Oh, boy. Please, 2022, be better than (at least the last part of) 2021.
I’m looking back over the past month or so and thinking that if I tried to write it as a story, any decent editor would reject it as far too improbable.
Here’s a (not so) quick timeline:
November 25 • We had a wonderful Thanksgiving Day with the family. Other than missing our oldest, Elizabeth, who lives in San Diego, it was pretty perfect.
November 27 • After a strange phone call with my mother, my sister calls me and I rush over to my mom’s house, to find that she’s apparently had a stroke during the night and cannot walk. We get her to the Emergency Room as quickly as we can, and, as the day goes on, it becomes apparent that she has, indeed, had a stroke. My sister stays with her the first night in the hospital, as Jim and I have church responsibilities the following day.
November 28 • My birthday, which I hardly noticed. I moved into Mom’s hospital room and slept on a cot in her room, as I didn’t want her to be alone.
November 30 • I woke up in the middle of the night with horrific stomach cramps. back pain, and nausea. I laid in bed for about an hour before I gave up and rang the nurses’ station for help. They promptly put me in a wheelchair and got me to Emergency, where I was diagnosed with a kidney stone. After I got some meds I felt better, but my sister urged me to go home and rest. While she was in the hospital, we began to realize that she was no longer going to be able to live alone and started to make plans to move into her home to care for her. Who has a kidney stone while staying with their mother in the hospital?
December 2 • (ish) Mother was released to a rehab hospital, with a release date of December 21, which gave us a mere three weeks to organize and execute a move. Because of the holiday season and lack of notice, the move has to be in two stages. I was hoping to have it completed before Mom came home, so she wouldn’t have to live in chaos. But, nope.
December 10 • Watching the weather, the warnings were ominous. Late in the afternoon/early evening I got a text from my nephew, who said he and his parents (my sister & brother-in-law) were headed to Mom’s house to get into her inside closet for shelter. Jim and I, with about 30 minutes notice on the coming storms, decided we would go to Mom’s as well. The one downside of open concept homes is the lack of interior rooms and both ours and my sister’s homes lacked a tornado-safe room. That’s how five adults and three dogs ended up in my mom’s toy closet for hours.
December 23 • Moving Day, Phase One. We had a busy day. Elizabeth had arrived from San Diego and we had our traditional family Festivus meal of catfish. Mother had trouble getting to sleep, and we realized she was having a lot of trouble breathing.
December 24 • We took Mom to the hospital at 2:00 a.m. due to her labored breathing and they admitted her for pneumonia. When they got us into a room, it was 5:00 a.m. and all I could think about was crashing on the cot in her room. I woke up at 10:00 a.m. to her doctor making rounds.
December 25 • Christmas Day but not really Christmas Day because Mom was still in the hospital.
December 26 • We realized that the upstairs HVAC unit was a goner. Thankfully they were able to replace it quickly.
December 30 • I wake up with inexplicable pain in my knee as well as stomach cramps that were much milder, but not unlike those that accompanied the kidney stone.
Today we’ll celebrate the end of 2021 with the family. We’ll all be in comfy clothes with no makeup and really won’t care a lick about anything except being together and the fact that it’s another holiday without Mother.
Mother the day she came home from the rehab hospital. Happy to be back in her favorite chair.
I could draw all sorts of conclusions from this saga. If I believed in karma, I could certainly go there and begin to wonder what horrible things I might have done to create this mess.
The only thing I can say is that it’s just life. Life is challenging sometimes, and it’s always unpredictable. It is stressful to be sure, but we don’t face it alone. I’ve tried during this time to look forward to the time when we’re all settled in, Mom is home and we have time to adjust to our new normal. As I write this, I’m sitting here with an ice pack on my knee, which is helping, so all is not lost.
In the meantime, I will focus on gratitude. I’m grateful for:
Our move to Jonesboro two years ago. Not only is Jim enjoying his new career in real estate, we are thankful we’re in a position to care for Mother so that she can stay in her beloved home.
My girls’ time with their grandmother during these trying moments. When Elizabeth arrived home after two years without seeing her due to Covid, Mom was asleep in her chair. Elizabeth crept over to her and sat on her lap with her arms around Mom’s shoulders. I wish I’d videoed it. When Mom woke up, the look on her face was pure joy. What a moment.
My supportive family, all of whom have Mom’s best interests at heart and try to do what’s best for her.
A sister, brother-in-law, and father-in-law who are physicians and can interpret the complicated medical jargon for us.
Our church and community, who have been so gracious and generous with their prayers, concern, and genuine caring.
Elizabeth snuggling on Jaboo’s lap just after waking her up.
Warning: I’m only a month out from loss and I’m still raw. So this post is pretty unvarnished, and maybe a little angry. That’s where I am. Please read with that understanding.
You’ve just lost a loved one. You’re in shock, reeling, and numb. Just to put one foot in front of the other is too much effort. These are the times you need friends and family around you. You know they are well meaning, but some are just a beat … off.
My family and I are all too familiar with loss. A little more than a month ago, we lost our 15-year-old nephew and, while we were blessed with caring friends and family, there were also those who created additional stress and pain. Oh, how I pray I’m never one of the sinners, but I fear that at some point, like most of us, I have been. Some of these may sound harsh, but I believe it’s important to protect the feelings of the grieving, at nearly all costs. So, please don’t:
Ask me questions about practical matters. Don’t ask me where the silverware goes, or what you should do with the food tray that just arrived. Figure it out yourself. If you know me well enough to be in my home at a time like this, I probably trust you to make the decision. I’m likely going to tell you I have no idea anyway.
Place social expectations on me. I actually had someone say, on the day of the loss, that it “isn’t nice to have x lying around when you’re having people over.” What? I’m not having people over. I just lost someone dear to me. Anyone who judges my house at a time like this needs to leave. Now.
Play social games. If the last words we spoke weren’t friendly, stay away. Period. This isn’t the time to mend fences.
Try to sell me stuff. Really? I have to say this? I don’t care what it is — your makeup, your clothing line, or your church. This isn’t the time.
Be nosy. Don’t prod me for details, or conduct your own interrogation. It’s highly unlikely that those details matter now.
Gossip and speculate. Just don’t. If you don’t think that’s hurtful, you’re wrong. Trust me on this. We hear about it. How we grieve is our own business. We really don’t need your input.
Be overly theological. I don’t need a lecture on God’s will, or a Bible verse, or anything other than “I’m so sorry. My prayers are with you.” This is not the time to strut your spiritual stuff. Trust me, if I remember anything you say, it’ll be a straight-up miracle. Exception: If you’re a minister that I know and respect, you’re exempt from this, but you probably know not to do this crap anyway.
Expect a thank-you note. This is an absolutely awful expectation. If you expect a thank-you note for bringing me dinner when I’m devastated, please keep your damn casserole. I’d rather accept help from those who expect nothing. Our society (especially the South) needs to put an end to this. Bring your casserole and put a note on it that says, “Don’t write me a note.” If that bugs you, it’s a sure sign that your heart isn’t in the right place.
We’re all warmly grateful to the saints who kept our kitchen organized, brought and prepared food, kept us stocked with paper products, snacks, and easy pickup foods, and gave us hugs, cried with us, and protected us when we needed it. Rather than caring about social appearances, their priorities were to serve and comfort us.
Pray for us. Tell us a funny story or memory about our family member. Share a photo we may not have seen. There are no words, but “I’m so sorry,” does nicely.
P.S. Please add your own “Don’ts” in the comments. I’d love to know your stories.
I’ve always believed in miracles. I’ve known some really big ones in my family.
Big miracles are like the fireworks on the Fourth of July — they make an instant impression amid the ooohs, and ahhhs, and the jaws that drop. Small miracles are different; they give us joy when life is easy and good, and peace and comfort when things aren’t quite going our way.
Our small miracle this summer has been in these flowers. In April, I planted my usual three to four flats of impatiens, in red and white; caladiums, fuschias, New Guinea impatiens and some ferns. In May, we had to cut down a huge tree in the middle of our yard, the very tree that provided the shade for my flower bed. As my once-shady spot was now receiving several hours of full afternoon sun, I held out little hope that my plants would continue to flourish.
I’ve been proven wrong. Here’s Exhibit A. In these 99 – 100-degree temperatures here in South Hell Memphis in August, these babies have somehow survived. In fact, they’ve done better than my tomatoes, which are withering in the heat. This container is at the back corner of the bed, and gets the most direct heat. And now, in mid-August in Memphis, they still bloom. I’m going with miracle. These flowers are not supposed to be alive, let alone blooming.
These impatiens are the ones who have borne the brunt of the July and August afternoon sun. A little leggy, but I think they’re doing darn well considering.
This is the shadier side of the bed, but these plants still get more sun than they like. And still bloom.
It hasn’t been the best of summers for us, but this yard remains, as always, a sanctuary from stress and struggle. A quiet place where the birds sing so loudly you sometimes wish they would tone it down a bit. Where our dogs run and chase sticks and the other dogs they hear behind the fence. On our (at least) 10-year-old patio table I’ve set many a glass of wine, numerous books, and held too many outdoor work sessions on my laptop to count.
See the hanging ferns? They just do not do sun. At least not normally, but this year, in my garden …
It’s not perfect by any means; Southern Living won’t be scheduling the photo shoot any time soon. But it’s ours. And, really, impatiens in afternoon sun in August? Miracle.
The day winds down as Jim puts chicken on the grill.
Don’t believe in miracles? That’s your prerogative. As for us, we’ll just keep enjoying our garden.
As a life-long churchgoer, mother of two adult daughters (22 and 26) who were raised in church, I share my perspective on young pastors and all pastors who work with young people.
Most of the pastors who have influenced my girls have been young. Student pastors are always young, because that’s who junior high and high school students relate to. Which is great, because these leaders understand the kids’ music, their tastes, likes and dislikes.
There’s a down side.
Here are a few things that I’ve experienced with young pastors that I imagine (hope?) they must someday look back on with embarrassment. I’ve wanted to write this for years, but felt that I needed to be farther removed from the experiences.
Be careful how you speak about childrearing. If your kids are under five, you’re not an expert yet. You can talk about “training up” your children, which is great. And easy when they are five and you have total control. But don’t assume that your training up ensures that their choices will always reflect that training. I’ve got news for y’all — they often don’t. I know scores of parents (some pastors) whose children who have strayed far from the values they were raised with. Yes, you can and should train up your children, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that’s a guarantee. It isn’t.
Don’t judge parents whose children make poor choices. This doesn’t mean they didn’t do everything you’re doing right now with your precious two-year-old who already knows 10 Bible verses from memory. Just wait ’til you hit the teenage years and then let’s chat, OK?
Don’t talk down to parents. I once sat down with a youth minister – not a parent – who acted as if I knew nothing about teenagers. The fact that I had two of them in my home 24/7 apparently taught me nothing. Yes, I know you see a different side of them, but don’t discount what the parents know. After all, we’ve lived a little longer than you.
Don’t reinforce the idea that parents aren’t cool. Kids don’t always think their parents are as uncool as they let on. When you roll your eyes or make cracks about “uncool Mom & Dad,” you encourage disrespect. And I can guarantee that attitude will not facilitate a good relationship with your kids’ parents.
Don’t be unrealistic about spiritual fads. When my girls were in junior high and high school, the anti-dating movement was in full swing (Remember I Kissed Dating Goodbye?). While the young pastors ate this crap up with a spoon, most of us parents understood how ridiculous and unworkable it was. My girls’ dating lives began under this roof, under our watchful eyes, and with our approval and respect for the young men they brought home. I shudder to think of them going off to college never having dated. Also, one of them is happily married to her high school sweetheart now. So you never know.
Don’t be cliquish. I’ve watched kids who really needed mentors and leaders in faith be disenfranchised because they aren’t into basketball, football, or whatever the leader’s favorite sport is. Sure, it’s a great way to connect, but there are other ways than sports. Mathletes are just as important as quarterbacks.
Don’t belittle their interests. Both my daughters were cheerleaders and competed on the national stage. They enjoyed it, and we had some great family times traveling for cheer. One of my girls had a leader who told her that “Cheerleading is stupid, and you should quit.” Seriously.
Male pastors, stop talking about your “smoking hot wife.“ Seriously, is this how you’d want your daughter’s husband to refer to her? You know the message you’re sending when you say that? Pretty is important, girls, and boys, be sure your wife is pretty and value her for that more than anything. Why not talk about how capable and intelligent your wife is, and teach young boys to respect a woman for more than her looks?
I know this sounds negative, but, we’ve had — and been witness to — some pretty negative experiences with church and young people. Much of it comes from the arrogance of a young pastor fresh out of seminary who believes there really are new things under the sun.
Like a stupid urban legend or bell-bottom jeans, by the time a parent arrives at their kids’ teenage years, we’ve seen and heard a lot of this trendy nonsense come and go at least a couple of times. Let parents be a resource. Listen to them. Respect their wisdom and experience and be willing to learn from those who have been around the bends you haven’t yet arrived at.
This isn’t addressed to any particular young pastor; it’s a composite of the ones we’ve known over the years.
I’m taking a deep breath now. The way you would inhale right before you jump out of an airplane (which I’ll never do). While I won’t take a physical leap at 10,000 feet, I’m taking a bit of a psychological one here, because I’m about to express an opinion on a highly-emotionally-charged subject, and I’m pretty sure I’ll alienate some folk.
I’m going to tell you why, as a Christian, I cannot support the death penalty.
I used to. Right after Jim and I were married, we were held up at gunpoint in a parking lot late at night. In a nice part of town, in case you wondered. The robbers took all my jewelry and made Jim lie spread-eagle on the very cold asphalt before speeding away with our brand-new wedding rings.
To say I was traumatized is to grossly understate the terror I felt nearly all the time. Around the same time as our robbery, several brutal, seemingly random home invasion robbery-homicides occurred. One poor woman went out to get her mail and the robber accosted her in her driveway, forced her into the house, and shot her in her own bedroom. These things became connected in my mind in the midst of my post-traumatic stress, and for several years I lived in fear. I was afraid to walk out to get my mail. Afraid to be alone, even during the day. Terrified of parking lots. I was afraid to take a shower when I was alone in the house.
My life was ruled by fear. And so were some of my opinions and beliefs.
They caught the person responsible for the robbery-homicides, and I wanted him tried and fried. I wanted to be sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t kill me or anyone else I cared about.
Enter the senior pastor of my church, sometimes in the late 90s. He was a man whose theology and life I admired then and still do. Until one day he talked about capital punishment. And he was against it.
When someone I respect presents an alternate point of view, I think it’s worth it to consider their argument. Maybe I’ll end up agreeing, maybe not, but I always consider it. This time I changed my mind. A 180.
I realized that other than escaping immediate physical danger, no wise decision is ever made from fear. I wanted the man to die out of my own fear. Fear stokes the flames of racism, bigotry, and a refusal to respect anything different than what we believe. The time had come for me to stop being ruled by fear.
I became ashamed of my arrogance. How is it my right to judge whether another human being, made in the image of God, should live or die? And how on earth do I reconcile my sense of vengeance with anything Jesus taught?
For me, there was simply no way to square the death penalty with my faith. It is God’s place to say who will live and who will die. His, and His alone.
Some of you would say, “Well, they took a life, they chose the sin, they were cruel, brutal, tortured and terrorized a person.” Yeah, many of them have. But I’ve sinned, too, and, no offense, so have you. I’ve been unkind, selfish, prideful, and I’m guessing you have, too. None of us are without wrongdoing.
It’s ironic to me that some use the Bible to justify capital punishment. The story of the Bible is God’s redemption of our souls, not His condemnation. Don’t we realize that we are just as culpable as the murderer? And yet, God chose to send His Son to atone for our sins, and for those of the ones we would put to death. To put another person to death is to say that they are less deserving of His atonement and redemption than we are. And friends, that’s prideful.
The only One who is perfect and fit to judge shows us infinite mercy. We who are imperfect, rather than choose to imitate Jesus, prefer death over mercy for a brother or sister. I’m thankful that my Heavenly Father’s mercy is greater than my sin, even if it means His mercy is also greater than the sin of the murderer.
One last thing. Nothing that is devised and mediated by humans is perfect, and that includes our justice system. I started to look up the statistics on how many prisoners have been executed and later found not to have been guilty of the crime. I started to, but I didn’t. Because, for the purposes of this post, it doesn’t matter.
My mother is an incredible woman (This is not her arm). She’s a registered nurse, and was one of the first nursing instructors at Arkansas State University when the program was new. After she left nursing, she was a stay-at-home mother for many years, though active in the community. When the nest was empty, she enjoyed a second career as a real estate agent. She is smart and accomplished.
Mom despises tattoos, and she isn’t shy about sharing her opinion. Which is a bit inconvenient, as she has two daughters, a son-in-law, one granddaughter, and one future grandson-in-law who are People of the Ink.
Sometimes we get ideas stuck in our heads and can’t grasp that things change; or maybe we just can’t accept the changes. Maybe the perceptions are too ingrained. Or perhaps it’s just a personal preference. Of the (extremely) opinionated variety.
My mom isn’t alone; there are a lot of people who think ink is icky. I used to be one, until my daughter, Sara Ann, changed my mind. What I’ve realized is that most tattoos are deeply meaningful. I can’t imagine a person permanently putting something on their body unless it’s profoundly important. So the art that a person endures hundreds of painful needle sticks to etch upon their body forever says a lot about what they value and who they are.
Several months ago, we ate at a popular suburban restaurant and our waitress was a 20-something young woman with a large tattoo on her arm. It was colorful and the art was quite lovely, so as we were settling the bill I asked her about it. She explained that she had lost her mother a couple of years ago, and the design incorporated elements that her mother loved, and a butterfly that reminded her of her mother’s life and their relationship. Hearing her explain its meaning moved me, and I was struck by how much it comforted her after the loss of her mother.
I don’t imagine many people in this neighborhood love that tattoo, and I would bet there are a fair number of conclusions drawn about the woman, but I wonder if perceptions would differ if the meaning were understood. I felt differently about Sara Ann getting a dove on the inside of her wrist when she explained to me the significance of the dove with regard to her faith, and asked me to join her in the experience.
People of my generation (55 and up), ask before you judge. Young people express themselves differently than we do, and what you perceive as “gross” (I’m talking to you, Mom) is precious to another. When you turn up your nose at the art, you make a value judgement on something that’s just as meaningful to another person as your most prized family heirloom is to you.
It’s OK not to like tattoos, but try to appreciate the art and the meaning. Most tattoo artists are highly skilled, and worthy of respect for their enviable talent.
A friend once shared with me a quote from a former (well inked) pastor of mine, who said,
“Jesus has a tat … see Revelation 19:16: ‘On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written: King of Kings and Lord of Lords.'”
I’m thinking if it’s good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.
My next bit of ink: A Cardinals bird on the bat, not just because I’m a fan, but in memory of my daddy, who taught me everything I know about the game, and with whom I shared many, many innings of baseball.
I dare you to judge that.
P.S. I’m not mad at my mom; there’s no family drama. No one is upset with anyone, and this isn’t anything I haven’t said or wouldn’t say to her face.
It’s weird when my birthday is on Thanksgiving Day.
My birthday is the one day each year when I give myself permission to be a little selfish and indulgent. I get control of the remote, choice of meals, and I don’t do dishes, laundry, or any other housework. I love reading the birthday greetings on Facebook, but give myself permission not to do any work. My mom makes homemade chicken and dumplings for me and my entire extended family gets together for a big meal.
I hate how this sounds, but the truth is, my birthday is about me.
Thanksgiving is about everything but me. It’s about being thankful for how richly I’ve been blessed; beyond what I need, what I deserve, or anything I’ve earned. The good things in my life have nothing to do with any goodness in me; they are all gifts that God, in His generosity, has bestowed on me.
To consider Thanksgiving on my birthday is a bit like Dr. Doolittle’s pushi-pullyu, a “gazelle-unicorn cross” which has two heads (one of each) at opposite ends of its body. When it tries to move, both heads try to go in opposite directions.
It’s tempting to think about gratitude in the days and weeks that lead up to Thanksgiving Day, forget about it in the Black Friday madness, and wrap ourselves up in Christmas preparations. Birthdays don’t give us that option.
Yesterday was my 55th birthday. I’m still 55 today, and I’ll be 55 until I’m 56 this time next year.
I also hope that I’ll be just as grateful throughout the year as I have been for the past few days.
My birthday isn’t about being 55 for a day; yesterday I became 55.
The dictionary definition of become is
to come, change, or grow to be.
I hope that through my 55th year, I will continue to grow to be more grateful for the extravagantly blessed life I enjoy. I hope I’ll think more of others and less of myself, and that by the next birthday I’ll be less focused on my own comforts and pleasures and more resolved to improve the lives of others.
Tuesday, February 19, about 8:45 a.m. Just a bit more than nine months ago.
I was about to leave for work when my phone rang. I recognized the number as Jim’s old cell number and wondered why on earth he was using it to call me.
The answer came when I accepted the call. His work cell phone was no longer his, nor was his office. The CFO had informed him that due to a reduction in force (RIF), his position as vice president, software applications, was being eliminated. Along with 24 others, including one additional vice president, he was ushered out of the building by security and told to return on Saturday to clean out his office.
Somehow we both managed to get in touch with our girls, our families, and others who needed to know. I decided to stay home from work that day just to be with Jim and offer support. But there was no need.
Jim wasn’t coming home just yet. He had already planned two coffee dates with people from his network and would visit several recruiters before the day was done. When I came home after work, our dining room had been converted to what we jokingly referred to as The Office of Transition. The centerpiece was replaced by an aging iMac, and the table was already littered with papers, business cards, notes with phone numbers, and numerous unfamiliar items that had formerly lived in his office. By the end of the first week, he had already found several good job leads in Memphis. Not bad for an introvert.
The higher you go in management, the fewer positions are available, and we knew this would be a long process. After a few months, we prepared ourselves for the possibility of moving away from Memphis for the next opportunity.
We decided to think of it as an adventure in empty nest living. Maybe we’d live in a small miniscule downtown condo in Chicago; a rambling stony house with a beautiful pool in a Houston suburb; Minneapolis, where we would finally get enough snow for my taste; a home within walking distance of the beach in Jacksonville, Florida; or maybe in a city like Roanoke, Birmingham, Atlanta, Louisville, Nashville, or … St. Louis. I could almost hear the crack of the bat in Busch Stadium, where we’d have season tickets.
Having Jim home each day was new for me, and we began to develop routines. In the late afternoons, we’d both take a break and watch Gilmore Girls together. Some days I’d work from home and we’d head to the patio to work and enjoy the outdoors. Many mornings he made coffee, and I loved waking up to the smell. We counted the days until the opening day of baseball season, and the Cardinal games meant we always had something to do in the evenings. When Sara Ann moved back in with us, he was here to spend time with her and help her move, and he enjoyed taking walks with the dogs.
There were times that it felt like too much, as if the house would fall on us and we’d be left standing in the midst of fallen walls and shattered windows. When our girls were small and they were afraid, I’d tell them that nothing is as scary as God is strong. In their childlike faith, those words were comfort; in our adult doubts and fears they brought peace as we realized we were not alone. Over these months we were reminded that faith is more than just church on Sunday morning and a check in the offering plate. We learned anew that beyond every disappointment there’s a bit of new wisdom and that God is always, always faithful. I knew I’d grown when, after a particularly difficult no on a potential position, I realized I wasn’t upset or angry, but confident that the right opportunity would come, and excited for something better that must be in store.
From the moment I caught my breath after that phone call in February, our faith gave us an underlying peace, as we knew that God was with us, He was in control, and that the important things in our lives are not things. As the hymn reminds us, morning by morning new mercies I see. And we did. Some large, some small.
Jim’s old iMac, which should have long since stopped working, is still going, though frustratingly slow. His car needs $1200 worth of work, none of it critical, and will likely be done by whomever we sell it to after the holidays. My freelance work picked up so much that for a while I had no downtime. We were taken to dinner too many times to count, and spent long hours lounging in my sister’s pool. In May, my mother treated me to a incredible trip to New York, and in October my sister and brother-in-law took me to a World Series game in St. Louis.
Family “picnics” after church in a meeting room we borrowed. Some of the best-tasting peanut butter & jelly sandwiches ever.
But most of all, God gave us four seasons of faithfulness: spring flowers, home-grown tomatoes, beautiful sunsets, cool breezes, and fall leaves of every color. There is nothing that He cannot use for good, and He has outdone himself in our lives. Growth and learning always follow adversity, and to have faith is to be assured that divine good will ultimately outweigh earthly struggles.
The happy ending
Last week, Jim began a fantastic new job at a Memphis-based company. It’s essentially a raise, a promotion, and carries the added perk of an I-240-free commute each morning. Next week I’ll celebrate my 55th birthday. Yes, in my kids’ eyes, and probably many of yours, that’s old. But I like to say that no cancer survivor ever complains about getting older. Each year is another year of life that cancer didn’t take away.
Another year of wisdom — and 365 more days of new mercies.
… and I love that I don’t live in a bubble in which everyone agrees with me, lives like me, and thinks like me. If we’re never challenged, how on earth do we grow?
If you don’t have friends with whom you disagree, you’re missing out on far too much of life’s color, on perspective gained from hearing other points of view from people you care about.
Life is not one-sided, it’s not monochromatic. One of God’s best creations is the rainbow, which represents the spectrum of all colors.
Do you have friends from different walks of life, different stages, different lifestyles? If not, find some. Life is so much richer when you see all of the colors.
My brother-in-law is an incredible cook. If he weren’t an excellent physician, he’d own a restaurant and be a highly-regarded chef, I’m sure.
So when he has tips for how to do something in the kitchen, I always listen. Here, he’s demonstrating how he dices an onion. Which is now how I dice an onion.
BTW, that’s the Cardinals on in the background, losing to the Reds. Ohwell. The food was amazing.
Funk has at least three meanings: it is defined as a genre of music, a foul smell, or a dejected mood. I’m kind of familiar with the first definition, all-too acquainted with the second (we have dogs, remember?) and am currently experiencing the third.
I’ve thought twice about writing about this, because I like to stay positive, I try not to moan about my (mostly first-world) problems, and, as a person of faith, I sometimes expect myself to be brimming with joy at every moment.
That’s a load of crap.
We all have adversity; Jim and I, like everyone else, have endured our share, from serious illness to loss, and, now, unemployment. And though I do have an underlying peace, that doesn’t mean I feel like smiling all the time. In fact, recently I haven’t felt like smiling at all. I’m seriously bummed out for three reasons:
Job. Blah, blah. Jim hasn’t found anything yet, which isn’t surprising or even particularly concerning. He’s at a higher level than he was last time he searched for a job, and those jobs are harder to come by. I know he’ll land somewhere awesome. I’m just ready for it to happen. Now. It’s hard on him not to have an office to go to every day — somehow, the Office of Transition (aka, our increasingly cluttered dining room) just isn’t the same.
Stress. He’s stressed, I’m stressed … everyone knows about stress. I find myself much more easily overwhelmed these days, and it gets worse when things pile on. Having to put Molly to sleep, a stupid branch that fell on our roof and cost $200 to remove, and the computer Jim uses, which is much better at displaying the spinning beach ball than loading a Web page; little things, big things, medium-size things. They all add up to make us want to scream.
Pain. I’m not just talking about psychic pain, though there’s plenty of that. I have a long-standing herniated cervical disk that has begun to bother me again. And by bother I mean torment. It’s nearly impossible to sleep because every position hurts, and it’s torpedoed my summer running program. Lack of sleep brings irritability, inability to focus on a task, and discouragement at my low level of productivity.
I share all of this to say that sometimes we need to trust others enough to be transparent, to be real, to stop saying, “I’m fine” when we’re really not. I have people in my life who like/love me whether I’m wearing my happy face or not, and if you’re one of those, I’m grateful. If you’re not, well, you probably stopped reading at the third definition of funk.
OK, the thought vomiting expression of frustration is over now. I realize and appreciate how blessed we are to have amazing supportive friends and family, not to mention faith. I think otherwise we’d have both lost it for good by now.
This past Sunday we were at an outdoor event, and after a brief summer thunderstorm, there was a lovely rainbow, which I realized only comes after the rain.
We’re still standing. And if you made it this far, you’re awesome. Thank you.
I’ve noticed for the past week or so that I’ve felt inexplicably blue. Even though they come around every year, somehow the anniversaries always seems to sneak up on me. In 1993, my dad passed away suddenly on June 13, and in 1999, my sister-in-law was killed in a tragic car accident on June 9. So, even though I know that early June comes after late May, somehow it always takes me by surprise.
It was 20 years ago today that my daddy passed away. Elizabeth was four-and-a-half and she was devastated at the loss of her Dada. They were so close, and even now, at 24, she has memories of times shared with him.
Quite the artist even at an early age, she drew a picture of her Dada “going up to heaven” for my mom, which years later we had framed for her at Christmas. When Elizabeth was little she would remember, “When Dada was still on land … ” and sometimes we still say that we wish he were back “on land.”
He’s been gone a whole lifetime now. Enough time for my girls to grow up to be adults without him in their lives.
Here are some things he’s missed; one for each year he’s been gone, in no particular order.
The Internet — He was a lifelong learner. I get my ability to teach myself things from him. He’d have been endlessly fascinated by the Internet.
Email — I’m guessing this would have been a bit like the telephone, which he hated. He answered it when he had to. I think he wouldn’t have been a huge fan of email.
The iPhone — He’d have been an iPhone user for sure and would have loved downloading apps.
Windows — I think he’d have ended up being a Mac user, but the computer he was using at the time he died was pre-Windows.
The comeback of Apple — He had a Mac in the `90s, but got the PC due to compatibility issues with software. I think he’d have definitely been a Mac user. After all, he was a Betamax fan.
All but three of his nine grandchildren — He loved them so much and truly delighted in them. He spent quality time talking to them and teaching them. It breaks my heart that six of my nieces and nephews never shared the earth with him.
School — He never saw one of them start school. He’d have been much better at helping with math than I was.
Teenage years — I’m not sure how this would have gone; I know he’d have rolled his eyes at MmmBop and Justin Bieber would have made him barf.
Driving — Even as an adult, I hated driving with him in the car; he would constantly criticize my driving. In fact, no one could drive as well as he could, in his estimation. I bet my girls would have gotten away with much more than I ever did.
Boyfriends — Not sure how well he’d have done with boyfriends, but he was a great judge of character.
Graduations — Tears.
College — Tears.
Weddings — More tears. Yes, he was a crier, just like me.
Cheerleading — I think he’d have enjoyed watching them compete, but he’d also have given me tons of crap for how much time it took and how expensive it was. Still, seeing his granddaughters on ESPN would have thrilled him.
The death of my sister-in-law — I think he’d have been a tremendous support for my brother in a difficult time, and would be thrilled that he found love a second time. But it would have devastated him.
My breast cancer and my sister’s melanoma — He’d have been strong and reassuring for us, would have researched it and provided knowledgeable and educated counsel and encouragement. And, in private he’d have cried his eyes out.
My career change (from audiology to online communications) — He’d have been fully supportive; he always thought I should be a professional editor and often gave me orthodontic journal articles he was working on to edit.
Proms — I think he’d have gotten choked up to see the girls all dressed up like that.
The girls learning to water ski — as much as he loved the lake, this would have given him endless joy, and he’d have been happy to spend days on end pulling them. He was especially good at dragging the rope right to the skier, so they’d have been spoiled.
Game Six of the 2011 World Series — Oh, how I wish I could have shared that with him. Not to mention the win.
The loss becomes less acute over the years, but the wistful feelings never quite go away. There’s always the wish that he could have shared in the joyful times, the craving for his comfort in the trials, and the desire for his wise counsel in the midst of important decisions.
If I could talk to him today, I’d say,
Daddy, congratulations on your 20th anniversary in heaven. I can’t imagine how awesome it must be. We miss you every day, think of you often and heed your wise words more than you ever knew we would. You were loved, respected, and revered by many, and, now missed by many. You wouldn’t believe how grown up the girls are, and how Little Tik and Teeny Tik (my spelling because this is my website) have grown up to be brilliant, beautiful young women you’d be so proud of. And Jim could really use your encouragement right now with this job thing, because it sucks. And, yeah, I know you’d probably say “potty mouth” for that, but, sorry, it just does. And, Daddy, our Cardinals are doing so great, and I remember everything you ever taught me, how you’d explain things as we watched. So now I explain them to Jim while we watch the games, like you did for me. And I’ve still never seen anyone hit for a cycle.
Most of all, even though I miss you terribly, I love you too much to wish you were anywhere but Heaven. Tell Stan the Man hi for me, ok? I’ll see you again someday.
