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

Forgotten Good

I've been thinking about forgotten good for awhile now.  A couple of months, I guess.  This little envelope secretly taped to the inside of my bathroom cabinet is what started it all.

"Do something good with this."  To Mom.  This was one of four such envelopes containing some money of his own, placed in hidden places by my 10-year-old.  Each one was addressed to a different member of the family, including the brother he fights with the most, "even though he didn't deserve it".

My envelope held $2.00 in quarters.  This from a boy who will do anything for $2.00.  I actually just opened it this morning to examine the contents, for the sake of this post.  It has been too precious to disturb til now.

When I asked my son what prompted this unexpected and generous action, he told me that it was an idea from a book.

A book he received two years ago for his First Communion that only this summer's boredom inspired him to open.  A book I'm positive has long been forgotten by those who gave it, one of whom is no longer here to give.

Forgotten good.  

But, not on June 13th.

Fourth of July rolled around and my sister's mother-in-law pulled me aside.  (We normally laugh about her stint working at a library where she never actually worked, except in my mind, in which case she worked there for years, and which I repeatedly asked her about when I saw her!)  

Only this time, she let me know in all seriousness how appreciative she was of a note I wrote her years ago on November 27, 2012.  A note which holds an esteemed place in her Bible with few other things so precious.  Whaaaa?

Of course, I didn't remember the note, much less the contents.  She sent me a picture to jog my memory and I was very glad that I had, indeed, written such a note.  I was also pretty sure I was smarter when I wrote it than I am now.  

Forgotten good.

During my time at home, I visited the Chamber of Commerce of my hometown, asking after a poster advertising their famous fireworks.  The overworked lady said they were all posted, with none to give now, but took my name and address down on a post-it note with a promise to send one after the Fourth, when things settled down.

I'd forgotten my request by the day's end until just a few days ago when I received it in the mail.  And now, I will remember her kindness always as it hangs on my wall, when she will have long forgotten it.  

Forgotten good.

A couple of days ago, at the bedside of a woman leaving this life, her friends and family shared stories of what they loved about her, including her love of shopping. 

Among her purchases was a cross which currently hangs in her friend's home.  It was surreptitiously bought on a trip they took together. The friend fell in love with it, but left it unpurchased.  When they arrived back home, the woman pulled it out of her suitcase and gave it to her.  She was dumbfounded and overjoyed, and cherishes it still.  Maybe now more than ever. 

The story went uncorroborated by the giver, who could no longer say.  But if I had to guess, probably forgotten.  

When our earthly life comes to a close and a future is no longer available, the past becomes a treasury to be exhausted.  And I can't help but wonder if one of the many joys of heaven is a great remembering of the forgotten good.    

Something About Mary

I've been Catholic my whole life, and practiced Catholicism for most of it.  I married a Baptist and the Baptist Church was very good to us as newlyweds and young parents.  We've never eaten so well or been so accounted for.  Until a personal issue came to the people of the church to be settled and it split down the middle. 

We were invited to another church down the road, but it split on the one and only day we attended.  A standing vote of who wanted the preacher to stay, led by the preacher, ended his term there and he walked out in the middle of the service.  Followed by all of the people who wanted him to stay. 

During this time, I had just finished reading This Present Darkness by Frank Peretti, which is about a battle between good and evil over a little country church.  I was pretty sure I just witnessed it in real time and was horrified.  I went "back" to the Catholic Church, and have been there ever since. 

There are a lot of things that come to mind when people hear the word "Catholic" and from the many conversations I've had and heard from others, "Mary worship" is one of them.  I've never had a strong Marian devotion and I could easily see why people might think that.  If you stumbled into a church with an image of Mary behind the altar and people kneeling in front of it, it looks like Mary is the "be all and end all", subject and object, and final destination for whatever prayers they are praying "to" her.  From this perspective, the only reasonable conclusion is that whoever is kneeling there is sinning greatly, guilty of idolatry, and can only find hope for salvation in repenting, and pleading on the mercy of God. 

The other perspective is from the inside.  It is based on the understanding that it was "the mystery of the Incarnation which brought Mary into the fullness of the Trinitarian life.  Her unique relations with the three divine Persons began when the Angel told her that she was to be the Mother of the Son of the Most High and would be so by the power of the Holy Spirit.  She was, from that moment, the beloved Daughter of the Father, the Spouse of the Holy Spirit, and the Mother of the Word." (Sr. Elizabeth of the Trinity)

We understand that Mary was entrusted to us by Jesus himself at the foot of the cross.  "When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple there whom he loved, he said to his mother, "Woman, behold, your son."  Then he said to the disciple, "Behold, your mother."  And from that hour the disciple took her into his home." (John 19:26-27)

We understand that because Jesus came to us through Mary that she can also lead us back to Him, and in fact, desires nothing other than this.  This is her raison d'etre.  She refuses to be an end unto herself and if she were less pure and loving, like me, she might even find the idea laughable.

We understand that when we say we are praying "to" Mary, what we mean is that we are talking to her and asking her for her prayers.  Just like we ask each other on earth to pray for us, for everything under the sun. 

I didn't stumble into a church, find Mary behind an altar, and recoil.  I flew to Mexico City on purpose, to find her there.  I asked her to help me love her, and help me to love Jesus as she loves Him.  She is known as "Our Lady of Guadalupe" and looks like this.  Based on the fact that I just wrote about her for the first time since the inception of this blog seven years ago, I think she said yes. 

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.  Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.  Amen. 

On Pilgrimage in my Kitchen

It's 4:45am on a Thursday morning.  I'm sitting on the floor in my kitchen next to an overstuffed backpack, drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup which was intended for the ride to the airport for a 5:04am departure to Mexico City by way of Dallas.

My well-traveled husband realized, as we were stumbling around getting ready, that we hadn't received a check-in email from the airline.

Our flight was cancelled.  Chalk it up to inexperience, but this possibility never occurred to me.  I was struck by the irony of all of the emails I get that I don't need or want as I combed through my Spam folder, looking for some sign or attempt by someone to communicate this critically-important-information.  Nothing.

Whenever all of this non-communicating was going on, they also did us the favor of putting us on another flight eight hours from now, which puts us at our destination six hours after the rest of our group arrives and certainly after the first scheduled stops on our pilgrimage to visit Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Driving 3.5 hours to catch our connecting flight was of interest to me, but my husband was leaning hard in the other direction, so I prayed and said nothing.  He checked the weather, which indicated an imminent line of thunderstorms.  We rushed out to get the suitcases out of the back of the truck.  It was already raining.  This sealed my decision, as I was already having some angst about leaving my boys nestled in their beds.

Plan B officially began, and I was at peace (and feeling victorious about being so flexible.  Sigh.).

Until.  Until, my husband told me we wouldn't be sitting together on our flight to Mexico.  We had window seats on different aisles.  Tears streamed down my face with a confidence that implied a permission and blessing they didn't have.

I don't know if sitting next to your spouse on an airplane is a big deal for most people.  But, it is for me.  I haven't flown a lot, and I've only flown twice with my husband in 16 years.  And the last time was a disaster.  I was hoping this time might overshadow the last time completely.

Last week, I listened to an audio recording af a pilgrimage prep session the rest of our group attended and recorded for those of us who couldn't be there.  One of the things that stood out was a reminder that this was a pilgrimage and not a vacation.  Things were going to go wrong, and maybe a lot of them.

Some spiritual people attribute this to spiritual warfare, knowing the enemy can use all of the little details of life to confuse and detract from what is bigger and truer and more important.

Others attribute this to superstition, Murphy's Law. or just plain absurdity.  I vascillate between all of these. 

Although I can't be sure why, I am sure that weird little things happened as I was getting ready for this trip.  Beyond the flight cancellation and change of plans, Wells Fargo decided to take a nap during the 10 minutes I tried to pay bills late the night before.  The only option for paying my mortgage was to put the entire amount of my mortgage in an "additional principal" box, which would have doubled my payment.  And I couldn't find even two matching pieces of linen when I tried to remake our bed for my sister-in-law.  The fitted sheet is different than the flat sheet, which is different from one pillowcase, which is different from the other pillowcase.  How stupid.  Especially, when you have matching sets for all of them.  Somewhere.

None of this is a big deal, of course.  But, when weird things stack up when you're pressed for time, you're getting ready to make a spiritual leap and it feels big, it makes me wonder if something's up. 

So, my resolve to give my "Fiat" in every circumstance and accept everything as if from the Lord himself, has already been properly exercised and is plenty warm.  And, I haven't even left my kitchen.

But, one thing is for certain.  God is good and the dog is very happy with Plan B.

Hope Embodied

We're still celebrating Easter and for me, Easter means hope.  Hope has become one of my favorite things to write about, because it's the one thing we need to live as much as air and water.  But, its sources can be harder to find.  It's not pumped into our homes by the city and it takes more than breathing to be filled with it. 

Sometimes, we just have to go looking for it, or hope it finds us when we.just.can't. 

So, it is with this in mind, that I want to tell you that I had a good day at work today.  I had a good day for a lot of reasons, but the biggest reason was meeting someone special. Somebody who inspired me, and who I know will inspire you, too.  Her name is Candace and she welcomed my help in sharing her story, which most definitely needs to be shared.

This is Candace. (I took her picture in the hospital, but when she saw it, she offered to send me one instead. :)) 

When Candace was 14-years-old, she began to suffer from kidney failure.  After three trips to the doctor and three misdiagnoses, she ended up in the ER with little chance to live.  Her mother prayed and told the Lord, "I will take my daughter any way, but don't take her away from me."  This is a prayer that Candace has struggled with, because she's here, but her life is difficult and tiring.  

For awhile, she was angry.  She'd been robbed of living a normal life and nothing could change that.  Nothing, but a change of perspective.  A gift from a 2-year-old with cancer who just wanted to play Barbies.  She still has the bracelets they made together.  Candace looked around her at Cooks Children's Hospital and absorbed what she saw...kids who were "sicker" than she was, and yet, they were kids who were happy.  

They showed her what it looked like to live with joy despite significant and imposing limitations.  After 31 days in the hospital and dialysis for almost a year, Candace received a new kidney from her father.  She still remembers receiving the call that the time had come because she was out finishing up her school shopping for her Senior year.  Although her body rejected it early on, her medical team won.  Her father's kidney did its job for about five years, until her body rejected it for good.  She started retaining fluid, it started hurting, and it had to come out.  

That was bad enough, but her faith stopped working, too.  She felt "forgotten".  

But, her grandmother was there to cheer her on, reminding her that "this is a test" and faith "the size of a mustard seed" is enough to get the job done, all while she pointed her toward the mountain her faith needed to move. 

Since that time, Candace has been undergoing dialysis for 10 years.  Three times a week for three-and-a-half or four hours at a time.  She beams about "getting it down to three-and-a-half hours" and how 30 minutes of not-being-on-dialysis time is worth more than you can imagine.  

She spends this time with the people who keep her going...her Mom, Dad, Grandma, boyfriend, and two brothers.  They take her to the ER when she has to go, encourage her to go out when she'd rather stay in, and keep close tabs on her daily activities, down to the drop - "Are you supposed to drink that?"  "Is that too much for you?"  I know an 11-year-old brother who is going to be a gift to the world because he has already learned how to care for someone other than himself.

Candace still hopes to be a hospital "care partner" one day, since her care partners made such a lasting impression on her.  They take you outside, sit with you while you play, or anything at all "just to make you happy."  

Candace, I'm pretty sure you were a care partner today because you made me very happy, indeed.  Thank you for letting me share your story.  You are hope embodied.  Keep shining, girl!    

"...Amen, I say to you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move.  Nothing will be impossible for you."

Matthew 17:20

Unplanned, Unbound, and Undeterred

I'm just listening to the rain and thinking about life --Reflecting on a few things from the past couple of weeks. 

I've attended three funerals, watched a last breath, attended a fundraiser to end human trafficking, saw Unplanned, met one long-suffering person among many, and am trying to keep up with my Mom from two states away, as her bones continue to crumble and she finds Jesus in her bruises...

Recently, I attended a fundraiser for Unbound - an international organization to stop human trafficking.  Thank you to my beautiful and passionate co-workers for paying for the table and inviting me along.  I couldn't imagine wearing a semi-formal anything to something related to human trafficking, so I didn't.  I wore the same clothes I wore to work.  Probably the weakest protest ever, but I was eager to field any questions regarding my choice of dress. 

I heard some real life stories, that looked far different from anything I had previously imagined.  People from near and far "farmed out" by people they loved, for money, drugs, or whatever.  Over and over and over again.  And yet, the victims find God bringing good from it.  They are grateful, and I am in awe.  I wanted to throw up, cry, and jump for joy.  I didn't actually do any of those things, but I was still glad I was just wearing work clothes.

A few days later, I watched Unplanned.  I felt like I'd just come home from a long, hard day at work.  Some chips and dip and a Pepsi later, I felt about the same.  I'm not usually an "emotional eater", but sometimes I make exceptions. I wanted to see the movie because I felt it was my social responsibility to do so, and because it was based entirely on people and events from the town where I've lived for the last 12 years.

As a child with my parents, I remember going to an abortion clinic to protest.  In my adult life, I went once to pray with my women's group, and much later had an opportunity to have a single conversation, which ended with one changed mind and one new life.  So, I've thought about abortion, shown up a few times, and prayed about it off and on over the years.  But, throughout my adult life, it's been the abandoned people in nursing homes that have made me weep. 

After watching the movie, I guess I felt equal parts guilt for not doing more, horror at the magnitude and the details, sadness for all of the lives lost and irreversibly scarred, overwhelmed at the thought of "taking it on" and yet, exceedingly grateful for the ones who have, and do.  I thought about Abby Johnson, and the guilt she felt for being complicit in over 22,000 abortions, how she accepts God's forgiveness for that, and how I can, too.

In contrast to those who suffer and die because of other peoples choices, I meet multitudes who are suffering for no apparent reason.  Their bodies hurt them.  There is no solution in hand, no end in sight, and they are okay with that. 

Suffering with chronic pain since he was a child and a host of medical diagnoses, one of my patients has a body that is decreasingly able to supply his limbs with the amount of blood they need to function.  Some limbs have been lost, some still need to be removed, and more will need to be removed in the future.  And no one comes to visit. 

I probe him for his secrets which explain his peaceful acceptance of all that he's suffered and his plan to suffer still more.  He simply says that he's still here, so each day, he has to wait to see what God has in store for him.  God is the only one who can release him from this life, or provide relief in the meantime. 

I believe suffering has redemptive value, but he doesn't.  I expect that he wishes God would "hurry up".  But, he doesn't.  He just waits.  Without impatience or expectation, and yet with all the hope and trust he needs to do what God is asking him to do - come what may. 

And this reminds me of someone else I know.  My mom.  She's been wheelchair-bound for 25 years, until last Monday - when she came abruptly to a flight of stairs, flew out of her wheelchair, and landed at the bottom.  She broke her leg in a few new places, but it was already broken in others.  Years of not bearing weight on her legs are taking their toll. 

But, you won't hear her going on about that.  What you will hear, is how it was a miracle that she didn't hit her head, or that her 400-pound-wheelchair stopped at the top of the stairs and didn't tumble down on top of her, killing her on the spot.  She's convinced God and his angels "set her down", and was further convinced when she found herself, Jesus, and an angel in a bruise that covers her entire left arm.  Good luck talking her out of it. 

My niece observantly pointed out to her that "She finds Jesus in everything."  Not a bad way to go through life.  She's in this weird saintly place where she is eager to suffer and feels very blessed that this happened during Lent.  A special suffering during a special time and "To God be the Glory"!

I espouse the theology behind all of this, but to see it lived out is mystifying, at best.  Thank you, Mom. 

For all who have suffered in your body, mind, or spirit because of someone else's choices or for no apparent reason at all, you are not alone. As you look around, I pray that you can find people who can speak into your pain.  In the meantime, I offer what I have - stories of people, who like you have not been spared, but have thrived anyway.  God be with us.  Amen.   

Christmas Baking - One More Reason I Need a Savior

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and I get what they mean.  But, the problem is that most are used to tell a story that needs a lot more words to tell.  Especially when the picture is "picture perfect", but the story isn't.  Take this one, for example.

I'm pretty sure if I get to go to Heaven, and suffering has redemptive power because the Lord made it so, any merits I may be found to be in possession of have been earned here.  At this three feet of kitchen counter space.    

Looks benign enough.  Something on the stove, something in a bowl, and cookie cutters ready to go.  So far, so good.  I was "feeling it" and even texted my Mom pictures of her cookie cutters because she hasn't seen them in years and hasn't used them in decades.  

This doesn't stop me from thinking of her every time I get them out.  She told me that the silver ones were her Mom's, which reminded her of her own childhood - making taffy and laughing together, all while burning their hands because it was too hot to handle.    

A couple of weeks ago, I dreamt about my Mom.  She was standing in a kitchen with a cookie sheet in her hand, and it must have been Christmas cookies on that cookie sheet.  Only I don't remember, because I couldn't look away from her.  All I could do was cry and say, "Mom, you're so tall!"  over and over.  I haven't seen my Mom standing in almost 25 years, so it was something to behold.  I guess if you're lucky, Moms and Christmas cooking just go together.  I'm pretty sure this is why I thought making cookies and candy on Christmas Eve was a sane idea.  A gift for my children.  A memory for another day.

So, I did.  Well, I started to.  Ever made cinnamon candy or any kind of candy that is supposed to reach the hard-crack stage?  375 degrees to be exact.  How can something with three ingredients be so hard to make?!  2 hours later and enough burned sugar to go around, I was encouraged to try again.  This time with a metal plate under the pan to more evenly distribute the heat.  In the meantime, I made the Christmas cookies and helped the one boy who was interested in helping realize his mistake.  He was pressing too hard, needed more flour, blah, blah, blah...

Another two hours, a cold 325 degrees, and a pan full of nothing-good-to-eat later, I shut the fire off and walked out the door.  And kept walking.

I felt like my head was going to explode.  Maybe there was more than one source of burning smell in my kitchen?  Being in the kitchen way longer than I planned (when it's embarrassingly painful to begin with), and watching everyone else moving freely about the cabin doing whatever the heck they wanted, put me in a very Un-Christmasy mood.  

During my walk, I told myself that nothing was wrong.  Nothing.  No one made me go in the kitchen or stay in the kitchen.  That was all me, for the ones I love.  Can't you tell by my joy?!

My thoughts were flooded with visions of people I know who can't leave their beds or who are sick, or who are grieving someone they love.  And yet, somehow, knowing this didn't make what I was feeling disappear.  It lingered, and I felt like a crappy human being.

As I neared home, I'm pretty sure my unsuspecting neighbor would have just waved instead of asking if I was ready for Christmas, had she known she was going to hear about two failed batches of candy, five hours in the kitchen, and the need for a very brisk walk!  Sorry, Sherri!

I placed my hope of renewal and forgiveness in the children's Christmas Eve Mass we were planning to attend at 5:00.  Feeling good about arriving 15 minutes early was short-lived.  We were directed to the parish hall.  Overflow seating.  We got a good seat, but the view was still from a camera in the back of the church, which lagged throughout, and whose microphone seemed only to pick up the sound of crying babes.  

But, no matter.  Still got to receive the Lord, and be really grateful that the one friend I invited to Mass didn't come!

Once home, cookie decorating seemed to be just the thing to rectify the day, and hopefully, will be the only thing I (and my boys) remember...Except, that we need a Savior.

Days like today remind me of my own imperfection.  That I can be well-meaning and yet, totally derailed by inconsequential things.  It also reminds me that my hope is not in myself, but in the One Who made me, and in the One whose birth we will celebrate tomorrow.  Well, isn't that good timing...

                                              Merry Christmas from my kitchen to yours!