Life's Pages

I've been thinking about writing a book for as long as people have been telling me I should, which has been awhile now.

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?"

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.   

Perhaps, it is what I've already written, they suggest.  

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. 

But, occasionally things happen which feel like a nudge toward something. Things that make me think that maybe I shouldn’t rule it out.  Not just, yet.

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?”

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.  

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.

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.  

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.

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.

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 was her?  Or as one who gains some warmth of soul by hearing a “new” story written in a really, really, really familiar way?  

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.”  

Thank God for difficult ideas and realities put simply and beautifully. 

And thank God for Carol and the Prestenbach family, The Bends In My Road, 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…

Marriage Counseling on Mondays

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.

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.  

I agree.  It’s a little unconventional.  

But, it works.  

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.

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.  

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.  

Oh, what they would give for what we blindly throw away. 

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. 

I pry.  No, they don’t ever remember being lonely in their marriage before their spouse died.  

Really?  

Yes, really.  Because their spouse was still there, they tell me.  Any loneliness they felt in marriage while their spouse was living was so pale 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…

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.  

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.

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.  

Lingering Dragonflies

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.  

I know this because that beautiful girl is my niece, my sister is her Mom, and once upon a time was this morning.  

I love my niece and I like dragonflies, and I think it is cool that she got to hold one, but there is more.

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.

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.  

But, then I remember a Scripture I recently read about freedom…

What would a soul do, if it were free?  

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.

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?

One woman described re-entering her body after a near-death experience as donning an old, heavy, wet pair of coveralls.  Blech.

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? 

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.  

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom…

One Room Away

I’m outlining a pink bunny in red embroidery thread.  It’s part of a quilt top I started making for my niece when she was born.  A year ago.  I hope it doesn’t become her wedding present.  

One room away, Predator vs. Alien is on the TV, and the rest of my household is discussing saliva made out of acid.

Seasons are changing.  In this one, I can no longer count on everyone being at the dinner table and day trips are catch as catch can.  We have work and workouts, band and birthday parties, and school is just around the corner.  Graduation dates are creeping onto real-life calendars and you can’t help but wish you could freeze time.  

But, the time you do have is, well…interesting.  

You eat together, watch highlights of the latest kickboxing video, and get fruit stickers on your arm from the boy eating an apple next to you.  You tickle their backs when they lay on your lap, but they don’t want to sew and you sure don’t want to watch what’s on TV.  

So, you enjoy their presence from a room away, and you think about…

Yesterday’s conversations, the passage of time, and daily tragedies that we survive, but cannot fix - all while trying to make sure your tears don’t fall on your sewing project because water makes the pattern disappear.  

Sometimes, you just plain stumble on a metaphor.

My mind became a gathering place for the people on my heart.  They didn’t seem to mind that they’d never met and the furniture was old.    

A friend suffered another stroke.  Mom is too young for a nursing home.  An aging child cares for an aging parent, both wondering if they can survive the arrangement.  An elderly widower has plenty of money, but no companion nor ability to drive.  No, he’s never heard of Uber.  Who is he?

I feel the weight of each one more than I care to.  Maybe.  But, especially because discomfort always gives way to hunting solutions, and I can’t find any.  It seems I am close enough to feel their pain, but too far away to offer any real comfort.  

Maybe it would be different if you weren’t just one person in one place.  Maybe there is no such thing as lasting comfort.  Maybe comfort only exists when it is fresh and given again and again and again.  And maybe it just feels better to write it all out, and hope that what you’ve written can comfort someone other than yourself. 

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” 2 Cor:3-4

Sorting Day

It might be too soon to write, but this is the place I come when my heart and mind are full.  It feels too raw and too one-sided, just yet.  The main character in this story is my Mom, but she won’t be writing it and may or may not read it.  Even now, her iPhone is disabled.  Passwords can be problematic and customer service, worse still. 

I’m sitting in our hotel lobby, a 1/2 mile from her new home - The Healthcare Resort.  It has been her temporary home for the last 3 weeks, but the decision to stay was made two days ago.  Finding the care she needs at home has proven an impossibility.  Good care days apart is just not good at all.  

Yesterday was the 4th of July.  Independence Day.  We sat outside on the patio with the most perfect of breezes and ate take out from her favorite restaurant.  We played cards and had a private concert.  My son played the Star Spangled Banner and Sweet Home Alabama, unplugged on his electric guitar.  Pretty sweet, because he had to sit all the closer, so she could hear.  

We talked and colored and watched 50 fireworks shows all at once, stretched across the Topeka skyline.  We watched the deer who made their peace with the fireworks, but not with us, and knew again we were in a good spot when others came to watch the show from where we already were.

It was the best visit we’ve had in years.

But, today is Sorting Day.  She will go back to her apartment for the first time in a month and will be looking for a particular set of things…The essential ones.  

When you’re disabled and live alone, the essential things have to do with survival.  When you’re moving to a place where survival requires less of you, you can remember that you have art supplies and imagine having the energy to use them.  You can imagine spending an evening on your patio with your family instead of in the kitchen, because you did that just last night.

If you’re a daughter along for the ride, you keep telling yourself these things and take a lot of pictures of the good, because you need them to get through the part of this day that you’re dreading.  You naively believed that it wouldn’t come to this and you can’t stop wishing that it still won’t, somehow.  But, you will show up at the agreed upon time, and it will unfold like everything else.  And it will be okay.

The good will keep coming along with the impossibly hard, and we will keep trying to remember that Independence Day can include freedom to do life in a new way.  Maybe even a better way.  Last night reminded us that this isn’t all about loss and losing ground in the game of life.  

After all, we haven’t played cards or watched fireworks…in years.  We’ve been too busy doing the things we’ve always done, and learned we can survive without deviled eggs in the process.

I snapped this last night for her brother and sister-in-law after we hung up the phone, so they could see where we were.  This morning, it looks different and feels weightier.  I’m tempted to let it stand alone with all of its significance, and break my heart.  And all of ours.  

But, I remind myself that she’s not alone in that parking lot, or in that place.  I’m on the other side of the camera, and my siblings will be here when I am not, and her friends will be here when they are not, and her favorite priest will be here when they are not, and the staff will be here when they are not…

And with all of that, my husband said he sees hope.  So, I am going to go with that…  

Rolling Hills and Plains Girl

I've always thought I could live anywhere and breathe easy and feel at home.   Anywhere.  But, I have been to the mountains and the beach in the last couple of weeks, and being back on the road to the Heartland gently ushers my suspicion into conclusion.

I am a Rolling Hills and Plains girl. I like all of the other places a lot. I just don't want to live there.

I have to admit my surprise. I spent all of my childhood driving through the Flint Hills of Kansas wondering why the people who lived there didn't move to some prettier place. Like the beach or the mountains. Or at least by a lake where they could cool off on a hot summer day.

 I've always thought that Kansas was the best place to be from because everywhere else was interesting and astonishingly beautiful by comparison.

And yet, after some time in the mountains, I find my neck stretching and my eyes straining for the view on the other side.  After some time at the beach, I crave the quiet that the crashing waves cannot give.

 I have come to know that I love a wide horizon.  I love that long line where the Big Sky meets the sprawling Earth and the trees that grow on it.   

Until this last weekend, I did not know that the mountain dwellers of Colorado have never seen a thunderstorm that lights up the entire sky until they found their way to the plains.

 As I drive, I think about what endears a person to a place.  It probably boils down to beauty and love and the memorable or forgettable things that happened there.  I guess that is why the Flint Hills of Kansas and the open spaces of Texas are the dearest to me.  

 Time has revealed their beauty and increased my ability to wonder at them. God willing, I will go to more beautiful places still, but not to stay.

The Intersection of 16 and 43

It’s Sunday.  This morning over eggs and bacon, I informed the family I’d be going on a long walk, as I often do.  Did anyone want to go?  They normally don’t.  No. No. No. My husband would out of kindness or duty, but honesty would keep him home, too.  I do appreciate the gesture, though.

I haven’t left the table, but an acute awareness of the difference between my children’s childhoods and my own has joined us there.  I have a poor memory, but can’t remember receiving or declining any invitation, ever - to hang out with my parents, go to the lake, or anything that would have gotten a quality timer out of the house to spend quality time with a parent or anyone, really.  

I mention my observation, and they mention theirs.  Like I’m a girl, and of course I didn’t walk with my Mom, because my Mom can’t walk.  

It’s a fair attempt at humor because they know that wasn’t always the case.  But, it is true.  They have never known my Mom as a person who could walk.

I can’t help but realize, again, that my oldest son is 16-years-old.  The same age I was when my Mom had a car accident that left her paralyzed from the chest down.  The same age I became a nurse, caregiver, grocery shopper, meal preparer/food-picker-upper, and a grown-up.  My brother was between the ages my other sons are now, and he could say the same.

But now, I actually am a grown-up.  I am 43-years-old.  The same age my mother was when she had the accident that claimed her mobility.

Sitting across the table from one another at these ages feels significant.  A little like a bell ringing from the outside in.  Like being at an intersection with the same street names in a different city.  Like a breathing time machine, as I heard in a song while making breakfast.

I left for my walk in a new and unexpected headspace.  I paused at my normal turn around spot to jot a few things down, and didn’t turn around there at all.   

I kept walking, thinking about all of the Prom pictures flooding my Facebook feed and remembering my own.  I marvel at the beauty of the girls, their dresses, the backdrops, and Moms with cameras.

I wore a handmade dress, lovingly made by my stepmom with red shoes to match.  I took pictures at the end of a hallway and in a living room, before and after the one hour drive to visit my Mom who was still in the Rehabilitation Hospital, so she could see us in all of our glory.  No one had cameras there.

It would be another month before she would come home in her wheelchair and enter our house using the ramp the Knights of Columbus built while she was away.  

Twenty-seven years have passed.  My Mom still battles with her body to stay well and a 16-year-old still wants to make sure his brothers did their share of the dishes, to make sure that everything is fair.  Ha.

The 16-year-old daughter of that 43-year-old mother is now a 43-year-old mother with a 16-year-old son.  She is grateful for and amazed by it all, but most especially by breakfast conversation that can create a time warp and at how you can walk six miles and never leave an intersection.