Darce Day

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. 

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.

(A video of me reading Darce’s story to her, here…https://youtu.be/jx5tukDPZuE)

“Darce Day”

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had 90-year-old eyes and 90-year-old teeth.  

On days when she is feeling blue, her daughter cheers her up by saying, “At least you have your own teeth!”

 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.

 “Have you ever thought about what it’s like to talk to someone without being able to see them?” she asks.

 

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.

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!”

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.  

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 me.

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.

Not exactly sure what, but something magical happened between lunch sacks, and whatever was said before or after looking at them.  

It was decided that only weekly visits would do, even though monthly visits from this hospice chaplain was the normal order of things.

And Friday would be the best, because Darce’s daughter had to do this thing called work.

So, Fridays at lunchtime became the high point of Darce’s week.  And Heidi’s, too.

———

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.  

Subway turned into Taco Bell, and how can tacos taste so good EVERY.SINGLE.WEEK?!

 But, they do.

 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.

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.  

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.

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.

 Well, the panda knows.  If it is daytime, he sits up on a pretty bed, with the covers all nice and neat.  

When it’s night, he lays down and waits for you.  Mr. Knightly, the cat waits on your pillow, too.

——

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. 

But, you know something?

You can always feel good on Fridays. 

When your daughter wakes you up and says, “It’s Heidi Day!”, you feel better.  

When you wake yourself up, and you remember it is “Darce Day!”, you feel better, too.   

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 really alive.

It turns out, it is the simplest recipe around.  Only takes three ingredients.

1.     Discovering new things.

2.     Contributing.

3.     Connecting.

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.)

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.

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?”

When I look at Darce, I see who I hope to be, 50 years from now.

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. 

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.

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.”

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.

I imagine writing a story to tell the tale of Darce and Heidi Day, and a desperation to share it with her.

So, I stop imagining and I start writing.  Because there’s still time.

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.  

I hope she likes it.

 

Steve

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.   

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?

On Tuesday of this week, Steve, “the man who makes you cry” as my boys called him in the beginning, was laid to rest.  

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.  

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.  

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. 

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.  

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.

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.  

“I’ll see you next time.”  

“I’ll be here.”

I even had a sign made to hang over his bed, which said that very thing…

 

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.  

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.  

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. 

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.  

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.

Steve died the next day.

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. 

It took care of itself.  

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…

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?

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. 

The hearse carrying my friend that I have only ever and always gone to, was carrying my friend toward me.  The firsts and lasts competed, and collapsed in a pile.  

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.

                                                                         "I’ll be here.”

I tried to freeze time the only way I knew how.

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?!  

He had plenty to say, and I had plenty of tears in reply.

What do you say when a man who can’t talk gets the last word?

I love you, too, Steve.  The honor was all mine.

 

Mr. Al

A friend was laid to rest yesterday.  I learned that he died through a Facebook post by someone I didn't know, shared by someone I did know.  And I wept.  The flood of emotion surprised me, as we never talked on the phone, visited each other's homes, or saw each other very often.

Twelve years ago, we worked in the same place.  He swept and carried donated goods to the back.  I coordinated payment of overdue bills and wrote food and clothing vouchers.  We'd share a meal on the days I brought enough for two, and he would bless it.  Thanking God for it and asking for protection against sickness from it.  

I don't know if he was paid for his work, or if he was just happy to be of service.  But, there was a misunderstanding along the way, and he stopped coming.  From then on, our meetings were a little more happenstance and much less frequent, but always a delight.  He loved my children and I loved him.

More than a decade has passed since our friendship began.  I never understood how he lived and maybe it was that that kept me from realizing that, one day, he would die?

This makes me feel pretty stupid because I work in hospice and yet, Al's death caught me off-guard and knocked me for a loop.  

 I've heard that all grief is selfish and this sentiment has never been more true.

Selfishly, I wish I would have seen him more recently.  I wish I could have been there with him at the end, or at least in the days preceding.  I wish I could have offered him something, or let him know about the place he held in my heart.  But, my loss is my own.  

He was the epitome of one who died as they lived.  He did it his way.  Alone, outside, under a tree.  By all appearances, he just went to sleep.  And I can't feel sorry for that.  That is a good way to go, if that is the way it best suited you to live the last 30 years of your life.  

I will feel blessed if I am able to walk to the place where I lay down for the last time and someone finds me the next day.  It's the dying over months and years that I want to avoid.  But, I wonder.  Did he know he was so near death?  What was he thinking as he prepared to lay down on the hard ground for the last time?  

Certainly, he did not know that the local media would be covering his funeral with full military honors, or informing all about his stint as an IRS attorney, after serving in Vietnam with the Air Force.

What would he say about that?

I can't help but think he wouldn't have a lot to say.  He'd simply be watching quietly from a distance, on a bench tucked away in the shade.

"...part of the secret of heaven:  that each affects the other and the other affects the next, and the world is full of stories, but the stories are all one."  

Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven

Going, Going, Gone

A few stories from the lives of people I love.  People who are saying good-bye or wishing they had the chance...

~I helped a friend go through some of her belongings last night; Some were 50 years old or better.  I pulled stuff out from under her bed and went through her kitchen cabinets.  I boxed up what she didn't want and brought it home.  My friend is 95-years-old, and is moving away to her old hometown, where she can see the ocean from her living room. 

She moved several times within her retirement facility in the last couple of years, and each time, she has gotten rid of things she's held onto for most of her life.  The green dress she wore in Las Vegas once was not about to go, but that was an exception.  During this final purge, amongst boxes of jello, wine glasses, and an old sugar crock, I was fighting back the tears.  It didn't seem to be the least bit painful for her, but watching her have to let go of the simplest things because there will no longer be room nor need of them, were little deaths for me.

In the midst of a season, in a world, where acquiring is life, I know she's on the other side.  She will be moving mid-January.  God willing,  I will see her a couple more times after the Christmas Break, but that will probably be it, for good.  And that is a hard thing to know.

I hate good-byes.  I especially hate them when they are forever.  Although, fortunately, we can only move through life going forward, so I have rarely known these ahead of time.   A friendship made between rides to hair appointments and lunches at Whataburger is going, going,...

~Another friend celebrated her 60th wedding anniversary this year.  She and her husband split up a few months later.  But, only because they had to.  He left the retirement facility one-too-many times without signing out, and became a liability.  (Going to the donut shop is fine, but be careful if you are too young or too old).  His mental faculties are declining, and can no longer safely stay put, with his wife of 60 years.  He was moved to his own apartment in a nearby building, which his wife can reach by a short bus ride.  He calls her all day long.  Her voice is the only thing familiar.  Their marriage, as they know it, is going, going...

~One of my dearest friends over the past nine years lost her daughter on October 30th of this year.  She was murdered by her ex-boyfriend, who had been stalking her for months.  He killed her, set her house on fire, and shot himself.  She was 41-years-old.  A well-loved beauty who loved dogs, motorcycles, and life. 

I was helping my friend clean out her daughter's house a couple weeks ago.  Everything was just as she left it, except it was all covered in soot.  There was plenty of food in the pantry, dishes in the dishwasher, and cigarettes in the ashtray.  The days were marked off on the calendar up to the day before she died. 

On earth, all that is left of Tabitha is the incredible love her family and friends have for her, which will never be able to cover the excruciating pain they feel at having her ripped out of their lives.  From the outside looking in, it seems the only pain that comes close, is that of not getting to say good-bye. 

Sometimes, we get to prepare for the end.  The end of a relationship or the end of a life. 

And, sometimes, we don't.

Dear God, thank you for old and new friends.  Thank you for the way our lives get all tangled up, so that we can't help but be influenced by one another.  I know You hear the cries of anguish from Your beloved people.  Please comfort them, as only You can.  My hands are sweaty on the keyboard and I feel shaky inside, putting these stories together on one page, when each one has impacted me so deeply.  Please, please, please let their pain be fruitful for all who are touched by it - That we may love better and more - That we may forgive and make our forgiveness known - Like we don't have forever to get it right.  Amen.

Eternal rest grant unto Tabitha, O Lord, and let Perpetual Light shine upon her.  May she rest in peace.  Amen.

Friendship and the Power to Change the World

It's barely 8:00 on Sunday morning, and I have walked for 30 minutes, prayed the Rosary (during my walk), and finished my morning prayer.  All of my boys are still asleep.  I cannot tell you how good this feels!  I want to share this with you, because it's new and it's happening because of the influence of one person. 

Yesterday, I downloaded the Couch to 5K app on my phone, and headed out the door at 6:45am to begin Day 1.  I arrived back home in 30 minutes sweaty and satisfied.  I dropped my gym membership about a year ago, and haven't done much of anything since then.  I just couldn't commit nor did I even want to.  Until two days ago.

Two days ago, I got together with a friend who has three boys (like me) and a 7-month-old baby girl.  She was wearing her workout clothes when we arrived, so I pressed about her exercise routine.  She told me she gets up early before her kids wake and walks/jogs for 20 minutes, and she's not a runner.  One of her earliest nicknames was "Turtle".  This blew me away.  She has one more little one than I do, is not "good" at running, and she was still finding a way to exercise! 

Just knowing that she was doing it, was all I needed!  She changed my world.  There was other fruit from the time spent together as well, and I found myself marveling at the impact she made on me in the span of a morning.

It just so happens that my boys and I have had a lot of friend time this week, and I felt similarly inspired and challenged after each encounter.  Feeling very blessed in friendship, pondering the impact of those friendships, and making concrete changes in my life because of them was the perfect thought environment to enter into the Living Life With Passion and Purpose talk by Matthew Kelly I attended yesterday.

He had a lot of compelling things to say about the voice of God, personal clarity, Jesus, and being who you should be, and I plan to ponder them for some time.  I highly encourage you to check him out if you are looking to change your life in a powerful and positive way. 

One of the things that really stuck with me was the idea of a Spectrum of Engagement.  In any given area of our life (marriage, parenting, work, play) we engage anywhere from 100% to not-at-all.  "We engage or disengage in EVERYTHING we do".  He discussed what their research has shown about the two qualities highly engaged people always have:

1.  They're committed to continuous learning.
2.  They're hungry for best practices.  (Who's the best in the world at this and what can I learn from them?)

He also discussed the idea of universal talent vs. unique talent.  Universal talent is something we can all do.  Our universal talent is the ability to make a difference in other people's lives.  But, because we all have it, we tend to de-value it.  This is in contrast to unique talent (being exceptional at something), which is the type of talent our culture is obsessed with.  "Our culture takes what's important and makes it trivial, and takes what's trivial and makes it important."

These ideas took me back to thinking about my friends.  My friends are highly engaged people.  Only I never would have thought to label them before.  This is what attracts me to them.  This is why they challenge and inspire me.  This is why I need to make a better effort (which in my case, is any), to spend time with them. 

I am the beneficiary of my friends' universal talent - Their ability to make a difference in the lives of others, and specifically, my own.  In my conscious thought, if I could choose between being the best in the world at something, or having the power to impact another's life for good, I would choose the second.  Every time.

But, in my subconscious mind, it is easy to fantasize about the first and overlook the second.  The "bests" in the world are easy to envy.  Their lives are so "pretty" from the outside.  But, this past week with my friends, and listening to Matthew Kelly reminded me of the power contained in friendship.

Fr. Scott Reilly says, "Every person is a world.  Change one person, you change a world." 

I don't know who is the best in the world at being a wife, a mother, or a friend.  But, I know who are the best in my world, and that's all I need to know.


Dear Heavenly Father,

Thank you for my friends, and the power of their example!!  Thank you for the opportunity to listen to Matthew Kelly speak yesterday and the seeds that were planted.  Thank you for friends who reach out, even and especially when it's not "their turn".  Please forgive my selfishness and lack of generosity.  Please help me to value what is important, devalue what is trivial, and know the difference.  Thank you for couch to 5K phone apps, and rosaries on podcast.  Thank you for Sundays and the freedom we have in this country to worship You without fear.  I love You and I thank You from the bottom of my heart for giving me companions on this journey who make me better.  Amen.

Chopped Liver and Boy-Packed Lunches

I read something today that explains a lot. 

In New Guinea, "Children were considered babies until they lost their front teeth.  When this happened, the little boys of the tribe left their mothers and went to live with the men in the village.  Fathers then took over the nurturing of their sons and the mothers raised the girls." - A Mother's Touch by Elise Arndt

Ohhhhhhh.  My middle son just lost both of his front teeth and not so coincidentally, I am chopped liver at my house.  No, I am not exaggerating.  Every night the two older boys fight over who gets to sit by Daddy at the dinner table.  The one who loses (who has to sit by me) is usually close to tears.

Just this afternoon, the youngest was down for a nap, the middle one was gone with Daddy, and my oldest was watching a movie.  Before, I sat down with a book and a cup of coffee, I asked him, "Are you happy watching the movie, or would you like to do something with me?"  He asked, "Why?"  I said "because if you don't want to do something together, I'm going to sit down and read."  He said, "You can do whatever you want to do."  So, I happily plopped down with my book, after being dismissed by my second-grader.

Just thought I'd share in case you are also experiencing being "phased out".  It's normal.

On a different note, I visited a friend last week and was able to see her "Kids Contribution" poster hanging up in her kitchen.  A gold mine in plain view for my plundering!  However, after laying my eyes on the "Pack your lunch" item, I had everything I needed.  Thank you, Julia!  Thank you, Amy for suggesting it to her!  Thank you, Elizabeth for pairing them up in your Titus mentor Mom program!  (Have you read Spiritual Mothering by Susan Hunt?  I never finished it, but would love to donate it to your cause, if you should want it.)

So, this last week, my boys started packing their own lunch.  This is coming at the perfect time, because just the week before, my husband was (unusually) home during our get-ready-for-school routine.  He was very unimpressed with my boys lack of respect and appreciation when fielding my questions about what to put in their lunch box.  Problem solved.

Another unforeseen benefit, is that one of my kiddos is a slow mover in the mornings.  In order for him to have time to pack his lunch, he has to keep moving.  If he doesn't, there is a natural consequence waiting for him - he has to eat school lunch.  Hee hee.  I just love natural consequences.

Oh, I almost forgot --in fact, I did forget, and came back to add this in-- Not having to make my sons' lunches returns time to my schedule, which allows me to sit with them at the breakfast table and read The Lives of the Saints.  Major bonus.

Another thing Julia mentioned (and which also came up this weekend in conversation with another), was encouraging our children to ask the question, "Is there anything I can do to help?"  We need to encourage the spirit of service.  This is my next quest.  Thank you, friends.

Dear Heavenly Father,  Thank you for last night's Confession with a new priest and the gift of Yourself in the Eucharist this morning!  Thank you for lessons from New Guinea.  Thank you for the gift of friendship and writing on the wall.  Thank you for loaning my boys to me.  Please "help me to do all I can to prepare them for the day when You will call them home. Thank you for the humility gained in motherhood.  I love You and can palpably feel Your love for me.  Thank you.  Amen.

Reflection On A "Short" Life

If you read my last post, you know that I had a friend who died over the weekend.  She was 60 years old and a long-time friend of the family.  She didn't have any children of her own, so she "adopted" me and my siblings.  She would take us for a week in the summer to go fishing, make dolls, and just "be".  And she died in the middle of the night.  Her husband went to wake her when she didn't get up at the sound of her alarm, and she was gone. 

I've been thinking about how 60 seems like such a young age to die, and how it is harder to accept death when it seems wrong in some way. 

I bought my boys a couple of books on the lives of the Saints for the Feast of St. Nicholas, with the idea that we would learn about a new one every day of the year.  Our reading has been more miss than hit, but it occurred to me that most of the saints we've learned about die somewhere in or around their 40's.  Many younger than that, but few older.

That got me to thinking that if Heaven is full of people who have lived "short" lives, then maybe their lives aren't so short after all.  If you have lived long enough to enter Heaven, then that's really all that matters.  Time spent speculating on all that could have been, or lamenting the chasm between the final outcome and our expectations, is not time well spent.

Maybe one of the reasons for the many, many saints produced by centuries past, is that the people knew they wouldn't have 80 plus years to get it right.  If we were middle-aged at 20, there would probably be a lot less pot-smoking going on, and a lot more praying!  Maybe we would live more consciously.  My guess is that we would more readily live a life that glorifies God, and at a much younger age, too.    

Dear God, Thank you for the peace that comes with the first day back to school.  Thank you for my friend, Linda, and for the time we spent together.  Thank you for the lives of the saints, and the way they inspire us to emulate them.  You are the Author of Life and Redeemer of death.  Thank you for giving us Your Son, who is everything we need to spend eternity with You.  Amen.      

I Should Have Answered the Phone

Have you ever had someone in your life that simply loved you well?  No strings attached.  Love without obligation or responsibility.  Love that seeks you out because you're you.  Years go by without seeing one another or even talking on the phone, but the world is still a friendlier and sunnier place because you know they're out there and they're crazy about you?  And the only memories you have together are good and wonderful with no junk thrown in?

I have.

 And today, during my son's naptime, my phone rang, and the number belonged to one of these special someone's.  But, I didn't answer.  I knew it was going to be a long conversation since we hadn't caught up in so long, and my son was asleep, and I was working on a gift that I needed to finish by tomorrow, blah, blah, blah...  So, I didn't answer and thought I would call her a little later today.

On the way to Mass, my friend called me again.  Once again, I didn't answer because I didn't have time to talk (and I hate it when people answer the phone to tell me they don't have time to talk - especially when I haven't talked to them in a really long time).  I generally think it is best practice to let your voicemail get it, if you really can't talk.  But, today, that was not what was best.

I got in the car after Mass and my husband's phone rang.  It was my Mom trying to get a hold of me.  She called to tell me that her (and my) lifelong friend died yesterday.  The same one I thought was calling me a couple of hours before.  When I didn't answer.  Only it couldn't have been.  She died yesterday.  It must have been her husband calling me from her phone, trying to get in touch with me, to let me know.  I tried to call him back tonight, but he didn't answer.  I left a voicemail.

I will be going to KS for the funeral in a couple of days and will be chewing on memories between now and then.  She was a tried and true friend to my Mom and my family, and a sheer blessing to me.

I trust she is in Heaven or on her way, so I'm not sad for her.  I will be praying for her soul and asking her to pray for mine. 

But, I am left with myself, which isn't feeling too awesome at the moment.  I'm a bad friend.  I should have answered the phone.  And the thing is, I'm a bad friend to many.  I don't initiate.  I don't reach out, unless there is an urgent need.  I don't pick up the phone to call, or sometimes even answer (if I can't talk or it's naptime). 

The last thing I want to do is make excuses, but I've tried to figure this out about myself at different times, and I think it boils down to being an introvert.  My husband argued with this assessment for years, but it's true.  I really love and am truly interested in people and their lives, but I recharge at home.  Alone.  In the quiet.  Raising three boys, seven and under, doesn't generally allow for the kind (or quantity) of recharging that I need.  So, I am always craving it, but fighting it at the same time, and I hate this about myself, especially today.

I know my friend knew that I loved her, but not because I showed it very well.  And for this, I am sorry.       


Dear Heavenly Father,  Thank you for my friend, Linda, and for all that she added to the lives of those around her.  Thank you for the friend that she was to my mother and to my family.  Thank you for the way that she loved me.  Please, eternal rest grant unto her, and let Your Perpetual Light shine upon her and the souls of all the faithful departed.  Through Your Mercy, let them rest in peace.  Lord, Please comfort her husband.  Rest Your Hand upon him and let Him know you are near.  Please forgive me for my selfishness today and every time it has robbed another of a blessing you had in store for them.  Especially when You intended it to come from me.  Lord, please show me how to be a better friend.  I don't want to fail those you have entrusted to me.  Amen.