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!

   

Wanted or Needed?

Today is my (our) 16th wedding anniversary.  Sweet 16!  Is somebody going to surprise us with a new car?!   Great, if you plan to make the payments.  If not, we're good with what we've got.   Thank you, though.

I'm grateful for a reason to celebrate today, as my heart is heavy after attending the funeral of a long- time friend and man I loved yesterday.  His wife is one of my dearest friends and one of the strongest people I know.  During the service, she got up to speak after I sang their wedding song.  I marvel at what she is made out of.

So, recognizing the profound loss of a spouse, and knowing many who are living with that reality, I am trying to feel celebratory because years of marriage don't come easy.

In marriage, there are things you have to "agree to disagree" on.  We have some, and they are pretty big things.

Like Need vs. Want, for example.

Early in our marriage, we lived in the country and I stayed home with our two boys who were less than a year apart.  My days were long and I couldn't wait until my husband got home.  On a bad day, even five extra minutes to change a lightbulb after work could send me into a tailspin.

It was probably after one of those days that I expressed my concern to my husband.  "I need you more than you need me."   He said that I was right.  He didn't need me.  He wanted me.  And that was better.

I think I'm still recovering.  But, over the years, I've considered and even defended his position.  I know that it is difficult to love when need is great, and even more so, when what you have to offer is never enough.  Who has energy left over to feel and/or be loving when you're wiped out from meeting demands?  I get it.

I just don't think need and want can be so easily separated.

I believe that humans have a basic need for other human beings.  We all know about the horrific studies of the children who had food and drink, but died without human touch. We need to love and be loved.  To see and be seen.  To understand and be understood.  We are interdependent.  My entire life has bathed in and revolved around this need, and I'm guessing yours has, too.

So, I have a hard time believing my marriage is the exception.  The place where need is cast out or transcended, and we've arrived at the more esteemed place - desire. 

But, if you define need as "necessary for survival", my husband is right.  He doesn't need me.  Unless we are talking about a child in its mother's womb, one person does not need another person to survive.  Even caretakers providing life-sustaining care can be replaced by others with the same skill set.

It is halting for me to consider the possibility that while we do have need of other human beings, we don't actually have a need for a particular one.  I value relationship above all else and it feels like a betrayal to even write such a thing.

But, desire is a different thing altogether.

My husband defends this with everything that is in him.  We need water to survive, but it is our beverage of choice that we enjoy.  We have closets full of clothes that make it acceptable for us to be in society and to keep us warm, but we have our favorite sweatshirt.  He is my Pepsi and I am his camoflage pullover.

I am resistant and moved at the same time.  And so it goes.

This morning, I spent an hour ironing one shirt.  I might even have tried to touch it up after the boy put it on (it wasn't that hot and he was wearing an undershirt).  It's embarassing how pathetic I am at ironing.

I can get away with this, because my husband does it.  He was a Marine and they know how to iron.

He provides for our family, makes the coffee, teaches our boys how to shoot stuff, picks up after me (and never complains), and fixes everything.   I do most of the cooking, the bulk of the laundry, pay the bills, and take kids to doctor's appointments.

The rest of life is an ongoing negotiation.  Not like with hostages, but sort of.  Sometimes.

In sixteen years of marriage, we've learned that you can go to bed mad, and other than not sleeping well, you can still make a full recovery.  We've learned that whether we agree on who is needed or what is wanted, what gives life meaning, or what "bedtime" actually means, we can still have a lot of fun, and be glad we're doing life with someone who is so unlike our self.

Marriage must be the smallest and yet most profound celebration of "Unity in Diversity" there ever was, is, or shall be.

Happy Anniversary to us, and congratulations to all who still find a way to find a way to make it work.  To all who are missing your spouse, and wishing for nothing more than 10 more minutes or one more fight, my heart aches for you.  Thank you for the reminder that what is, will not always be.  It is good to keep that in mind.

My Trampoline Burn

I got a trampoline burn today.  This is worth noticing because you have to be on a trampoline to get a trampoline burn, and well, it's been quite a long time.  I probably would have declined the invitation to jump, as I have so many times before, but over the last couple of days, I've been wading through old photographs and videos.  Man, the videos!  We were all gathered around our tiny laptop computer in awe of days gone by.  The little bodies, the voices, the quirks, the enthusiasm, the batman masks, and spiderman costumes year round.  The kiddie pool turned gravel pit, the hours playing in the sprinkler with light sabers, cushions on the floor and jumping on the couch. 

We have lived in the same house for most of my sons' lives.  We're all the same people, but we're not.  What is more is we don't really even remember those people.  Something happened to time overnight.  We have lived so many moments up 'til now.  Some that have turned into memories jogged with a picture or video, and many more that won't.  But, they all count because they've brought us here and built what we have, although we could never fully explain or describe exactly how that happened because we've forgotten most of it.

Like this morning.  I woke up, had a cup of coffee, and made "apple biscuits" for breakfast.  The boys were thrilled, since I seldom make them and didn't tell them I was.  I got to enjoy each one coming in, figuring it out for themselves, and being the recipient of their spontaneous hugs of gratitude. 

It's sort of hard to believe I will forget these simple moments of joy, but sort of not.  They are surrounded by so many others just like them.  I read once that "there is no treaure in a pile", but in this case, it is a pile of treasure.  The word "gratitude" seems so paltry. 

Living life forward is such a gift.  It may seem like the only way to live, since it is the only way time seems to travel in real life.  But, as for so many, a time will come when the best part of our lives will be reflecting on, revisiting, and enjoying the memories we're making now. 

One day (hopefully 50 years from now), a hospice social worker is going to come to my home and write a narrative.  In a couple of paragraphs, you will know who I've loved, who I've lost, what is/was important to me in my life, and who is responsible for me now.  The remaining details of my life will be in the hearts of those I've loved, and nowhere else.  Apple biscuits and all the rest...     

So, yes, I will jump on the trampoline with you, while I still can.  And I will treasure the trampoline burn, until we all forget it ever happened. 

In Bed With a False Prophet

I have to admit something.  I've been hanging out in a dark and fearful place for a few weeks now. 

This place is one where I imagine my husband dying at a young age (just like his father who died one year from the age he is now).  Every bump, mole, scab, and pain gets a scrutinizing, suspicious, and thorough going-over from me.  There was a legitmate one recently, which mostly explains my schlepping off to this poor choice of hangouts. 

My work in hospice bereavement also provides an abundant supply of kindle, matches, and gasoline to ignite and nourish the fire of my fears.  Sometimes, my husband has to remind me that the entire world isn't on hospice.  Everything isn't a big deal.  And this always comforts me.  At least for five seconds, and sometimes more.

I've been admitting this morbid and frankly embarrassing line of thought to a few people, lately.  Collectively, they have helped me turn on the lights, once I let them in. 

It helped to know that, at one time or another, they all had similar fears of losing someone close to them, or knew someone who felt sure they were going to die young.  Equally helpful was that none of the mentioned fears or hunches have come to fruition.

Maybe you've experienced this in your own life.  You find yourself figuratively holding your breath until you pass some heartrending milestone, like when you stayed married longer than your parents, or surpassed their age when they died, or carried a child longer than before, or you eeked by or leapt over some expectation of doom you didn't even know you had. 

This morning, one of my friends said fear is a false prophet.  It didn't resonate at first, but I kept coming back to this idea and am pretty sure she nailed it.  Yes.  That's the thing.  It's difficult to argue with it logically, because it's some ugly promise about the future.  And you just don't know.  Whatever the thing is, could happen.  But, just because you're afraid of it, doesn't make it any more likely to happen... 

I jokingly told my husband that it would probably be better if I was a polygamist (reverse-polygamist, he offered).  That way, I could spread all of the love I have for him over several husbands.  Then, the thought of losing him might not feel so threatening and he could have help with the house repairs.  "Richard, it's your turn to fix the refrigerator.  I did it last time."  He laughed, told me I was weird, and then said something about men not being secure enough to tolerate that arrangement.  I think it stopped being funny when I told him to scoot over, so we could make room for the others. 

But, the truth is, that sometimes, there is another where he doesn't belong.  This other, this false prophet, is boldly proclaiming what may never be, wildly waving his hands for credence, and convincing us that whatever is loud is true.

Thankfully, once seen and named, his gig is up.  So, clear the way, false prophet.  You cannot be trusted.  (And, have you looked in a mirror, lately?  You might want to comb your hair.)
 
 

     

Thanking the Virtual Bus Driver - A Little Fortnite Reflection

I overheard one of my sons tell his brother, "You need to thank the bus driver!" in a brotherly, motherly, bossy sort of way.  The brother retorted that he always says that and how annoying it is.  I was intrigued, because this taken-for-granted bus driver, is a virtual bus driver that you never see, "driving" a flying bus over an island where people jump out or get kicked off at the last stop, to outrun a storm, build unthinkable shelters, collect guns, shields, and potions from treasure chests that emit a sound apparently only kids can hear, all to help your friends and kill your enemies, driven by lust for Victory Royale - the moniker for bragging rights, which belong to the last man standing.

Welcome to the widely-discussed, highly-addictive, continually-evolving, and infamous video game called Fortnite.  Sadly, I didn't have to do any research to write the above paragraph.  I have three sons.  We have one TV.  They all get their turn(s), and that makes me an expert by association and location (depending on where I decide to sit).  Oh, to be a paid professional in the taking-turns-business!

There are lots of ways to mitigate this, but the most fun is ridiculously hoping that they'll just get tired of it and go old school.  Resort to playing marbles, jacks, or Red Rover, Red Rover, send those three boys right over.  But, no.  The geniuses of Fortnite make some magical and highly-anticipated changes to the game every week.  Tuesday, if you really want to know.

When it comes to my boys, video games are both my friend and enemy, which makes them exactly like every other bit of technology in my life.  As with most things, I think moderation is the key, but unfortunately, most of us are bad at it.  Perhaps a discussion for another day?

If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to the bus driver...One son is demanding that another thank the bus driver.  The third one listens, but doesn't chime in.  Later, one of them had the opportunity to revive a teammate and he didn't do it.  His brothers were incensed, as was I when I learned how easy it was for him to do it and how "cruel" it was not to.  We expressed our concern clearly and with great conviction.  My husband came in wondering what the fuss was all about.  The boys told him and he laughed.  A great reminder that peer pressure starts at home, but even then, sometimes 3 out of 4 is the best you can do...

In the middle of all of this thanking/not thanking, reviving/not reviving and the chastising that came with it, it occurred to me that despite the excessive video game playing in our living room, our values are still the ones being worked out, played by, and fought for (except the one where we don't kill our enemies).  In a world that is increasingly grey and video games are bad, maybe we're getting away with something-- Like finding some good old-fashioned black-and-white where no one is looking for it.

You should thank the bus driver and if you don't, you're going to hear about it.  A bunch of times.

You revive your teammate every time it is within your power to do so.

You take turns.

You answer for poor judgment.

And if any discussion pertaining to the above subject matter does not end with your mother's complete satisfaction, a brother is always available to assist with the power button, especially if it is in the middle of your game.