Bye Cancer. Now Lose My Number.

Bye Cancer. Now Lose My Number.

I’m a richly blessed old chick.

The summer of 2023 started with my first ever colonoscopy on June 13. The gastroenterologist who did the procedure was a real jerk. It’s bad to be a jerk, but I think it’s a lot worse to be a doctor and a jerk. This particular ass in scrubs told Jim over the phone that I had cancer. Usually they at least call you back and talk to you in a private room, but no, this absolute waste of a medical degree couldn’t be bothered. As my daddy used to say, that nasty doctor is his own punishment, so I’ll let him go and do his thing to himself. That’s pretty much been the only negative piece of this other than, you know, the cancer part of it.

Most of last week, including the fourth of July, was prep for surgery. What I didn’t know when I scheduled it for July 6 was that it would require a two-day prep. Silly me. My family always gets together on the Fourth, so that was a dumb choice on my part. Two days of clear liquid diet, which meant I cooked dinner for 12 for my family, and had to have Jim to come and taste for me. I didn’t mind — it was fun to cook again and everyone seemed to like it. I sat with the family at the dinner table and enjoyed my Gatorade. And it was much easier to resist the temptation of the cupcakes when I couldn’t eat anything else either. 😀

My family is the most supportive of families. They’ve been there for me through countless surgeries and now two (separate) cancer diagnoses. We’re weird, and just as dysfunctional as any other family, but we’re always there for each other and when we’re together we have good times. This year was no exception, so I went in to the surgery feeling wholly supported.

The prep the day before surgery was particularly nasty. It’s like colonoscopy prep and then some. First they give you a gallon (a literal gallon) jug of this stuff to drink. And bless their dear hearts, they included a tiny packet of lemon flavoring with the jug. It did nothing to make this mess more palatable. Here I’m showing how much I had drunk about about four hours.

My delicious (!) non-lemon-flavored nasty drink for the day.

By the time I was into the jug of this stuff, Sara Ann had arrived from Little Rock. She was a godsend. She’s got natural caregiver vibes and she was so good. We watched Top Chef until everyone else went to bed, then she turned on Project Runway, which has always been a favorite of mine. We compared notes late into the night on the outfits and the designers and how we miss Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn. At some point I realized I wasn’t going to be able to drink the rest of the evil stuff, so I poured it down the sink with a few choice words and went to bed.

My sweet Sara Ann, napping with my granddog Luna after a long day

We arrived at the hospital at 5:00 a.m., as directed — Jim and me, Mom and Sara Ann. They took me back pretty quickly and started the IV, which felt like we were making progress toward the goal of getting this thing out of me. Sure enough, soon it was time to roll into the OR, about which I only remember the scary huge lights on the ceiling. I was a little disappointed that my hospital socks didn’t go better with the gown, but they were still pretty comfy if not fashionable.

Notsomuch cute outfit

This has been so hard on Mom. It’s breaking my heart to see her wanting to help and not being able to. She wants to bring me things, food, etc., and help in ways that aren’t safe for her physically. I so love that heart in her and it’s not lost on me that we have a cycle of caregiving in our little group. I’m caring for Mom, she’s trying to care for me, Sara Ann and Jim care for me, and we all care for Mom. It’s kind of beautiful and I’m the recipient of most of the caring. I told Mom that there are a ton of folks who can minister to my physical needs, but I have only one mother and that’s her.

We’ve had dinners brought to us by our pastor and some other church members, and that’s been super helpful and a welcome relief from a liquid diet of gross non-lemon-flavored icky stuff. I’ve received notes, Facebook messages, and texts of support and love, wishing me well. My sister and her husband made his smoked chicken and ribs, which are the most amazing ever, and brought me a yummy lemon cake with a cute sunflower. They stayed for dinner with us and we had a great time. My sister and I agree that sunflowers are happy flowers and it was a fun, happy dinner.

My sister, a physician, has been most supportive in all of these medical crises of mine. She can untangle the medical bs and tell me what’s the real deal. She’ll tell me straight-up, good or bad, what’s up. And all along, she’s told me that it’s been the best news it can be under the circumstances.

I only had to spend one night in the hospital, which was a huge blessing. My surgeon told us that he does not foresee this affecting my life span, and that he saw no evidence of any spread of cancer, which is supported by my CT and PET scan results. The docs in my family have told me that it would be extremely rare for a PET scan to not show spread to the lymph nodes, so I’m resting on that even though I don’t have the official lymph node biopsy results.

After surgery, before anesthesia completely wore off. Oh that hair …

I’m still sore and today I thought maybe I’d try to get through the day without the mild muscle relaxer and extra-strength Tylenol they sent me home with. It didn’t work, so I took them a little while ago. Maybe tomorrow on that. I still can’t drive or lift anything more than 10 pounds, which means I can’t pick up my sweet baby Artie. My appetite is still not that great, which is OK. I’m not yet eager to leave the house or put on anything with a waistband.

I’ve grown quite the collection of scars now. I’ve got scars from two C-sections, a hysterectomy, breast cancer surgery, and now this. I believe my chances of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit spread are all but lost. Still, I’m OK with the scars. Two of them represent the birth of my girls. The rest represent a time when I walked a difficult path and family and friends were there to support me and care for me. They remind me that I’m not alone, that I don’t have to go through tough times by myself. Scars are a visible reminder that sometimes there is healing and life after the dark times.

Sometimes, however, there is no healing and no life on earth and I grieve for the family and friends I’ve lost to this damn disease. I don’t know why it’s worked out for me and not for them, and I won’t know this site of heaven. I cannot rejoice in my own good news without considering those for whom test results are not a relief.

I’m good y’all. Really good. And I’ll be back out and about after a little more healing. But I’m not the same. I resolve to pray more fervently for those loved ones who continue to struggle with cancer and give care where I can. Now I can be the one to bring dinner, to send a note or card of encouragement. Let me be a comfort to others as others have comforted me.

Home for the Holidays

Home for the Holidays

For 40 years, the holidays started for me the week before Thanksgiving. It was a short work week, and I’d start packing on Monday for my one-and-a-half-hour trip to Jonesboro, Arkansas from Memphis. I couldn’t wait to get in the car and drive over one of Memphis’ two bridges crossing the Mighty Mississippi River.

I’d carefully plan what to wear on Thanksgiving Day with the family, and to church on Sunday morning. Saturday night after Thanksgiving we would always celebrate my birthday with a big dinner of Mom’s homemade chicken & dumplings, my favorite.

When Jim and I married in 1986, we split our time between his family and mine for the holidays, which made it even more special. Different traditions only added to the festive feeling and I happen to love turkey and dressing.

When we had children, packing became more complex. If you’ve ever traveled with infants and toddlers, you know what I mean. And, of course, they had to be dressed perfectly for the holiday pictures. Through those years, the packing and anticipation of the trip became part of the fun of the holiday.

When we moved here to Jonesboro in July 2019, I gave little thought to the holidays and focused on getting settled and helping Jim get started in real estate.

In November, when the subject of Thanksgiving came up, it occurred to me that there would be no packing and driving, no bridge crossing, no overnight stays. It’s a short 15-minute drive to my sister’s house, so if I forget something I can easily drive home and get it.

When I expressed this to Jim, he replied by offering to drive me to Memphis so we could drive across the bridge. Sometimes men really don’t get it, y’all. But it was a nice thought.

Change is a constant. I don’t fear it, I welcome it, because it always brings new experiences to enjoy and new insights.

If you take a close look at “Santa,” you’ll notice a family resemblance. That’s because Jim wore the Santa suit at our neighborhood party. We were hoping the girls wouldn’t notice.

I think as we age, the changes in our lives help us adapt to the challenges. I miss the days of young children and smocked dresses. I miss staying up late to finish matching sister outfits for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

But I no longer have the energy to stay up late — this one-time night owl is now regularly in bed by 11:00 p.m. I’m too tired at the end of a day to spend hours preparing a full dinner. I’m thankful that I no longer have to worry about diapers, carseats, strollers, and the like — at least not until and unless I have grandchildren.

My mom, at 86, can no longer make the homemade chicken & dumplings, so we’ll do something different for my birthday. I really don’t care as long as we’re all together. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss the gathering around Mom’s dining room table and those yummy dumplings.

Our youngest, Sara Ann, is coming in from Little Rock, so she will be the one packing the car and driving. Elizabeth, our oldest, is in San Diego and can’t make it home. I’m still not used to having a member of our family absent on Thanksgiving.

Tonight, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we’ll stay in our own home, prop up our feet and watch TV like a regular weeknight. And maybe toast the holiday with a nice glass of wine.

Then tomorrow we’ll pack up Artie (our puppy), an appetizer, and homemade cranberry salad and drive 15 minutes to my sister’s. And it’ll be a great day, except I’ll miss Elizabeth something fierce.

House

House

I grew up in a house that was built in 1902, on a tree-lined block in an older neighborhood in Jonesboro, Arkansas. There were several other kids close to my age who lived nearby and we all played together. It was an idyllic place to grow up. Just a block away there was a corner store, owned by a sweet older couple. At some point I learned that my parents had a charge account there, and it was all the candy I could eat until Mom and Dad got the bill and shut me down.

A few days ago I found this photo of the house at my mother’s home and posted it on Facebook. So many people commented with their own memories of our house that it made me more nostalgic than ever for the old place.

We moved there in my first-grade year. I was excited because the house had a basement. I’d never seen a basement before. That basement would hold many, many LEGOS and would shelter us from Jonesboro’s deadly tornadoes; the one in 1968 that took away the home of some of my parents’ best friends and in 1976, the tornado that blew away the local high school. We went to school the next year in portable buildings at the local fairgrounds and traveled to our church for band and choir.

I was so distraught after the ’68 storm that I was determined to go to church the next morning, but my parents weren’t planning to go. I set off walking and when I arrived the doors were locked. The tornado had not only destroyed homes and killed a few people, but the whole town was in such a state that they cancelled church.

I took this photo of my family in the driveway. Notice the wood-paneled station wagon in the carport. This must have been around 1977, as Daddy, my brother, my sister, and my mom are leaning against my new Cutlass Supreme in that fabulous tan (what was i thinking?).

Our house had a small den just inside the side door, and it opened into a large living room and a dining room. From the dining room, you entered the breakfast room, then the kitchen. It was a large kitchen, even by today’s standards and the countertops were stainless steel.

In the living room, there was an armoire that held a lot of random papers and other junk. The one thing I remember was that it was where we kept the Elvis tickets we had bought for a concert that never took place because Elvis died. When we went back to look for the tickets, they had disappeared. No one ever found them, but I’ve always wondered what six tickets for a concert Elvis never performed would bring.

When I was a teenager, my mom, who had been a homemaker, got a part-time job at Arkansas State University teaching in the nursing department. She was one of the only nurses in the area with a bachelor’s degree. She used some of her salary to redecorate the old den, living room, and dining room. We got spring green carpet over those 60-plus-year-old hardwood floors (as one did at that time), and a green velvet couch and drapes to match. I think it was nice for the day, but the green had definitely overstayed its welcome by the time we sold the house.

Off the kitchen was a utility room, which was always a mess. That’s where the washer and dryer were and once when my mom left clothes to dry in the dryer while we went to church, the dryer caught fire. The only thing that kept the whole house from burning was the plastic bottle of laundry detergent that sat on top of the dryer. It melted from the heat of the fire and the liquid doused the fire. But there was smoke. A lot of smoke. We had to have the house fumigated and they used this awful pink bubblegum scent. We smelled that crap for years afterwards.

This is my daddy feeding our oldest daughter, Elizabeth, in the kitchen. Over his right shoulder you can see the windows of the den we added.

Our bedrooms were large, like old house bedrooms were. I got the best room, as I was the oldest. It had a fireplace (non-working) with a mantel and in the small closet there was a window. The tile around the fireplace was blue, which has always been my favorite color. Years later when we redecorated it, I got blue and green shag carpet, which I thought was the most beautiful, lush floor I’d ever seen.

Daddy loved popcorn. Sometimes after I’d gone to bed, he would pop popcorn and I’d smell it from my room. He and Mom both knew I was about to come running down the stairs for some popcorn. They let me stay up and have my fill before I went back to bed. I still love popcorn.

I hated the Ethan Allan furniture in my room, so during the redecoration, it came out. I had seen this set of white furniture with blue and green trim and, of course, that was it for me. It didn’t have a desk or bookcase, so my daddy had new ones custom built for my room and they were a bright shade of blue. I loved that furniture. I wish I knew what happened to it.

One of my favorite photos ever of Daddy in the den.

My sister got orange and yellow shag carpet and white furniture with orange and yellow trim. Some of both of our furniture got stripped and painted over and over again and has served our girls well as dorm room and apartment furniture.

At some point, my parents decided to paint the house white. The painters did it by hand — no sprayers. It took forever. I felt like the painters had moved in with us.

Daddy with our youngest, Sara Ann as a baby.

When I was in about the ninth grade, my daddy decided to build a pool in the back yard. His idea was that as we grew into teenagers, the more they could keep us around the house the better. He wasn’t much for spending a lot of money on home decor, but he would open the purse strings when it involved anything we could all do together as a family.

The pool was wonderful. It wasn’t the most beautiful pool ever built, because Daddy thought that stainless steel would be the most durable. I watched the men build it, then lay the concrete and shape the steps by hand.

We swam all the time. Sometimes when Daddy came home from work, he’d get in with us and the whole family would be in the pool. We had a neighbor who would peep at us through the holes in the concrete brick fence. Once we caught her peeping and squirted the Pool Sweep hose in her direction. I don’t remember her peeping too often after that.

My brother was about five the first summer we had the pool. He had this little Speedo swimsuit that had white stars and stripes on it and he wore it all the time. He actually got a tan on his behind in the pattern of the stars and stripes, and we laughed and sang, “Oh, stars and stripes everywhere, even on his derriere … ” to the tune of Stars and Stripes Forever.

Back row, left to right: My brother-in-law, my sister, Jim; in front is my mom, me (holding my nephew Will), and Elizabeth. I was pregnant with Sara Ann at the time.

Behind our house was a vacant lot. When they mowed it, it was a great place to tumble. I remember doing nine backhandsprings in a row in that lot — it was the most I’d ever done as there was no gym for that in Jonesboro in the early 1970s.

Around the time we built the pool, we also added on a large den with a very high ceiling and windows all around. It became our family’s favorite room, and the old den was used mostly as a place to put the piano. I jokingly referred to it as the conservatory. My parents told me that new room cost as much as they paid for the entire house. But it was worth it, and they designed it with a hole in the roof right outside the window for an oak tree my daddy didn’t want to cut down.

I’ve always loved this photo of Jim (left) and my daddy talking about the camera Daddy is holding. Jim is concentrating intensely.

At some point we redecorated the kitchen and got new wallpaper. It was (remember, 1970s) orange and yellow plaid with a little bit of spring green. Trouble is, when you wallpaper an old house, never do plaid. Those walls were nowhere near plumb, and the pattern made it obvious.

That wallpaper, crooked walls and all, was still there when my mom sold the house after Daddy passed in 1993. The yard, the pool, everything that has to be fixed when an old house gets older — at around 6000 square feet, was too much for my mother on her own.

The last time I was in the house, there were moving boxes everywhere, all the pictures had been taken down off the wall, and I couldn’t stand it. I went upstairs for one last look at the room that had been my safe and happy place for so many years, pausing on the landing with the big picture window I always looked out to see if there was lightning.

It was a wonderful house, well loved and well lived in. It was eligible for the National Register of Historic Places, but no one ever got busy and did the paperwork.

I miss it, but we’ve made so many new memories it doesn’t sting like it used to. A family is a family wherever they are, and my memories of this house are really memories of the people and relationships that lived and loved here.

Moving: Final Phase

Moving: Final Phase

They are pretty darned, cute, no?

You know how sometimes you are in the middle of something stressful and you focus on one little, tiny thing? Yeah, that.

So I splurged on new shower curtains and those cute little rings that hold them up. You can get some really cool ones now.

Which I did. One set of rings for each (really lovely) shower curtain. And one set came in and I hung the master bedroom shower curtain, put in those adorable rings, stood by and admired my design choices.

The shower curtain for the guest bath came the next day. But no rings. You have never seen a person get so rattled by shower curtain rings. Everyone was looking at me as if I had finally taken that trip around the bend. Someone said, “Please do not say shower curtain ring” again. Ever.

The rings came the next day. And you know what I realized?

Prepare for the wisdom, because here it comes. When you feel out of control with the big things (moving, anyone?) and like you’re not going to make it, sometimes it’s easier to stress out about shower curtain rings. Yes, there is misery, poverty, and sickness in the world and I’m upset about shower curtain rings.

And, rather than go deal with it, or even think about it, here I am writing a post about shower curtain rings.

This is not really about shower curtain rings, though. They are only standing in for my (near) panic as we approach this last week of moving preparations with so much not ready.

We all have ’em, y’all. You have shower curtain rings, too. They are the little things you obsess over when you’ve got bigger things in your to deal with. I survived my freakout about the rings. You will too.

P.S. I’ve probably lied about the Final Phase title of this post. I should change it, but right now I need to finish packing up the kitchen.

Change: A Catalyst for Blessings

Change: A Catalyst for Blessings

Jim, my husband of 32 years and I are about to start an adventure.

Along with our two dogs, and about half of 28 years’ worth of accumulated crap, we’re moving to Jonesboro, Arkansas at the end of July.

We’ve rented a small house — and when I say small, it’s half the size of the four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath home in which we raised our girls. It’s small, but it will be plenty. To be honest, we currently only use about three or four rooms in our house anyway. So downsizing here we come. Goodbye four bedrooms, hello storage unit.

jim & dogs
Not the best pic of the dogs. This was taken in our downstairs bathroom during a tornado warning.

When we moved into our current house in a suburb of Memphis, we thought it was a good thing to have two attic areas. Friends, it is not. Trust me, accumulated crap grows to fit the space it lives in.

Our next few weeks will be filled with decluttering and designating about half for storage and half for the house.

As most of our family lives here in Jonesboro, we have no need for huge entertaining areas. It’s easier for us to just come to Jonesboro than to have all of the Jonesboro folks come all the way to Memphis.

Jim is starting a brand-new career in real estate. He’s ready to ditch corporate IT and real estate is perfect for him. He’s a fantastic networker and the most detail-obsessed person I’ve ever known.

I’ve lived in Memphis since 1981, when I moved here to get a masters degree at University of Memphis’ fine graduate program in audiology. I stayed here because I love this city. It’s a great place to live, with a lot of great places to eat (eat local!) and a thriving tech community. Our Sunday School class, the Messengers from Christ Methodist, have been a close community for us. This community has seen us through several deaths in the family, major surgeries and the countless joys and challenges of this life.

If you think Memphis is a nasty, filthy, dangerous place, you haven’t been to Memphis lately. Get out and visit the Crosstown Concourse, ride the Greenline, go to Cooper-Young and enjoy Memphis’ best local restaurants, go downtown (Yes, downtown! ) and check out the South Main District. Go to Summer Avenue and experience real Mexican food, and indulge in fine dining at Erling Jensen. I’ve lived in this city for 38 years, and have only had ONE brush with crime.

It’s only the past couple of weeks that I’ve started to really think about the idea these are some of my last weeks in this beloved city. Memphis, I’ll miss you, but I’ll be back to visit. Often.

Here are some of the things and places I’ll miss about Memphis. Click on one of the photos to see the rest. Downtown shots; things you might not see if you don’t live here.

I hope my snapshots of Memphis have helped you appreciate my town. I’m sad to leave, but change is always hard. It’s often the catalyst for new blessings and I’m ready.

That Time I Talked to Art Garfunkel

That Time I Talked to Art Garfunkel

And I Did Not Cry

Last night I spoke to Art Garfunkel.

Now, this was not a private conversation. In fact, about 500 people (by Jim’s estimation) bore witness.

We were given a generous and special gift from my sister and brother-in-law, which included tickets to an event at the St. Louis County Library and an overnight stay in a nearby hotel (the hotel is another blog post entirely). The event was an onstage interview with Garfunkel, moderated by a local St. Louis public radio host. Tickets included a pre-autographed copy of his new book, What is It All But Luminous, Notes From an Underground Man.

We knew the seating was first-come-first-served, so we planned to arrive at the library by 4:30 p.m. for the 7:00 p.m. event. We spent 30 minutes inside the library before they closed the doors at 5:00 p.m. to finish setup. Doors opened again at 6:00 p.m., so we spent an hour waiting outside. Jim and I were numbers one and two in line, respectively.

Before the library closed, I tried to bargain with the employees: My husband and I will help you set up if you’ll let us stay in here and save the front row center seats. They declined our generous offer, but they did show us where to get in line so we’d be first and we were.

We’re first in line!

Promptly at 6:00 p.m. the doors opened and we raced to our front and center seats. It was entirely worth the wait, even though it’s still 80-too-many degrees in St. Louis in October.

Here I am in front of the stage holding my book.

My hair looks a little funky from being outside in the St. Louis heat/humidity for an hour. But see how close the stage was?

There were absolutely no photos or videos allowed during the interview, so no photos of Artie. Which was OK because the interview was fascinating and toward the end they opened it up to questions from the audience.

So of course I raise my hand, and I’m the very last question.

The woman in charge of the event hands me the microphone. I’m about 10 feet from ART GARFUNKEL, y’all.

I momentarily froze. He was looking at me. The first thing that came out of my mouth was:

Me: ( Verklempt and overcome and almost involuntarily): Omigosh I am talking to Art Garfunkel.

AG + 500 people:  Loud laughter

AG (Commenting on my top): I love your lace. You know wardrobe.

Me. (To myself): Omigosh a lifelong New Yorker just complimented my clothing. Art Garfunkel just said I look good. (I’m enormously thrilled as I’ve always been a huge fashion nut/clothes horse.)

Me (Aloud to Art Garfunkel + 500 people): Mumble mumble something lame like I try.

Me: First of all, thank you, because 46 years ago you taught me to harmonize. I listened to your songs all the time, and I’d go through them twice. First I sang your part and played it again and sang Paul’s part. I still sing a damned good harmony (I do).

AG: Smiles. Crowd laughs loudly.

Me (To myself): Omigosh I made Art Garfunkel smile.

Me (To AG): For all of your poetry, how is it that you’ve never put a melody to those words?

AG: Good question. They are two different things. Paul Simon is brilliant at it. I tried it and it didn’t work for me.

Me: Second question: The Concert in Central Park in 1981 was a true high point of my life.

AG: Mine too.

Me: I read that you didn’t like your performance. When I heard that, I thought to myself, “What in the world—?”

AG + 500 people: More loud laughter

Me: You were both flawless.

AG: You listened differently than I did; you heard the two of us back together, the songs, the memories … I heard the fine nuances and imperfections …

Me: I still watch it and it still makes me weep.

AG: Smiles at me.

We left our home near Memphis at about 8:30 a.m. and arrived in St. Louis in time for lunch. We met quite a few very nice people, many of whom were amazed that we had driven five hours. I’d have driven 10 hours for this experience.

Me with my autographed book

P.S. Oh, yeah I forgot to mention the book. It’s is an easy read, but, like Garfunkel, it’s a bit strange. He even admitted to being weird, so my saying this should not hurt our new BFF relationship. It’s sprinkled throughout with his poetry, which is quite nice, and is full of expressions of love for his wife and children.

How Not to Be a Jerk When a Friend is Grieving

How Not to Be a Jerk When a Friend is Grieving

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:

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. Play social games. If the last words we spoke weren’t friendly, stay away. Period. This isn’t the time to mend fences.
  4. 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.
  5. Be nosy. Don’t prod me for details, or conduct your own interrogation. It’s highly unlikely that those details matter now.
  6. 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.
  7. 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.
  8. 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.

How to Honor Older Relatives Who Have Hearing Loss

How to Honor Older Relatives Who Have Hearing Loss

At my age (I’m a proud 57), I and many of my contemporaries are dealing with aging parents. With age comes hearing loss, and, although I haven’t practiced audiology (MA in audiology, University of Memphis, 1984) in 22 years*, I do still remember a thing or two about hearing impairment and its impact on individuals and their loved ones.

To that end, I offer these tips on how to help your hearing impaired friends and relatives continue to feel included in family and group activities.

Understand that hearing aids are not a panacea. Yes, they do amplify sounds, but they do not return hearing to normal. Even with a hearing aid, a hearing impaired person will not be able to understand speech in a situation that is full of background noise. Think of this when you’re cranking up the background music — you’re essentially excluding your hearing-impaired loved one from the conversation. It’s worth it to forego the music to make your friend or relative feel included.

Make the extra effort. It’s not easy for them to follow your conversation, but they are trying. You’ll have to try too. Show them how important they are to you by ensuring that you’re looking at them when you speak. Don’t raise your voice; that just distorts the sound and the movement of your lips and makes it more difficult for them to understand. Speak clearly and don’t mumble; make sure you’re facing them. Take the time to be sure they understand — they’re worth it.

Never tell them, “Oh, it’s nothing.” That signals that it’s just too much trouble to help them understand and further isolates them. Fill them in, in a way they can understand.

Don’t get impatient or irritated with them. They can no more help their hearing loss than you can change the color of your eyes. One day you’ll be old and maybe you won’t hear so well either. You owe them your patience.

Be empathetic. Try to walk a mile in their shoes. Imagine if you were in a room of people and could barely understand what was being said. How would you feel? Don’t berate them; help them as you would an elderly relative who can’t stand for a long time.

Understand. Sometimes they may get tired of trying to hear and zone out. Have you ever attended a lecture by a speaker with a heavy foreign accent? It’s mentally exhausting to listen and try to interpret the speaker’s words. Hearing-impaired folks sometimes feel the same way and need a break. Be understanding if they zone out for a bit because they need the mental rest.

Loving care and compassion go a long way to help an older relative feel vital and loved. Yes, our world moves quickly, but if you don’t slow down for your elders, you’ll miss a lot of love and wisdom. And that’s a damned shame.

*I did practice audiology for 11 years, and spent many of those years working with older hearing-impaired patients and their families. 

Small Miracles, Magnificent Gifts

Small Miracles, Magnificent Gifts

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.
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.
caladium
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.

gazing-ball
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.

sunlight
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.

How Important is Milk, Really?

How Important is Milk, Really?

Musings of a Bad First Grader

I attended a Catholic school in first and second grade, a perfectly fine school. However, in Jonesboro, Arkansas at that time it was the only private school, and 99 percent of all of the children went to the public schools in town. They were creatively named North, South, East, and West, and I desperately wished I could attend one of them. I hated being different.

Our Lady of Jonesboro Catholic School* was small, with only one class in each grade, taught by nuns from the adjacent convent. I can only describe myself as possibly the worst Catholic school student in history.

Each morning we went to chapel. Girls were required to wear a veil on their heads, and I was fascinated with the many different designs and colors available. My parents probably spent a fortune on them, because no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t keep up with a chapel veil to save my poor scatterbrained soul. Thankfully, our teacher, Sister Ann*, kept a supply of extras for girls who had no veils, but I’m pretty sure I depleted her stock a couple of times that year, which did nothing to endear me to Sister Ann.

Sister Ann just didn’t like me, no matter what I did — I’m pretty sure I knew that, even at six. She didn’t like that I couldn’t keep up with my chapel veil, and she didn’t like that I didn’t like milk.

After my first day of school at Our Lady of Jonesboro, I knew I was in trouble and that first grade was going to be a long year. Apparently Sister Ann thought it was very important for little first graders to drink their milk. All of it. And lunch came with one of those small milk cartons that sat squarely in the very special milk-carton-shaped space in the lunch tray. I still hate those things.

milk

Sister Ann would stand at the cafeteria’s exit, next to the trash can where all of the good children threw their empty milk cartons. The good children would crumple the top of their milk cartons into the bottom, signifying to Sister Ann that it was empty. She would look at them and smile and nod as they threw away their empty cartons and ran out to play. Good, nice, milk-drinking children.

I knew I’d be in trouble if she caught me with a full milk carton, so I would wait and watch for her to become distracted, then bolt to the door, pitch the milk and leave. But more often than not I was stuck at the door with Sister Ann. She would pick up my milk carton, shake it, and send me back to my seat to drink my milk. No smile. No nod. I tried to bash in the top to make it look empty, but they don’t bash all that well when they are mostly full. Once I tried just telling Sister Ann that I didn’t like milk. I was sent back to my seat to drink it anyway.

I began to develop strategies for disposing of the milk. By the second week of school, it dominated my entire lunch, as I searched out other kids who might drink my extra milk. As my welcome wore out with one group, they would finally tell me they were sick of drinking my milk, so I would move on in search of true milk lovers. No time for socializing, I had work to do. I had to get rid of that milk.

Soon I got the idea to mix the milk in with uneaten food. This meant I had to leave food uneaten, so there were a lot of hungry afternoons in school. Spaghetti was especially good for soaking up extra milk, and the rolls looked good, but I only used them for milk sponges.

I realize how obsessive this sounds; but the fact that I remember these thought processes means I had far too much anxiety as a six-year-old. I spent my entire first grade year in dread of lunchtime. All morning I’d be sick with worry over how I would deal with the milk and avoid Sister Ann’s reprisal. Then after lunch I could relax, only to do it again the next day.

I’m not sure why I never told my parents about the milk anxiety; I’m sure they would have done something to help. They weren’t milk drinkers either, and my dad really didn’t think it was that good for you. But I didn’t tell, and I spent my first year of school unnecessarily miserable about lunch. I made few friends because I spent lunchtime table hopping to find takers for my milk. I probably didn’t learn a thing in the classes before lunch, preoccupied as I was by lunch anxiety.

I also remember feeling that I didn’t fit in; everyone else liked milk, why didn’t I? What was wrong with me? Sister Ann sure thought something was wrong. I remember wishing I could just like milk and be like everyone else. And I wished I could go to public school like everyone else, where I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be a Sister Ann.

I was thankful when the year ended, and even more thankful when my second grade teacher turned out not to be a nun, but a lovely woman named Mrs. Garfunkel* whom I admired greatly. And Mrs. Garfunkel didn’t care about milk.

This dumb little story tells me a lot about myself; it at least partially explains why I still feel like I never fit in anywhere. We never know the full extent of the demands we make on children, and the impact it can have. I’m not blaming Sister Ann for all of my issues, but in her stubborn insistence on my drinking milk, she planted a seed in me: that I was a screwup who couldn’t remember her chapel veil, and a bad girl because I didn’t like milk.

We never know what the children in our lives are miserable about and don’t tell us. But I think the lesson is that we need to be very careful that the hills we choose to die on are worth it. Sister Ann chose milk and chapel veils. And, partly because of her choice, there’s a 56-year-old woman who still doesn’t fit in. I wonder if she would think it was worth it.

*All names have been changed. This is not a smear piece, just some thoughts and insights I wish I’d had when my girls were six. Also, I have nothing against nuns, but Sister Ann was really just not a very nice woman.

Epilogue: I got smarter in the ensuing years. I didn’t like tomatoes either, and remember telling one of the counselors at church camp I was allergic to them. Much to my relief, they kept me far away from tomatoes the entire week. If I’d only known the word allergic in the first grade, my entire life might have been different.

8 Things I’ve Always Wanted to Say to Young Pastors

8 Things I’ve Always Wanted to Say to Young Pastors

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. 

A Parent’s Paradox

A Parent’s Paradox


When you become a parent, you sign up for a life of mixed emotions.

You want them to sit up, but you know you’ll miss holding them.

You want them to walk, but you fear they’ll fall and hit their head.

You want them to go to school, but it means they will leave you. It means they’ll have 180 days away from you. And they might fall on the playground and skin their knees.

You want them to make friends, but it means someone else will influence them in ways you won’t anymore.

You want them to know what it’s like for a boy to make their heart beat faster, but you don’t want them to get their hearts broken.

You want them to enjoy their first kiss, but you don’t want it to go any further.

You want them to pursue their dreams, but your heart breaks at the thought of them leaving.

You want them to grow up, find their passion, but it’s so hard to let go.

Until you do.

Until you watch them fall in love. And the child that you held on your knee is in someone else’s arms and that’s their home now.

Or maybe they don’t fall in love, but they make a life for themselves far away and you watch them become who they were meant to be.

It’s strange when you realize you don’t know their wardrobe, you don’t know their friends, or what music they listen to in the car.

And even though somewhere that isn’t your house is home for them now, you can hardly contain your joy as you watch one make a home with their love — the same way you did all those years ago — and the other build the life she dreamed of and a promising career.

It’s a paradox that our greatest joy is both in holding them close and in letting them fly on their own. Yes, it’s ridiculously hard to let go. But it is so worth it.