvZ-3rgk-ykmwi70T61vPkVYYKbxoTCDKMxiJxhbwgOqQ/s1080/C0822E48-1EA7-40C7-B5A0-AECD96D9759C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="486" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHPzFNjOAJ3-uMZ5xAqcsugMVXWWNRHgQnS6j5tmmzbef2o_eZh-pAZwZJ1fXPLfquB34jHi0Cgi742Hih9MMq7ns-RdHkLf0aQulnf4n_9pi9mInC2EXSW-3Z8Kwbyf5q2WqCGYAWCRuuQvZ-3rgk-ykmwi70T61vPkVYYKbxoTCDKMxiJxhbwgOqQ/s320/C0822E48-1EA7-40C7-B5A0-AECD96D9759C.jpeg" width="144" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">I was reading a book about parenting teenagers yesterday because it’s so easy and I love reading about how easy it is. (HA.Ha.ha) Anyway, I came across this great quote. I think it fits nicely here, as we own our mistakes, and let the good and bad all go together somehow, like they do…</p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>One of the most widespread superstitions is that every man has his own special, definite qualities: That a man is kind, cruel, wise, stupid, energetic, apathetic, etc. Men are not like that…men are like rivers…every river narrows here, is more rapid there, here slower, there broader, now clear, now cold, now dull, now warm. It is the same with men. Every man carries in himself the germs of every human quality, and sometimes one manifests itself, sometimes another, and the man often becomes unlike himself, while still remaining the same man. </i> -Tolstoy</p><p style="text-align: left;">The only thing harder than living with someone in marriage, is living without them. Yes, it is normal for it to be “this hard.” Keep fighting for what is worth fighting for. Find the good and circle around it. Forgive the rest and begin again. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Happy 20th Anniversary to Us, and Love and Encouragement to all… </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p><br /></p></div></div>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-29461727517074592222022-10-11T21:38:00.002-05:002022-10-11T21:41:26.043-05:00Look Through the Kaleidoscope<p>I facilitate a grief support group for spouses, every Monday. I'm sorry if I sound like a broken record. I feel like I say this more than I say any other thing, except hopefully, I love you.</p><p>Facilitating this group and getting to know the people and their stories have become part of who I am and a highlight of every week.</p><p>This week, I planned to discuss bravery, feeling pretty brave myself after camping on the beach with my teenagers over the weekend.</p><p>But, this is their group, and more relevant this day were love letters written during courtship, mailed in time to meet their muse (who was a flight attendant for Pan Am) at her next destination, somewhere around the world. These letters were kept, mostly forgotten, and found 50 some years later, right around the one-year anniversary of his passing. These letters took six hours to read, all in a row. This day, they were neatly bundled with a bow and shared with cupcakes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFZJAyMEBI_3KLxTjioD0eeDr7OWNDI5hoC7SA7nuKZ0PZ1PawPJbTzSUqIeSQ-0Nys-t425mxtftepM8ZXeVAwOvIJJcumd4Rh3weKrxixjwJg9-Emw5Vnu0i0QFXba0UaGY-T3Dl0wWubo4h561c3Ad1OIpPoUMIxl0BjRXgZoSl6gs8bg_ign5LQ/s4032/20221010_113315.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1816" data-original-width="4032" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFZJAyMEBI_3KLxTjioD0eeDr7OWNDI5hoC7SA7nuKZ0PZ1PawPJbTzSUqIeSQ-0Nys-t425mxtftepM8ZXeVAwOvIJJcumd4Rh3weKrxixjwJg9-Emw5Vnu0i0QFXba0UaGY-T3Dl0wWubo4h561c3Ad1OIpPoUMIxl0BjRXgZoSl6gs8bg_ign5LQ/s320/20221010_113315.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">More important this day, were songs sung by a cowboy who once sang for hundreds, but only for his dogs since his wife went Home.</span></div><p>And more important this day, were dreams of spouses-gone-ahead by spouses-left-behind. Dreams as real as the realest thing there is.</p><p>This Monday morning, one woman greeted another. She'd met her a few times before, but couldn't remember her name. So, she asked her again. She needed to know her name, because she needed to thank her. And give her a toy kaleidoscope.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguwjkTc2U7H4gGL5JiOkypHPVK9EFl5yDqY5c17wulU66DEBnTrf5SOA0BIJaRkCYeGxEKKpd1IoKVwjBDZA_UMIoEH5WgXyDpWvD2gTY4nV474myjUax2zmXH_S0r6HYpcUZTCzfwbkPbAHErsOXfVTZ9Ku6Q7wYl-El0vb2-Uandjpwovv6Qx78esA/s1438/20221010_115451.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1438" data-original-width="885" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguwjkTc2U7H4gGL5JiOkypHPVK9EFl5yDqY5c17wulU66DEBnTrf5SOA0BIJaRkCYeGxEKKpd1IoKVwjBDZA_UMIoEH5WgXyDpWvD2gTY4nV474myjUax2zmXH_S0r6HYpcUZTCzfwbkPbAHErsOXfVTZ9Ku6Q7wYl-El0vb2-Uandjpwovv6Qx78esA/s320/20221010_115451.jpg" width="197" /></a></div><p>On the second anniversary of her husband's death, she dreamt. In her dream, she was at one of our meetings. When our meeting ended, the woman (whose name she did not know) handed her a kaleidoscope and told her to look through it.</p><p>When she looked through it, she saw her husband coming down from heaven. (When she says this, her hand extends to the sky and her eyes spring with tears. It feels a little bit like you were there, too, and like it is happening right now.)</p><p>Her husband looked well and happy. He came near, walked past her, got on his horse, and rode away. </p><p>The joy of seeing him seemed to outweigh the pain of not being able to talk or touch. Seeing the <i>one</i> person you chose above all others. Your other half...</p><p>We dabbed at our tears and marveled that someone you barely know (and who doesn't dream), could give you an opportunity you would give anything for, and yet, could not give yourself.</p><p>I wonder if Rose Marie had not been there to hand Melissa a kaleidoscope, if it would have been someone else? Would Melissa have seen her husband on the second anniversary of his death, no matter what?</p><p> It's hard to say.</p><p>The thing is, Rose Marie <i>was</i> there - giving kaleidoscopes and instructions, and by doing so, connecting her with the person she loves the most. </p><p>Does this mean that simply by showing up and tending to our own needs and making ourselves available to others in real time, that we create unlimited possibilities for future connections - inside and outside of time? </p><p>It seems like maybe, um probably, I'm going with yes...</p><p>I am beyond hopeful that relationships continue after death and in awe of the synchronicity of a well-timed dream and heavenly visitation. I am also exceedingly grateful for the small, but irreplaceable parts we play in one another’s lives, knowing or unknowingly, and that a kaleidoscope can connect strangers, lovers, worlds, and us. </p><p>I hope a peek into this Monday morning can do the same for you.</p><p>Sweet Dreams.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-57077330978103799542022-08-09T22:48:00.001-05:002022-08-09T22:58:17.653-05:00Halfway to 90<p>I’m halfway to 90 today. Not that 90 is my goal, really. </p><p>I would say mid-eighties is an ideal checkout time, but just about then, I meet an amazing 91-year-old and others well beyond that, and I feel like a jerk just for thinking it. A very experienced and beloved coworker recently said, “As long as I can suck a milkshake through a straw and enjoy it, I still wanna be alive.” I like that, too. </p><p> I didn’t drink a milkshake today, but I am just home from eating out with my family and topping off with cake and ice cream. I like to write a blog post on my birthday to see how my perspective changes and what is top-of-mind from year to year. Kind of like a 2D time capsule with just words, and nothing to open but a website.</p><p>Today, I want to remember the questions that are bearing fruit in my life.</p><p>“What do you want more/less of?” and “Lord, what do you want me to know?” </p><p>Answers to these questions in recent months have been…More one-on-one, more quilting, less stomach fat (more exercise), more nature, less Facebook, less supervisor responsibilities, and more education.</p><p>So, I’ve…</p><p>…started drinking my first cup of coffee on the front porch in the morning.</p><p>…stepped out of management and back into the field full-time.</p><p>…started doing burpees (again). It feels like longer, but I timed it today. It only takes a minute (or so) to do ten. Even I can commit to doing something for one minute.</p><p>…made a table runner, two quilts, and am halfway finished with a third.</p><p>…applied to graduate school, and start in 13 days.</p><p>Still no 21-and-holding for me. I love growing older. So much to wonder at, be in awe of, and grateful for.</p><p>It looks like there is a little debate as to what was actually said by St. Iranaeus. But, I like the version that says, “The glory of God is man fully alive.” I can’t help but wonder if that man was 45…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_69FrhA_UOzfnr7CvfZn3JpG2RAqMQLMLcqiF4k-r9K0NMwUuDCTLVgBbW3MKuULvEo4cX7wxMR8EF2voJbUra7rIBCfXkOUFapyg1g8wmRsZsIW7BeA9E8h36TcLlJJuhvz8hChxAtfcUEmbXy_LyYlQoeEVClNp0sPt7_UblcUS-Ak-5LQSqotUfA/s891/0DD12E41-518E-46C2-8373-B1F074530F72.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="891" data-original-width="636" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_69FrhA_UOzfnr7CvfZn3JpG2RAqMQLMLcqiF4k-r9K0NMwUuDCTLVgBbW3MKuULvEo4cX7wxMR8EF2voJbUra7rIBCfXkOUFapyg1g8wmRsZsIW7BeA9E8h36TcLlJJuhvz8hChxAtfcUEmbXy_LyYlQoeEVClNp0sPt7_UblcUS-Ak-5LQSqotUfA/s320/0DD12E41-518E-46C2-8373-B1F074530F72.jpeg" width="228" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-31724390960923203822022-07-29T09:11:00.007-05:002022-07-29T09:32:33.591-05:00Darce Day<p style="text-align: left;">This is my favorite thing I’ve written to date. I am a hospice chaplain. To me, this story, this woman, our relationship, and traveling the past year with her on her journey has become the picture of everything I could hope for as a hospice chaplain. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Yes, we can accompany people for a little or a long while, do death and moments of crisis, Scripture, music, and prayer. But, entering into the life of another for weeks turned into months, finding yourself there, adding unexpected joy, and giving and receiving an opportunity to reflect on a very hidden and private 90-year-old life has changed me. Darce has given me permission to share it with you. I hope you like it, too.</p><p style="text-align: center;">(A video of me reading Darce’s story to her, here…<a href="https://youtu.be/jx5tukDPZuE" style="text-align: left;">https://youtu.be/jx5tukDPZuE</a>)</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">“<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #1f3864; font-size: 11pt;">Darce Day”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Once upon a time, there was a woman who had 90-year-old eyes and 90-year-old teeth. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">On days when she is feeling blue, her daughter cheers her up by saying, “At least you have your own </span><span style="color: #1f3864;">teeth!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span><span style="color: #1f3864;">She passes the days reflecting on all that has been – Amazed that one who so loved golf and gardening, sailing and cooking and tennis, could be so content – looking at the sky and an occasional bird, but not really being able to see either one.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span><span style="color: #1f3864;">“Have you ever thought about what it’s like to talk to someone without being able to see them?” she asks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">No, I guess I haven’t. And I’m afraid to experiment in my next conversation, imagining the other person will be unable to listen at all because they can’t stop wondering why my eyes are closed. So, I imagine it for the rest of the day, and conclude that it would be very different, indeed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">This is the story of Doris Marie Johnson. Only she didn’t like the name Doris. So, she changed it. When she was seven years old. And no one noticed. It might have been around the same time she realized she was not “a goddamn little bastard, but a Daughter of the King!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Whenever it was, after that, she knew she had the power to change things. Like an “i” to an “e” in Maree. And that Johnson could be left off altogether. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Darce was sitting in her favorite spot, communing with God, when she had a new visitor one day. Well, she had a lot of new visitors, but the visitor I’m talking about is <i>me.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">In that first visit, we looked at little paper bags with her artwork on them – made each day for her precious daughter to tote her lunch to school. Even the doctor’s daughter recognized their preciousness and wanted to buy them. But, they weren’t for sale.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Not exactly sure what, but something magical happened between lunch sacks, and whatever was said before or after looking at them. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">It was decided that only weekly visits would do, even though monthly visits from this hospice chaplain was the normal order of things.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">And Friday would be the best, because Darce’s daughter had to do this thing called work.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">So, Fridays at lunchtime became the high point of Darce’s week. And Heidi’s, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(31, 56, 100);">———</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Oh, my name is Heidi. I never changed my name, but I did add an “e” to the end of my middle name for a while. I thought Ann looked better and more sophisticated that way. I was probably trying to be like Darce even though I hadn’t met her, yet. </span><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Subway turned into Taco Bell, and how can tacos taste so good EVERY.SINGLE.WEEK?!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span><span style="color: #1f3864;">But, they do.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span><span style="color: #1f3864;">I think it has something to do with the way I put the sauce on while she holds the taco open. And the way all of the stuff falls out and we pick up the pieces with our fingers, and shove them into our mouths afterwards.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">The large drinks were always too big and heavy, so I poured them in a smaller glass for her. But, the smaller glass is getting too heavy, too. </span><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">The days are getting longer for Darce. Getting into bed at night requires heroic effort and has become a task to dread. Fortunately, her daughter doesn’t mind lifting her tired legs up and in, and her big panda is waiting there for her when the work is done. Like receiving prize money at the end of a marathon.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">The panda helps her tell time, too. When you’re tired and taking a lot of naps, it is easy to forget if it is daytime or nighttime.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span><span style="color: #1f3864;">Well, the panda knows. If it is daytime, he sits up on a pretty bed, with the covers all nice and neat. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">When it’s night, he lays down and waits for you. Mr. Knightly, the cat waits on your pillow, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(31, 56, 100);">——</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">When every part of your body is 90-years-old, it is easy to feel like your parts are falling apart, if they haven’t fallen off completely.</span><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">But, you know something?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">You can always feel good on Fridays.</span><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">When your daughter wakes you up and says, “It’s Heidi Day!”, you feel better. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">When you wake yourself up, and you remember it is “Darce Day!”, you feel better, too. </span><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">When you’re 90-years-old, you can forget it is 100 degrees outside and summertime, because you never leave the house, but you know more important stuff, like what it means to be <i>really </i>alive.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">It turns out, it is the simplest recipe around. Only takes three ingredients.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #1f3864; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 128;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="color: #1f3864;">Discovering new things.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #1f3864; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 128;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #1f3864;">Contributing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #1f3864; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 128;">3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #1f3864;">Connecting.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Learning this from Darce over a year after meeting her for that very first time, I’m beginning to understand the magic that is us. Not that I really need to, but we find ourselves trying to explain it and come up short. (I guess we always will.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">We enjoy this sweetest-of-dishes every Friday along with the pecan toffee bits we savor for dessert, if we haven’t already eaten them all. We like how they get stuck in our teeth, so we can enjoy them longer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">When Darce looks at me, she says, “You are who I used to be – DOING. BEING. ALIVE.” She seems to admire me in a way she was unable to admire herself. I doubt she ever asked herself, “Do you know how special you are?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">When I look at Darce, I see who I hope to be, 50 years from now.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Darce greets me with an eagerness only akin to those who love me for my own sake. She even remains interested in me, long after I take my seat. She asks great questions and laughs in all of the right places. She’s a great listener and thinks I’m a great listener, too. And we laugh at how much people talk and talk and talk, and at what they can’t hear us saying.</span><span style="color: #1f3864;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">Maybe we got the same superpower when we were 16 – when her Mom died and mine stopped walking. Maybe something is born in you when you become a teenage mother for your own Mom. Maybe that is why she “walks around more in the world of other people than in her own world,” and why I do, too.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">We wonder aloud what dying will be like. She is even fascinated by it, when she is not too tired to hold it away from herself to give it a good look. She thinks she is closer to knowing for sure, and I think she is right. But, she remains unafraid and in moments, would “welcome it, even.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">I imagine my Fridays without her. It makes my eyes sting and my throat lumpy. I imagine eating tacos by myself and wondering why TGIF doesn’t resonate the way it used to.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">I imagine writing a story to tell the tale of Darce and Heidi Day, and a desperation to share it with her.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">So, I stop imagining and I start writing. Because there’s still time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">I wrote the first page in the Taco Bell parking lot and read it to her yesterday. I asked for her input, but she wanted it to be all mine, so I’m finishing it this morning in my favorite spot. As we tried to remember the name of Paul Harvey at our last vist, I told her I would read her the “rest of the story” next Friday. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;">I hope she likes it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1f3864;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxi30Xt5xKHz8iAzU_iD8PJnJHFzSSsna-u1ofbbI_4p-c4OeLF-asLQIdZJc6qLqhfSq9mnO0UT_m4Acw1k8gB4tJvAHcK9egOIQO9rqiT8KOr1k76idri2SXRz75KpNZqdngXk8yg_LKUBRo_mGg3zc-EtC2rlNv7eSSJeX1gQbzmoB2wT1eG_q8Vw/s1080/5094F4F5-EDAA-4F25-8AB3-2246AFA52708.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="1080" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxi30Xt5xKHz8iAzU_iD8PJnJHFzSSsna-u1ofbbI_4p-c4OeLF-asLQIdZJc6qLqhfSq9mnO0UT_m4Acw1k8gB4tJvAHcK9egOIQO9rqiT8KOr1k76idri2SXRz75KpNZqdngXk8yg_LKUBRo_mGg3zc-EtC2rlNv7eSSJeX1gQbzmoB2wT1eG_q8Vw/s320/5094F4F5-EDAA-4F25-8AB3-2246AFA52708.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #1f3864;"><br /> </span><p></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-20947691587232440192022-07-16T08:21:00.002-05:002022-07-16T08:24:15.896-05:00Unwashed Strawberries<p>Standing in front of the coffee pot, I just refilled my second cup. The strawberries are still sitting where they’ve been sitting for the last couple of days. I bought them to cut up and put on ice cream, but didn’t use them all. </p><p>This morning, it occurred to me that perfectly good food can go to waste, if any effort is required to consume it. If I had washed the strawberries and put them in a bowl, they would have been eaten. If I had cut them up with the others, they would have been eaten. But, these remain locked away in the plastic box they came in, rotting on the counter in plain sight. </p><p>This, in a home where boys scavenge the pantry, counter, and refrigerator day and night.</p><p>Seems like a metaphor for all of the things that could be enjoyed, if we weren’t so afraid of work or tiny inconveniences. It reminds me of the old children’s story, where the housekeeper’s bonus was hiding under the rug. If she did her job thoroughly - and swept under the rug - she found the treasure that was hers.</p><p>While planning nothing in the order of cleaning or hard work on this Saturday morning, and prioritizing relaxation almost always, I am just wondering how many little joys we miss when we heed the lazy voice in our head. The one that urges us not to bother with the strawberries and to sit back down.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSYzMFF-yTJ4HLRjEcFlXy4VydgjDaQqJZ3L7pAvSUEGkeoDiVkUE-AdJ0Q7uvRvEF_znSCJSEX-PMH0b8mw3ENciVgJxqSDCLjn8b6m9cNJP8UZMhn3a9c_aXfEYRMoMqG6SxhILptT391bonWpe8CoGHYMBKVH0t4zCch049dm2TWlpZhDj_L8wAA/s2744/527D8003-E6DB-4550-8992-37C0F2B36AAB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1816" data-original-width="2744" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSYzMFF-yTJ4HLRjEcFlXy4VydgjDaQqJZ3L7pAvSUEGkeoDiVkUE-AdJ0Q7uvRvEF_znSCJSEX-PMH0b8mw3ENciVgJxqSDCLjn8b6m9cNJP8UZMhn3a9c_aXfEYRMoMqG6SxhILptT391bonWpe8CoGHYMBKVH0t4zCch049dm2TWlpZhDj_L8wAA/s320/527D8003-E6DB-4550-8992-37C0F2B36AAB.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-63130056841294154792022-06-19T22:04:00.003-05:002022-06-20T06:01:30.797-05:00Lego Dads <p>Yesterday is just one example among thousands of what a father might be doing on a Saturday, or any day. In this example, he’s examining the streamlet of water running down the curb and the patch of grass around the water meter that is greener than all the rest. He’s calling the City to see if this little situation is their’s or our’s. But “ours” really means “his” because I.know.nothing. </p><p>It’s ours. So… Lowe’s, water off, repairs, line cleared, water on, no hot water in the tub, water off, bathroom panel removed, water on, still no hot water, water off, glue extraction, polish tub knobs, water on, and we’re back in business. </p><p> I tell him thank you, and wonder how much I would have paid a plumber to do all of that. He’s sweaty and dirty and relieved it only took half of the day, and not the rest of it. </p><p>On this Father’s Day, I’m thinking about how fathers spend most of their time. A handful of words come to mind…Fixing. Providing. Teaching and Hiding (and Napping w.h.e.n.e.v.e.r. possible).</p><p>Fixing. Yesterday - water pipe. Last week - washing machine. Week before - neighbor’s bike tire. Before that, truck brakes. To do - Van upholstery, re-side the rest of the house, remodel bathroom. </p><p>Providing. Preparing to go to work. Time spent at work. Recovering from work. A friend once told me it is easy to forget that our husbands feel like they’ve been pulling a long train behind them all day when they walk through the door at night. I think she’s right. </p><p>Teaching. My boys love to imitate my husband yelling, “BOYS!” This is usually followed by some instruction on not leaving plates in the living room, or what it means to “clean the kitchen”, or how you put something back where you found it when you’re done using it, or some small detail about spray painting things, like PUT SOMETHING UNDER IT!</p><p>Hiding. Sometimes, fathers have to hide to get some time to themselves. The bathroom and garage are popular places. But, they’re good at hiding other things, too. Like little irritations, back pain, fear, fatigue, and how hard they are working.</p><p>Napping. Well-deserved, men. Nap away. </p><p>What is amazing to me, is that the two fathers in my life, my father and my husband, had no long-term in-house model. My husband was only 5-years-old when his Dad died. He dreamt he lived in the attic for some time afterward. My father’s in-house Dad was abusive or absent. And yet, these men continued to move forward through life like self-constructing Lego people. Observing the best of what they saw in the other men in their lives, and building those things into themselves. They are unrepeatable, irreplaceable, and so very.very.good.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrFHSnWMOj9Y_X5LGsMQPloPgwKr-b_dluHoJsYbs_eYSq_Rf5a69BJ-BaBkS6rylnh5Z6S8_ufFe_oqWxneCJnPPG_ncKl8lB8BepnmUp-nXV8Rq7VAevhur8BVnlquefgYUqyxQJWz31dAbPMAXVPJpioIogsxWpEnsBlgm9y8wymac6RyR9AxF2UQ/s1296/570B99B2-A2B6-4100-9938-E01D5BFEB6AA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="968" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrFHSnWMOj9Y_X5LGsMQPloPgwKr-b_dluHoJsYbs_eYSq_Rf5a69BJ-BaBkS6rylnh5Z6S8_ufFe_oqWxneCJnPPG_ncKl8lB8BepnmUp-nXV8Rq7VAevhur8BVnlquefgYUqyxQJWz31dAbPMAXVPJpioIogsxWpEnsBlgm9y8wymac6RyR9AxF2UQ/s320/570B99B2-A2B6-4100-9938-E01D5BFEB6AA.jpeg" width="239" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_UHKnlxDpZkK-qRfvLpcKZWln55KDP7Vs1L6GhkHVykcbL956TUczea1qID-B_etcsfcJolMfUU3eWkKEGmV5GpbBYt4mO0tdB_iTW4OGyhswIVoTU8i1LpRpXx-wanInQbqCwFDrKRybGPUdoSSB3mk4gePpJrHy_6rKxVLb2Ay0jZiDi0F0W7UOQ/s4032/45039371-EF00-4F82-A0CA-EC187621A140.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1816" data-original-width="4032" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_UHKnlxDpZkK-qRfvLpcKZWln55KDP7Vs1L6GhkHVykcbL956TUczea1qID-B_etcsfcJolMfUU3eWkKEGmV5GpbBYt4mO0tdB_iTW4OGyhswIVoTU8i1LpRpXx-wanInQbqCwFDrKRybGPUdoSSB3mk4gePpJrHy_6rKxVLb2Ay0jZiDi0F0W7UOQ/s320/45039371-EF00-4F82-A0CA-EC187621A140.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXhi3D3C0DrYe0Y31-CfDqdR_iALaJ7hJv6dkADuluBLz17xl8H9T-iJ5sQ0aNa1lQZf1s501_8Dt098ka8vg4NLnH1-VV74pymWSBLpVhM3DQpVSfnS69_7FA7Lsuc9GB8UHHOotZg4BCq4m3p7-XS0fYykmdl5yVg98agTkLu3zgIf1vyG-0a1ceg/s2851/3B1575EF-C3B9-4EC4-AF8B-D67A083E35BC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1816" data-original-width="2851" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXhi3D3C0DrYe0Y31-CfDqdR_iALaJ7hJv6dkADuluBLz17xl8H9T-iJ5sQ0aNa1lQZf1s501_8Dt098ka8vg4NLnH1-VV74pymWSBLpVhM3DQpVSfnS69_7FA7Lsuc9GB8UHHOotZg4BCq4m3p7-XS0fYykmdl5yVg98agTkLu3zgIf1vyG-0a1ceg/s320/3B1575EF-C3B9-4EC4-AF8B-D67A083E35BC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpIr5pZKyAQTp1zlq2ljt3jcIPppAnkUNZKTvfWq1HU7XoTiFFNGjtwSLUrLxP2-hvDkscNh0lf1O83UZ5TjIu0XBoA19Z6u4Y4EFBqdKBvSzsAG8W3jJdEgz7d1wd7N6vUjhWZz1SGmD_sdK78MsmG76VTPZY9Ek5CixKrgsriHGmqD7yvyq9qwDcug/s3648/F04F0C1A-E726-41EA-974E-C2E644FAE96C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpIr5pZKyAQTp1zlq2ljt3jcIPppAnkUNZKTvfWq1HU7XoTiFFNGjtwSLUrLxP2-hvDkscNh0lf1O83UZ5TjIu0XBoA19Z6u4Y4EFBqdKBvSzsAG8W3jJdEgz7d1wd7N6vUjhWZz1SGmD_sdK78MsmG76VTPZY9Ek5CixKrgsriHGmqD7yvyq9qwDcug/s320/F04F0C1A-E726-41EA-974E-C2E644FAE96C.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Happy Father’s Day to my Lego Husband, my Lego Dad, and to all of you Dads out there. Thanks for being who you are, doing all that you do, and paying for dinner. </p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-46230210471697663482022-06-05T22:10:00.006-05:002022-08-19T17:29:32.696-05:00A Gentle Disintegration<p>Yesterday, we took our first daytrip to the beach without all of the boys. The oldest was working. Today, the middle one drove solo for the first time. He got his driver’s license on Friday. He’s the really busy one and his busyness always necessitated a ride in the middle of my free time. So, we celebrate this new freedom right along with him, rather than validate the pit in our stomach provoked by the thought that “this is really happening.” </p><p>As a wise friend’s wise mother used to say, “Only sick birds don’t leave the nest.”</p><p>So, I don’t ask for time to stop or slow down because it is all well, and happening as it should. I’ve mentioned it before, but my friend calls the years your children are home, before anyone can drive, the “sweet spot”. Everybody is home, safe and secure under a loving and watchful eye. My sweet spot is disintegrating, but I am grateful that it has been slow and gentle. Measured in days and years, not seconds and minutes. </p><p>These past two weeks, many young people have lost their lives to murdering madmen. I get lost in trying to accompany their parents in their grief. I don’t know any of them, but I obsess, pray, and force myself into the present. And repeat. I see social media posts of people continuing to smile and live their lives like nothing has happened. I am amazed at this, at first. And then I join them, because I need the distraction. It is refreshing to see and share the good, as well as the bad, I reason. Like some weird balance in this land of unrelated-but-loosely-connected people.</p><p>Though social media wasn’t born, yet, Dr. Haim Ginott in “Between Parent and Teenager” describes the benefit of these loose connections, well. “Many teenagers are tormented by terrors they think private and personal. They do not know that their anxieties and doubts are universal. This insight is hard to convey. Each teenager must attain it on their own. It takes time and wisdom to realize that the personal parallels the universal, and what pains one man pains mankind.”</p><p>We have so much to learn from one another.</p><p>I sat with her again on Friday. She was asleep at the dining room table and came to with a touch on the shoulder and mention of her name. We flipped through her book, looking at the pictures. She didn’t remember writing it, seem to recognize her name on the cover, nor think it odd that if someone else wrote it, they sure included a lot of pictures of her family. </p><p>I was grateful again that she has given us so much to talk about in these pages of hers. Laugh-out-loud moments with her children, layers of loss, years of sacrifice, and joys beyond all telling. If we didn’t have them, I fear the shallowness of what would remain in their absence.</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: left;">It is my ability to share her story with her (because she had written it down for herself), that I do the <span style="text-align: center;">same.</span></div><p></p><p>One day, I may be dependent upon a stranger who visits frequently to tell me again who she is and what is this, again? Hopefully, hearing the stories will pluck the strings in my soul, releasing all of the chords to my favorite song. I will remember how we all “survived being alive”, and marvel at how whole and integrated I feel after a long life of unhurried and gentle disintegration, and a visit from a stranger.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEildWkDuBHHIKsG2OKvm-Yt1bXy0VnvjBKZaH_vACsOs3lUvwBATxhUrUJyUYA4k8O89zQbTzHTkBEmCQOfUk0QeeRUOwBkY3TSi8lDC1HhJeUY-qYFIaOhs4vPtELNgcfxXleLX5Afgu4eieUU4QJ9qtEzzFr4eTVqsQymu0q84bMD6avdNajp01Ratg/s1300/colorful-circular-confetti-splash-vector-illustration-isolated-on-transparent-background-P966E4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="1300" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEildWkDuBHHIKsG2OKvm-Yt1bXy0VnvjBKZaH_vACsOs3lUvwBATxhUrUJyUYA4k8O89zQbTzHTkBEmCQOfUk0QeeRUOwBkY3TSi8lDC1HhJeUY-qYFIaOhs4vPtELNgcfxXleLX5Afgu4eieUU4QJ9qtEzzFr4eTVqsQymu0q84bMD6avdNajp01Ratg/s320/colorful-circular-confetti-splash-vector-illustration-isolated-on-transparent-background-P966E4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-71530869905267213162022-05-02T09:45:00.002-05:002022-05-02T09:45:22.670-05:00One Night in an Inconvenient Hotel<p> Writing from a broken chair in Guthrie, OK. Trying to wake up and waiting for a storm to clear. Looking at the only thing to love here…A neon heart and an ice cream cone floating in the sky.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTBd0RI_Zn7fUCWNVzegLACfZYiWZ5sfhHs5ojmXhu0nBTOJbClAgS3rO-f2vXR3KFAhQCKEAWKsL3lZ9Tve37DjXlSqbqV66IdKf-QkVh6aDUWOaNRicSlNUbfxu3KFNS_lN-8NSUveV3QQ3UsllKVMk9x2_yZxFdQtbvDgpg1XRlSku45AjJ4QUwA/s4032/293B4C93-B3DB-4F8A-91D3-B8AAE5EDFEF9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTBd0RI_Zn7fUCWNVzegLACfZYiWZ5sfhHs5ojmXhu0nBTOJbClAgS3rO-f2vXR3KFAhQCKEAWKsL3lZ9Tve37DjXlSqbqV66IdKf-QkVh6aDUWOaNRicSlNUbfxu3KFNS_lN-8NSUveV3QQ3UsllKVMk9x2_yZxFdQtbvDgpg1XRlSku45AjJ4QUwA/s320/293B4C93-B3DB-4F8A-91D3-B8AAE5EDFEF9.jpeg" width="144" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I dried off with a hand towel and the A/C is broken, just like my chair. But, after trying two different rooms and opening the door to two someone-has-just-been-here-and-the-sheets-are-still-twisted-kind-of-dirty at my first stop, I’m lingering in my upgrade. <div><div><br /></div><div>Completely grossed-out by the old smoke-and-chlorine greeting in the lobby, the “great room” where I was to enjoy my complimentary breakfast from 6:30-9:30, and the generational fingerprints covering the elevator, I wondered what my expectations should be. Mostly, I just wanted a place to sleep… </div><div><br /></div><div>But, our brothers and sisters in the Ukraine keep coming to mind, and I ask myself how dare I experiment with any feelings but gratitude. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>They’re right, of course. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, thank you, Guthrie, Oklahoma. If I don’t see you again, take care. I will always remember you fondly as the place where I asked for my money back for the first time in my 44 years of life. And thank you for the reminder that I love that little saintly saying…</div><div><br /></div><div>When we get to heaven and look back on our earthly lives, it will seem like but one night in an inconvenient hotel. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-56081045113830189942022-02-26T22:04:00.000-06:002022-02-26T22:04:00.331-06:00Competitive Suffering<p>If only awareness of another’s suffering made our own disappear. </p><p>A week ago, my Mom had her leg amputated and an inch of collarbone removed. Even the pain between the two seems to be in competition. Her shoulder, the clear winner in the beginning, is now falling into a tie, but only because second place is catching up.</p><p>An elderly father is hospitalized for the third time in a month. A daughter wonders what is next and how to care for him, while working full-time to make ends meet. A marriage ends and arbitration begins. Someone receives a terminal diagnosis. A husband watches his wife of 50 years linger in her last days of life and he feels like he is “going to a funeral every day.” </p><p></p><p>The Ukraine is being invaded and bombed by Russia. Death and terror abound, and a 90-something can’t stop looking at the spots on her hands, ashamed they concern her at all - with all of the “real suffering” going on in the world. </p><p>If only awareness of another’s suffering made our own disappear. </p><p style="text-align: center;">If only... </p><p>A friend with a broken ankle decided to “stop whining” after listening to my Mom talk about her amputation. But, her ankle is still broken and 8-weeks of healing and rehabilitation are still ahead.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTakwJf3YQreQq8NYWRRiS_XOg9wo8lg5HybEgOCGUVMnRD1ZWL9p4tkUl8D-O0nXH4MbL49L7sQ_yIw2tcMMoMH66g_bRQ0QHABRL7NjthFzrtzpeK0ScYeV5LVjmI7zZkIdau6CaE9J-vcLJEnFeTAyoYBOkJl8j-74a-gUr5crQJAVnz8jIkTPRFw=s500" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="500" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTakwJf3YQreQq8NYWRRiS_XOg9wo8lg5HybEgOCGUVMnRD1ZWL9p4tkUl8D-O0nXH4MbL49L7sQ_yIw2tcMMoMH66g_bRQ0QHABRL7NjthFzrtzpeK0ScYeV5LVjmI7zZkIdau6CaE9J-vcLJEnFeTAyoYBOkJl8j-74a-gUr5crQJAVnz8jIkTPRFw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>As much as we wish it were different, being privy to another’s suffering doesn’t erase our own. And sometimes, perhaps most of the time, we feel shame about that. </p><p>But, if greater suffering vanquished lesser suffering, all who suffer less would have no suffering at all, and those who suffer most would be huddled together - suffering, without anyone who could understand or sympathize with them. </p><p>I think it is a noble instinct, though. To consider our own suffering as <i style="font-weight: bold;">nothing </i>the moment we hear of something more uncomfortable, tragic, or grandiose.</p><p>But, whatever suffering existed before awareness of a greater suffering, isn’t nothing. It still exists, and is perhaps even a greater suffering than before because it <i>does</i> exist and remains uncomfortable.</p><p>What then? My hope is that suffering “less” than another can bring <i>not </i>shame, but awe. Awe at greater suffering borne bravely, with a side of fruit. Abundant fruit. </p><p style="text-align: center;">Inspiration. Compassion. Patience. Perseverance. Gratitude. Goodwill. </p><p>Ankles can break, legs can be lost, and hands can grow concerning things in times of war, as well as peace. May sufferings great and small bring that mysterious grace which allows one to rejoice in them.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>…we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Romans 5:3-5</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-79116265549711091782022-02-04T02:57:00.011-06:002022-02-04T10:30:01.720-06:00Steve<p>Funerals aren’t unusual in the life of a hospice chaplain. The outcome and terms are understood when the relationship begins. You love and honor each person in life and death as much as they will allow. </p><p>But, I buried a friend this week and this funeral was very, very different. It seems that no one can bear to hear about it all at once. Or is it me that can’t bear to talk about it, all at once?</p><p>On Tuesday of this week, Steve, “the man who makes you cry” as my boys called him in the beginning, was laid to rest. </p><p>Our friendship began nearly seven years ago when I walked into Room 304. I was a new chaplain at my first nursing home assignment. He smiled, and the rest is history. </p><p>By way of explanation, he gestured toward the Lou Gehrig poster on the wall. Between one to two visits per week, a stylus and a letter board, I learned what and who and how long, but never why. </p><p>ALS. 51-years old. Given four to five years to live - four years ago, and his children were the same ages as mine. Yes, the more I came to understand, the more I cried. </p><p>I counted a bazillion losses and not a single complaint. Working, driving, bowling, volleyball, gambling, golfing, walking, talking, eating. A two-story apartment, one-story apartment, handicapped accessible apartment. Parenting, and all that goes with mobility and living independently, vanished one-by-one-by-one. </p><p>And yet, he was so happy. He was already “cried out”, accepted that he didn’t understand why him, and had made peace with it all, somehow.</p><p>Our friendship continued long after my employment ended, and we took a lot of pictures along the way. Goodbyes were consistent when little else was. </p><p><span style="text-align: center;">“I’ll see you next time.” </span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;">“I’ll be here.”</span></p><p>I even had a sign made to hang over his bed, which said that very thing…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjF6Pgdw6wjLEjyukOwnPJXAVeJZCxkhrIAw9cl4scLOYaOKTErPB9RVzkkMrXamUdvMdsb8OOzByuhJUjPY05uwaDqXzer1SIKyN_8zOQe6Smaiob2bmv5SlqVWNBuzUG9034e_b5uAEP-iubE3kjvWXc1vynI98tGAh2JuG7sLYb5LGzEIpj3R62O8g=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjF6Pgdw6wjLEjyukOwnPJXAVeJZCxkhrIAw9cl4scLOYaOKTErPB9RVzkkMrXamUdvMdsb8OOzByuhJUjPY05uwaDqXzer1SIKyN_8zOQe6Smaiob2bmv5SlqVWNBuzUG9034e_b5uAEP-iubE3kjvWXc1vynI98tGAh2JuG7sLYb5LGzEIpj3R62O8g=w181-h321" width="181" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFjWNE0YIXuiqz-V-AGbkkzkYbB3vvEi95szl5U5YCHsZd4FZzTDZuo_kh_jRl0e8oG_eTo7B-xNhDPLJLZi72e3xdSKGFSenhNBZQmVT-iNjwk-qdBjllWwHF2aObAXROS7H0Ejc6O3HoNrduxJs1QuLFsg2XWG2MtK7sbI0OYE3HXJhTY9lB8CsRlg=s960" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFjWNE0YIXuiqz-V-AGbkkzkYbB3vvEi95szl5U5YCHsZd4FZzTDZuo_kh_jRl0e8oG_eTo7B-xNhDPLJLZi72e3xdSKGFSenhNBZQmVT-iNjwk-qdBjllWwHF2aObAXROS7H0Ejc6O3HoNrduxJs1QuLFsg2XWG2MtK7sbI0OYE3HXJhTY9lB8CsRlg=s320" width="240" /></a><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5y7hcI7P-toxgl4nopJe_KldHgm3lBWV5fcufCE8tARC7UnWeNkUV6xAv18Kq1xt0NLvCseu5P6GrjQfWCvzeoWsqxj5FH8cTP0dGLjZNhWRs0UjzoEgtsnrGxF9fh1I4HHw0rf4vt5lGYZGwqNqno4U3ctPkpFg3arJoBl6DO9DVce9WzY5FZBrf-w=s912" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="912" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5y7hcI7P-toxgl4nopJe_KldHgm3lBWV5fcufCE8tARC7UnWeNkUV6xAv18Kq1xt0NLvCseu5P6GrjQfWCvzeoWsqxj5FH8cTP0dGLjZNhWRs0UjzoEgtsnrGxF9fh1I4HHw0rf4vt5lGYZGwqNqno4U3ctPkpFg3arJoBl6DO9DVce9WzY5FZBrf-w=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p>I always wanted to “be there” for him, but living in a different town with a family and full-time job made that a nice idea, rather than a reality. </p><p>I didn’t know how or when it could be different, until I was walking out of the hospital last week and heard someone call my name. His sister told me he was in the hospital and not doing well. I wrongly assumed he was still fighting. As clear as he had been about his fight to live since I met him, he was equally clear about being done. </p><p>I absolutely understood, and told him it was okay. I visited again the next day and had what would be our last conversation. I told him I would get his book published, agreed to do his funeral service, and told him I loved him. He loved me, too. </p><p>I got daily reports from his sister, waited for the word, and prayed. But, it just so happened that she needed to take care of some things one morning. Could I sit with Steve while she was out? Could I ever. </p><p>Three hours became eight when I asked for just a little while longer. I just held his hand, watched him breathe, listened to 80s music, and prayed in between. He never opened his eyes. The sacred gift of time, nowhere to be, and a comfortable chair were altogether new to and cherished by me in Room 304. My longest visit, and my last.</p><p>Steve died the next day.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoLH_eYv1H8rg0RM-StH4oFz122QOAYAJIbJQmsPE1Ani_d6WbugFifnpPbc7y7rXuAuUmDma-MOxtfj2UJm2fkYpW26NMxzHUShUVINeSkuDOHAis-ETVUC7pT3ZP1li-_3UVUGJ8Fq1iCklPguzHylAt4xs2KvTrso2-cCbCZkw1fBa9vCB4YqtRsA=s2910" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2910" data-original-width="1308" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoLH_eYv1H8rg0RM-StH4oFz122QOAYAJIbJQmsPE1Ani_d6WbugFifnpPbc7y7rXuAuUmDma-MOxtfj2UJm2fkYpW26NMxzHUShUVINeSkuDOHAis-ETVUC7pT3ZP1li-_3UVUGJ8Fq1iCklPguzHylAt4xs2KvTrso2-cCbCZkw1fBa9vCB4YqtRsA=s320" width="144" /></a></div><p></p>Like all who loved him, I was happy for him and sad for me, and wondered how on earth I could do his funeral, as promised. I looked through years of Facebook Messenger exchanges, read his book, and prayed. The problem wasn’t what to say, but what to leave out. <p></p><p>It took care of itself. </p><p>When the time came, I liked that I could see him from where I was sitting and hide behind this when the music was playing…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZklHjKDBPtRFm3TvwwI7cL0DoIsjeL7kou09U9zZdUn2nsNtNbfMjoctM5xLkesTGsBvE0mMupSFtxFQ4B0SpeZhZQ0ColPg866ZhDoBQT5zKbVH2k8xiP_66L242GHjaSdQiOISQHDsWeAnYDuVytf_cdjq2a15GECtmg8hyZoEVjKFl_QAVvPKjvg=s3142" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1816" data-original-width="3142" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZklHjKDBPtRFm3TvwwI7cL0DoIsjeL7kou09U9zZdUn2nsNtNbfMjoctM5xLkesTGsBvE0mMupSFtxFQ4B0SpeZhZQ0ColPg866ZhDoBQT5zKbVH2k8xiP_66L242GHjaSdQiOISQHDsWeAnYDuVytf_cdjq2a15GECtmg8hyZoEVjKFl_QAVvPKjvg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>With only the graveside service remaining, I was beginning to feel some relief and took my place in the funeral procession. After the lead car, in front of the hearse. Are you sure?</p><p>We were well on our way to the cemetery when I thought to readjust my rearview mirror. I’m not sure how something so significant can slip your mind, but there it was. </p><p>The hearse carrying my friend that I have only ever and always gone <i>to</i>, was carrying my friend <i>toward me</i>. The firsts and lasts competed, and collapsed in a pile. </p><p>Our first, last, and only road trip. Together, occupying space and time for the last time, traveling that last little stretch of blacktop. It was his turn to leave me behind, and it was my turn to say it.</p><p><span style="text-align: center;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> "I’ll be here.”</p><p>I tried to freeze time the only way I knew how.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ11HAfR6XiobiVrouwv_QffrVLQVe5_5M0kIwn_VijbOBy0n0ABv8cFoRjMBIflElADoDntVdd85pdJg2CUpu3wQ554LDymQGbd5HlU_Z46c3sGUzvYzYya1QCmtm1HpG2DrtowbtKXVuHmrSmR6dyizDTrd13CRpgPRg3eYYadOyihEiJ26ld4Nupg=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ11HAfR6XiobiVrouwv_QffrVLQVe5_5M0kIwn_VijbOBy0n0ABv8cFoRjMBIflElADoDntVdd85pdJg2CUpu3wQ554LDymQGbd5HlU_Z46c3sGUzvYzYya1QCmtm1HpG2DrtowbtKXVuHmrSmR6dyizDTrd13CRpgPRg3eYYadOyihEiJ26ld4Nupg=s320" width="144" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">After years of wondering what the end would look like, I wonder no more. He lived twice as long as they said he would. In that time, he wrote his story by blinking his eyes, one-letter-at-a-time. His story includes submissions from his friends, including me. The day after he died, I took a deep breath and plugged his USB into my computer, and learned that he took the time to reply to each friend. I scrolled past all the others. What did he have to say to me?! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He had plenty to say, and I had plenty of tears in reply.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What do you say when a man who can’t talk gets the last word?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I love you, too, Steve. The honor was all mine.</div> <p></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-17494603019877708372022-01-16T17:21:00.001-06:002022-01-16T17:21:53.249-06:00Jealous of the Cat<p>Sometimes, I am jealous of the cat. </p><p>Yes, it is embarrassing. </p><p>The thing is, she is in my husband’s lap every time he sits down. She looks at him and he pets her, and when no one is looking, they meow at each other. (Only, we <i>are</i> looking and we laugh at them.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_9AGGyHdKRZQQlhD0vYSde87FFno1nHRprVK-yyiWTQji-z8FMSKuwTeOK1FRraWPJoMM1SixrD4v2rbog1xP6R8IPJyR4132MoGfVuREGAOp4VtrPx0dAvX0sCnRMCxgZfElbVpDhS23smLmXmUTvFjDo9-_Sa348ztdq9fYppZIgFr5fwCCTym8yA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_9AGGyHdKRZQQlhD0vYSde87FFno1nHRprVK-yyiWTQji-z8FMSKuwTeOK1FRraWPJoMM1SixrD4v2rbog1xP6R8IPJyR4132MoGfVuREGAOp4VtrPx0dAvX0sCnRMCxgZfElbVpDhS23smLmXmUTvFjDo9-_Sa348ztdq9fYppZIgFr5fwCCTym8yA=s320" width="156" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I’ve come to realize when our time at home increases, the cat’s time with my husband is also sure to increase, but my time may or may not. After all, she demands it, and feels no shame about being needy. No shame at all.</span></p><p>But, I’m a quality-timer, too, and while I am content with the time I get with my husband most of time, I am not content all of the time. And in those times, I am jealous of the cat.</p><p>Ever heard that open mouths are the ones who get fed? Sometimes, like today, I care more about getting what I need than about my pride, so I open my mouth and admit I need a little time (and that I am jealous of the cat). </p><p>Yes, I said it! You might guess this would get at least an eyeroll or blow up and out as a ridiculous notion that didn’t warrant a compassionate response, but you would be wrong. Or, you might guess that it would lead to a conversation about cat behavior, that I am <i>not at all</i> interested in, and you would be right. But, even that is better than most any other possibility. </p><p>My husband graciously and generously granted my wish (like a really handsome genie) and we walked, and talked. By the time we were through, I realized that mainly, I don’t want our lives and the interactions they consist of, to be <i>in passing</i>. </p><p>Boys need to build stuff, fix bikes, replace brakes on trucks, and go hunting and fishing. They make it known and they get the time they need to do those things with their Dad. Wives need… Well, wives need none of those things. Not this wife, anyway.</p><p>There is no existing hobby or project that leads to sitting on the driveway for an afternoon or in a hunting blind all weekend. Not for this wife. There’s always plenty to do in and around the house, but those things have fallen comfortably into his and hers, and rarely the two shall meet. </p><p>We’ve hiked, canoed, and golfed, and there are a lot of things we haven’t tried. Of course, I can also sit idly by watching his projects, go hunting, or any number of things to gain time. But, <span style="font-size: xx-small;">“it shouldn’t be so hard” </span>lurks in the background and suggests that something is wrong with the arrangement.</p><p>Thankfully, I’ve seen a lot of hard situations in marriage and know that this is a lot of crap. (Please, excuse the term.) Imagine being the keeper of all of your spouse’s memories when they don’t even know your name. “It shouldn’t be so hard” needs to be checked early and often. Its insistence doesn’t make it true. Just because something is natural or beautiful or noble, doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be hard. Breastfeeding, anyone?</p><p>In the end, I got what I needed with the walking and talking, and know that healthy relationships must undergo and remain open to negotiation.</p><p><i>As love matures, it also learns to “negotiate”. Far from anything selfish or calculating, such negotiation is an exercise of mutual love, an interplay of give and take, for the good of the family. At each new stage of married life, there is a need to sit down and renegotiate agreements, so that there will be no winners and losers, but rather two winners.” </i>Pope Francis, <i>Amoris Laetitia, The Joy of Love</i></p><p>Meow.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-19599550047710580822022-01-09T17:08:00.049-06:002022-01-12T09:15:43.164-06:00Life's Pages<p>I've been thinking about writing a book for as long as people have been telling me I should, which has been awhile now.</p><p>My husband insists I have "a book in me" and breakfast with one of my dearest friends always starts with the same question. "Have you found a publisher, yet?"</p><p>Honestly, I laugh at the thought of having anything left to write (and the irony of this post in light of that). Ecclesiastes and nothing-new-under-the-sun are forerunners in reasons why not. There is no storehouse of ideas, or anything within me that feels like it is waiting to be written. </p><p>Perhaps, it is what I've <i>already</i> written, they suggest. </p><p>While this is very nice and affirming, it hasn’t proven a springboard for anything other than good feelings about what has already been done. </p><p>But, occasionally things happen which feel like a nudge toward something. Things that make me think that <i>maybe</i> I shouldn’t rule it out. Not just, yet.</p><p>Little things like little questions in little blue books that say, “Take something that feels big and make it smaller. What is the first step?”</p><p>And big things, like meeting a new hospice patient and her family. Carol. Her greatness unfolded right there at the kitchen table, in part, but not exclusively borne of her length of years. I admired her bright eyes, painted fingernails, and her paintings on the walls. </p><p>I inquired about whether she'd ever consider writing a book. Her daughter-in-law replied that she already had. Her son disappeared from the table and placed it into my very hands.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZngIYnkyDrGT0IgWCvVCEF91e7WbBZ_0Kob9G0qeHHqlGvPPMltjkJAtrKLNEFdgVIjUlKMZAjkTsvtea2bUm5zA6BvI-i7kEvabfpjIL-6Xd7cRMJEHtnWt4czia_Wfha0sthe62z3ouQ2WaY-3iO8_7ElmSZe89gpgbmQEHuHgMkQwyNaavVGASzA=s2368" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2368" data-original-width="1752" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZngIYnkyDrGT0IgWCvVCEF91e7WbBZ_0Kob9G0qeHHqlGvPPMltjkJAtrKLNEFdgVIjUlKMZAjkTsvtea2bUm5zA6BvI-i7kEvabfpjIL-6Xd7cRMJEHtnWt4czia_Wfha0sthe62z3ouQ2WaY-3iO8_7ElmSZe89gpgbmQEHuHgMkQwyNaavVGASzA=s320" width="237" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I had to fight back tears, and said as much. Not just because she'd done the work of it, but because an aggressive dementia has closed the window of time when doing any such thing again would be out of the question. She simply stated that she started with a table of contents, went as far back as she could remember, and went from there. </span></p><p>I’ve only just begun to read it, but I am in awe of it. Its cover, contents, and weight. I think about all that has happened within her life and its pages, and wonder how much of it she remembers or would have been lost without her rendition.</p><p>She reminds me that there is more than one reason to write a book. For yourself, now. For your family. For hospice chaplains and interested strangers. For profit, if you have the means. And for yourself, later.</p><p>Only the last reason might be the one for me. The one that pushes me over the edge from dreaming to doing. What if by writing these things now, I can revisit my life again as me with intimate knowledge or as an outsider who has forgotten? As one who admires the main character in the story, but has forgotten I <i>was</i> her? Or as one who gains some warmth of soul by hearing a “new” story written in a really, really, really familiar way? </p><p>Carol’s first chapter begins with a quote by James Barrie. “God gave us memories that we might have June roses in the December of our lives.” </p><p>Thank God for difficult ideas and realities put simply and beautifully. </p><p>And thank God for Carol and the Prestenbach family, <i>The Bends In My Road</i>, and the ability to inspire at every age and in every circumstance. For June roses in December, thoughtful planting, safe-keeping, and books waiting to be written…</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-91906115837933457492021-11-09T00:26:00.001-06:002022-03-12T00:21:20.415-06:00Marriage Counseling on Mondays<p>Today is our 19th wedding anniversary. It would be easy just to post a pretty picture and congratulate ourselves on a marriage that keeps getting better and better, because it does. But, it could not convey the gratitude I have for Monday meetings that hold my feet to the marriage fire (however uncomfortable that may be) nor let my marriage counselors know their message is out, and you’ve been invited in.</p><p>Today is our 19th wedding anniversary, and there is something you should know. I meet regularly with 20 or so marriage counselors. Every Monday. All at the same time. </p><p>I agree. It’s a little unconventional. </p><p>But, it works. </p><p>My marriage counselors understand the blessing and the work required in marriage. They understand keeping your vows in sickness and in health until “death do us part.” They believe in a love stronger than death because they lived it, and they continue to live it. Their spouses of 7, 38, 56, 60 years and all the years in between, left this earthly life without them.</p><p>They show up on Mondays to learn from each other, and I am there to learn from them. They don’t talk at the same time, but they say the same thing. </p><p>They share their undying love for their spouse and their horror as they observe husbands and wives taking each other for granted, being cool, dismissive, and unkind. They want to shake us, or avoid us altogether because our ignorance hurts them so. </p><p>Oh, what they would give for what we blindly throw away. </p><p>Everyone in the room has lost their spouse, but me. Yet, they let me sit at the table and ask questions, and pray, and learn. </p><p>I pry. No, they don’t ever remember being lonely in their marriage before their spouse died. </p><p>Really? </p><p>Yes, really. Because their spouse was still <i>there</i>, they tell me. Any loneliness they felt in marriage while their spouse was living was <i>so pale</i> in comparison to the loneliness of widowhood, it slips into non-existence. All of the loneliness, little annoyances and irritations, hurts and disagreements slip into…</p><p>I wish we had room for silent observers, I tell them. I wish other married people could sit where I sit, and see what I see, and hear what I hear. Especially those who are coasting along, those who are troubled, and those who are ready to quit…The tired, fed-up, and unhappy. </p><p>I also wish scarcity of time and abiding love weren’t so-darn-easy to doubt. But, I’m a married woman staying up late to write while my husband sleeps in our bed, and I know that they are. Only I have years of Mondays to remind me of the truth, and when I forget, Monday is never more than seven days away.</p><p>So, Happy 19th Anniversary to us! It just keeps getting better and better. Mondays (and all of the days) remind me of the treasure I have in my husband, the time we have, the life we share, the memories we’ve made and the pictures we’re lucky enough to keep taking. Thank you to my husband whose love continues to mold me and to all who make sure I never forget. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6w1Ri3nZf642m3RkYG-xG0nId5ZRqI-B7ZmGygHeMumYc-WvcdlLGXp4CQg1qs6snOlOzcvHMDeF6UbE03-m6bAXzeLZM_WFfhAiH1A3ddrD1BNP8ZyL7bS7vhQf21fnWtB9B5vB9c0g/s2048/5768EA8C-8C6B-410F-A91E-3D123AB03F9E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6w1Ri3nZf642m3RkYG-xG0nId5ZRqI-B7ZmGygHeMumYc-WvcdlLGXp4CQg1qs6snOlOzcvHMDeF6UbE03-m6bAXzeLZM_WFfhAiH1A3ddrD1BNP8ZyL7bS7vhQf21fnWtB9B5vB9c0g/s320/5768EA8C-8C6B-410F-A91E-3D123AB03F9E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2710513473784394573.post-42478370131705584162021-09-12T15:48:00.002-05:002021-09-12T16:30:11.180-05:00Lingering Dragonflies<p>Once upon a time, a beautiful girl sat on her driveway and talked to a dragonfly, as she cupped him in her hands, and cried. </p><p>I know this because that beautiful girl is my niece, my sister is her Mom, and once upon a time was this morning. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOyrP3AtDzdm1KTUwiM7BqSoCmmcZfaSYXaGvmnFf6d1Ep699nkNjy7C1rKgFyOYPB4gDeirp_GRn_L4gdb45DD7b8kJ-86SeIgg4aUm5FmxjrjRelsCb5ORBXoAoGZJ-hruS0jlzf6KC/s960/D427CE31-84E3-43F8-BBA4-F030536A9C0A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOyrP3AtDzdm1KTUwiM7BqSoCmmcZfaSYXaGvmnFf6d1Ep699nkNjy7C1rKgFyOYPB4gDeirp_GRn_L4gdb45DD7b8kJ-86SeIgg4aUm5FmxjrjRelsCb5ORBXoAoGZJ-hruS0jlzf6KC/s320/D427CE31-84E3-43F8-BBA4-F030536A9C0A.jpeg" width="272" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I love my niece and I like dragonflies, and I think it is cool that she got to hold one, but there is more.<div><br /></div><div>One of her best friends died from brain cancer in July. He was only 22. He promised his Mom he would come back and visit as a dragonfly. And this isn’t the first time he’s visited.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to believe this, but I also want to reject the idea that would allow a human to visit his loved ones as a dragonfly, but not as a…human. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, then I remember a Scripture I recently read about freedom…</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNj3i6lpmM_e8GMABzUdx-MYtojzydOaYF490yi75krO3oHElMUZmdFL0Qw6RgyDzRi1BrIERZBMVoQiqL2IdXvdjJmfTeQoqCsg7oQNyWuuSwr6AN1gkGzYyzO1cuiQlGBJvSVsjLysW/s1603/25EDBFC7-A3EF-4062-996E-697FFE913929.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="1603" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNj3i6lpmM_e8GMABzUdx-MYtojzydOaYF490yi75krO3oHElMUZmdFL0Qw6RgyDzRi1BrIERZBMVoQiqL2IdXvdjJmfTeQoqCsg7oQNyWuuSwr6AN1gkGzYyzO1cuiQlGBJvSVsjLysW/s320/25EDBFC7-A3EF-4062-996E-697FFE913929.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What would a soul do, if it were free? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If a human dies, it is because the body has stopped living. The soul remains unharmed and is freed from the confines of its weighty clothes, which previously bound it to the earth when walking, or the bed when walking became no more.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, a body has died and a soul has returned to its Creator. By some heavenly agreement, souls are allowed to visit those they love. Maybe to keep their word. Maybe to offer consolation and hope. But, what to wear?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One woman described re-entering her body after a near-death experience as donning an old, heavy, wet pair of coveralls. Blech.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If souls are truly free, can they choose to wear anything they want (except for their old body, which they wouldn’t want, anyway)? It seems as though they should. Today, a dragonfly visited a friend. Cardinals and butterflies are visiting others, elsewhere. Who can blame them? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Those who have visited heaven describe traveling at the speed of thought. Barriers do not impede and effort is not required. If I were to visit the earth after living in such a way, I would certainly choose to visit as something that could fly. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom…</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p></div>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01555387653690169116noreply@blogger.com1