Out of the Mouths of Babes

I know...all moms think that their kids are exceptionally clever. But just to show that by the time mine were in kindergarten, they were truly extraordinary...allow me to share these two stories.
It was about that time, when Jennifer was in kindergarten, that my girl's dad decided to leave the family. At first I tried to arrange meetings between them and their father...but his drug abusing lifestyle made that impossible. (When he would agree to meet us, we'd show up...and he wouldn't.) We were not divorced yet and he was running up a lot of bills. Bill collectors were calling me and threatening to garnish my wages for things I knew nothing about. Finally, I decided that I needed to make everything official and file for a divorce. I wanted to break the news to my girls in the easiest way possible...so we went for a drive...to Dairy Queen. As we were enjoying our dipped cones and driving around I causally said, "Girls...I need to tell you something." They looked up and then continued eating. "Your dad and I are going to get a divorce." "NO!" Jennifer blurted out. "I'm sorry. He's running up a lot of bills and people are coming after me to pay them...and I just don't have the money to do that." I drove along quietly, letting them process that. After a few blocks I said, "I have some more sad news to tell you." Jenn cut me off, "Not yet." We drove around for a while longer and then she said, "Okay...what?" "Well...the reason that your dad hasn't been meeting us when he says that he will, is because he has a drug problem. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do about it." Things were quiet for a bit and then Jenn spoke up, "Mom...that's dad's problem. He has to handle it." I was blown away. How did she get so smart, so soon?
By the time Stephanie was in kindergarten, her dad had been gone for several years. Things in our family were different than in most of her friends' families. There were no men around...we girls did everything for ourselves. Mom and I did all of the traditional "men jobs." We worked, took care of the yard, did the minor home repairs, carved the turkey at Thanksgiving, brought in and set up the tree at Christmas, took out the trash...everything...big or little. I was glad to show the girls that we could be self sufficient as women. That's a good life lesson. Each year when we went out to the pumpkin patch to get our Halloween pumpkins, we never went alone. There were always at least of couple of the girls' friends that came with us. It was more fun that way. The rule was always the same: You can have any pumpkin you want...as long as you can carry it. Of course they never went for little ones. They chose the biggest ones that they could possibly carry...or roll. Steph had just started kindergarten and had made a couple of close friends...they both came with us to the pumpkin patch that year. As they struggled to bring in three giant pumpkins from the field...I heard one of the little girls say, "We need a man to carry these for us!" (Had her dad come with us, he certainly would've carried their pumpkins for them...even if it took a couple of trips...he loved to spoil them.) Steph continued rolling her pumpkin towards the checkout gate and said, "We don't need a man, we need a wheelbarrow!"
See...truly extraordinary!

Closing Thoughts

There is a lot of prep work that goes on before a restaurant can open for business every day. Likewise, there is a lot of clean up that has to be done once it closes. Usually, I worked the opening shift...and at the Oyster Bar, that meant that I got to restock the oyster crackers, bake off the rolls, bake the pies, cut the lemons, peel the shrimp, roll the silverware, ice the glasses and set up the waitress stations with cream, butter, coffee etc. For a while I was picking up the closing shift once a week...mostly because it gave me a chance to work with my best friend Mary. Closing side work involved putting away the leftover butter, cream and lemons. Filling the catsup bottles, rolling more silverware, cleaning out the waitress stations, washing the tables and sweeping the floors. It would take about an hour for the two of us to get everything done. Although some of it could be started before the restaurant actually closed...it was better to do the sweeping once all of our guests had left the dining room. I didn't really mind any of the side work...it gave Mary and I a chance to chat uninterrupted. One night as I was sweeping, I began thinking about my life. I had been a single mom for many years, divorced twice and not dating. It was not the way I had intended my life to turn out. I wanted to be married, have kids...and live happily ever after. Why couldn't I have that? Should I even try to find a life mate again? Would it be "third time's a charm" or "three strikes you're out?" I asked Mary why couldn't I have the June Cleaver life. She shrugged it off saying, "Because that was a TV show. They were not real people. They were actors reading scripts." I thought about that a bit and decided, no...the reason I wasn't living the June Cleaver life...is because I didn't marry Ward! I married the first time when I had just turned twenty. We had dated about five years. He was a very serious guy, loved to hike, fish, read and was organic in all ways before it was a popular way to live. Mary affectionately nick-named him my "communist hippie vegetarian husband." (Nothing like Ward Cleaver.) We divorced after about a year and a half. When I married the second time, it was to someone completely different. We partied a lot, went to rock concerts and had a lot of fun...at first. About four years into the marriage, drug abuse became a huge problem for my husband. Although he got clean and sober a couple of years later...it was a short lived sobriety. Drug abuse and unemployment were chronic issues for him. (Again...nothing like Ward Cleaver.) My "aha!" moment was when I realized: To live the June Cleaver life...you've got to marry Ward! So simple.
Later that night I was wondering, why so often, people have such a hard time admitting when they are wrong about something...take the consequences...and then move on with their life? Isn't that way better than denying...for the sake of pride...that they were wrong? That's when I came up with my second "quote for life": It's better to swallow your pride...than choke on it.
Again...so simple.
When I shared that thought with Mary, she asked what had gotten into me. I guess I was on a roll that night. Wisdom was simply oozing out of me. Sorry to say...it was a one time thing. But...at least I did have that one time!
Oh...years later, I DID remarry...and the answer to my question is "The third time's a charm!"

Drinking Wine Out of the Bottle

I dug out our old wine glasses this weekend to use for a picnic style communion at church. As I was washing the dust off of them, I reminisced about the days when mom and I regularly enjoyed sharing a bottle (or box) of wine. Although I wanted to be a red wine drinker...I always liked a lighter, sweet wine best. Mom liked them all. (She also was big on margaritas in the summertime and a good scotch any time.)
One of the perks of being the opening waitress at the Oyster Bar, was the winery reps always came by after the lunch rush to have the bosses sample their products. Because my shift was over at that time...I often got to join them. One particular winter afternoon, the Bridgeview rep was there. He had brought several different bottles along...one of them was a beautiful cobalt blue bottle...Blue Moon Riesling. The bosses brought out a plate of cheese, crackers and chocolates and they uncorked the bottles one by one. After we had tried sips of each, we chose which ones we thought would sell well at the restaurant. Once the rep left, my bosses offered me the opened Riesling to take home with me. It was by far my favorite. We corked the bottle and stuck it in a brown paper bag. I put it in the trunk of my car and headed for home.
On the way home I remembered the time some friends of ours gave us a bottle of Oak Knoll Riesling, which I opened while I was making dinner. I poured a glass for me and one for mom. We agreed it was quite tasty. Mom finished hers first and poured herself another one saying,
"I think I'll have a glass while I take a quick bath before dinner." I don't know what the heck I was making, but she was out of the tub before it was done and asked me to pour her another glass to have with dinner. I did. That was four glasses. Four glasses equals one bottle. We enjoyed our dinner and mom got up to get another glass of wine. "How many glasses of wine did you have?" she yelled from the kitchen. "This bottle's empty!" I just shook my head.
Once I got home...I decided to leave the bottle of wine in the trunk of my car. I knew...it would be gone the moment I took it in the house. Each afternoon, after I parked in our driveway, I would open the trunk and take a few swigs off that bottle of wine...still wrapped in the paper bag. It was the best wine I ever drank. Maybe it was because I was drinking right out of the bottle. Maybe it was the brown paper wrapper. Maybe it was because I thought I was being so sneaky. I don't know. Thought...was a key word. You see...we share our driveway with the neighbors. One driveway between the two houses. Two garages at the end of the driveway. Our garage had too much stuff in it for me to park inside...so I was always parked just outside the door. One afternoon as I was re-corking the bottle, I looked up and saw our neighbor watching me from her kitchen window. I smiled and waved...and wondered to myself how many days I didn't see her up there as I enjoyed my secret pleasure. I thought that it probably didn't look very good...me taking a few drinks off a bottle wrapped in a brown bag (like the men I stepped over on my way to work in the morning) each afternoon before I went in our house. My only consolation was that at least I wasn't drinking and then driving off. I decided to surrender. Bring the bottle in the house knowing full well that mom would finish it off in no time. And that's exactly what happened. I think it sat in the fridge all of twenty minutes...until M*A*S*H ended and mom got up to look for a snack.

Worship God, Seek Beauty, Give Service

I was very fortunate to have found a group (at a very young age) that seemed to be made for me. When I was in second grade, I became a Bluebird...the first level of Camp Fire Girls. My decision to become a Camp Fire Girl not only changed my life, it also changed the lives of hundreds of girls who were not even twinkles in their father's eyes yet. That's a pretty big statement...but it's true.
Worship God, Seek Beauty and Give Service are the first three laws of Camp Fire. Those laws are as much a part of my every day life now...as when I first heard them in the early sixties.
Mrs. Cheatwood was my first Camp Fire leader. She had a daughter my age, named Cheryl. There were pictures in their home of a young man in uniform but I don't know for sure if he was a grown son or a husband. I never saw a man around there, and being a child, I thought it would be rude to ask who was the man in the photo...and where was he now.
Mrs. Cheatwood was a wonderful group leader. We took field trips around San Rafael, where we lived...and sometimes we even ventured across the bay to San Francisco! Community service projects were a big part of our program...which I loved. I wasn't very good with the art projects and Mrs. Cheatwood regularly told me that I had "the patience of Job" as I struggled along. One afternoon we were building kites out of wrapping paper...and I thought they were turning out pretty good. They seemed strong enough, had respectable, knotted, rag tails...I was sure they would fly. We all piled in "Ol' Betsy" (Mrs. Cheatwood's big gray Plymouth) and headed up to the top of this hill that was on the edge of town. There were no phone wires up there...it was a great place to fly kites. We tried over and over to get those kites to lift off. There was a nice breeze...so that wasn't the problem. The problem, Mrs. Cheatwood determined, was that those tails just weren't quite long enough. We were very disappointed. "Well, there's only one thing to do..." Mrs. Cheatwood announced. "We're going to have to add more tail to these kites." And with that said she went to Ol' Betsy, pulled out her purse and found a small pair of "emergency scissors." She sat on the front seat, lifted up her dress a bit and started snipping away at her slip! "I wish I hadn't worn my nice one today..." we could hear her say to herself, as she cut away one strip after another. When she stood up with a fistful of new kite tails she said, "There, that should do it." Each of us girls added extra "slip strips" to our kite tails...and we were thrilled when the kites finally went sailing. My thought at that moment was, "When I grow up...I want to be just like her!" Prepared, inventive and generous.
When Jennifer entered kindergarten, I saw that she could join Camp Fire...in a Starflight group. I called the office to make sure it was the same organization that I had belonged to. They assured me that it was. Worship God, Seek Beauty, Give Service etc. I signed her up. And since I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun...I signed myself up as the leader. Within a week, there were twenty eight kids who wanted to join. Since they all couldn't agree on a meeting date, we split them into three groups. We met separately most of the time...but did do group projects together also. When Stephanie entered kindergarten, I signed her up too. And again...I signed up to be the group leader. That group began as a group of twenty two...and stayed that big. Jenn's group stayed together through sixth grade...Steph's group stayed together through fifth grade. It was a wonderful experience for all of us. We held weekly meetings, did lots of community service projects, learned a lot of new things, went Christmas caroling every year, made some super drums for Council Fire. We camped in the back yard, at Camp Namanu and at the beach. We held annual Mother-Daughter teas and Father-Daughter ice cream socials with folk dancing afterwards. Many of those girls are still close.
It seemed very important to me, to share those values, Worship God, Seek Beauty and Give Service to not only my kids...but to the other kids around us. We made sure everyone was welcomed. At that time, there were over a dozen Camp Fire groups in their school...which was a lot. The Camp Fire district office asked if I would help train other moms to be leaders also. I was happy to. People would ask me, "How do you find the time...being a working single mother?" My answer was always the same..."How could I not?" I wanted to be around my kids. To know who they were hanging out with and to help influence their activities and choices. (Not to mention that it was fun!)
Thank you Mrs. Cheatwood. You changed my life...my daughter's lives...and hundreds of other lives by being a wonderful Camp Fire leader to me. WoHeLo! (WOrk, HEalth, LOve)

A Nightmare

For whatever reason, when I was around eight years old, I had a lot of trouble with nightmares. Usually they were about robbers breaking in the house and I had to hide from them. Sometimes they would find me and then I'd have to try and escape. They were pretty distressing...and I usually would not want to go back to sleep...afraid they would come back. I would grab a small stack of comic books to read, sit on the bathroom floor and do my best to stay awake until morning.
There were two nightmares that were particularly upsetting to me. This is the story of one of those...

I was a child...just like any other child. Almost. I knew that I had a special power. It was an unusual power...and I could only use it once in my lifetime. It wasn't like x-ray vision or super human strength...it was something else altogether. It was something that, if and when I chose to use it...my life, as well as someone else's life would be changed forever. Now that's a super special power! One not to be wasted on just anything.
One beautiful afternoon, I was playing Prison Tag (a very popular form of tag in my youth) in the front yard of my Camp Fire Leader's house. We were having a great time. I was stuck in prison...waiting for someone to come free me. As I waited, I was watching the traffic pass by on the street just beyond the yard. This house was on one of the busier streets in town...so we always had to be extra careful playing in the front yard. All of the sudden, this car came barreling down the road. The driver was apparently not paying any attention to what was ahead...he appeared to be deep in conversation with his passenger. The car was veering off to the side and was just about ready to slam into a tree...which would certainly mean they would both be killed. I felt sure that if I were driving the car, I'd be able to slow down and swerve in time to miss the tree. I knew the tree was there...he did not. I had such great compassion for those people...I decided to use my super power to save them. As they sped past me I yelled "I'll trade places with you!" At that moment, the driver's head spun around and our eyes locked. It was then that I noticed that the driver was actually a mannequin. His body fell apart...and I woke up. I was really sorry I had traded places with a mannequin. For many years I avoided eye contact with all mannequins. It's not such a big issue for me anymore...but they still do kind of creep me out.

Stress and the Caregiver

There are thousands of books, videos, pamphlets and blogs about stress and the caregiver. Five years ago, I kind of had the attitude of..."That may be true for SOME people...but not for me. I'm an easy going sort of person." Now I see why there are so many publications on this topic out there. Even us easy going sorts of care-giving people will most likely will feel their stress levels elevate over time. Actually...it didn't take long at all for me to feel it. By the end of the first month that I became mom's full time caregiver...I was experiencing major headaches. I checked my blood pressure and it had gone through the roof. (Which I thought was odd, because I'd always had lower blood pressure!) I went to the doctor right away. Of course the first thing they do there is have you step on the scale. I was actually looking forward to it. My doctor had been lecturing me for years about my "fatty tissue"...it was a standing joke between me and my old co-workers. I was sure that I had lost weight. I hadn't been at the Oyster Bar for a month. That meant that I no longer was having clam chowder and a sour dough roll for breakfast every day...and I wasn't taste-testing the pie filling anymore either! I was SURE the scale would know that. Much to my surprise...in one month away away from the restaurant...I had put ON ten pounds! Ten. In one month. Without my beloved clam chowder and wonderful sour dough rolls hot out of the oven...with butter! How could this be? Well...apparently those 12,000 steps I had been taking every day were working for me. I got my prescription for blood pressure meds and left with a heavy heart. An extra heavy heart.
People used to ask me how I coped with the stress levels. My coping plan was to nap as often as possible...and I did. Whenever I tucked mom in bed...I grabbed a nap too. It seemed to work for me.
Yesterday was a particularly stressful day. Mom now gets chronic bladder infections. She might be off antibiotics for a week or two...and then she gets another one. The nurse came yesterday and catheterized mom...to get a clean sample of urine for the doctor to check out. I helped with the procedure...as I have now done five times. It was the first time mom did not yell, "I'm gonna kill you!" I think the morphine I gave her ahead of time helped. Even though it went well...it was rough on both of us. Last night, mom was up at 2:00am...calling out "Mom! Mom! Answer me!" I went to her room and tried rubbing her back and talking calmly to her. Then I gave her a kiss, tucked her back in bed and went back to bed myself. Ten minutes later...she was yelling again. I went back up, gave her half a sleeping pill (I can give her up to two...but a half usually works.)...tucked her back in and went back to bed. 2:30...she was yelling again. (It's really not yelling, but there's a baby monitor our room...and it sure sounds like yelling.) That time I unplugged the monitor and took it upstairs with me. I didn't want to keep waking Jeff up too. I tried being more stern with her, insisting that she close her eyes and go to sleep...and then went to sleep in the recliner. Within a half hour I was back in her room. This went on all night long. When I went in there at 4:00, I was armed with a cup of warmed milk. I flicked on the light (which upset her) sat her up on the edge of the bed and said, "Here. Drink this. It might help you go to sleep. You're making me crazy." She looked at me like I was crazy. And she enjoyed the cup of milk. Once again I tucked her in bed...gave her a kiss...turned out the light and tried to sleep on the couch. The milk did not help. At all. She was still calling out when Jeff got up for work at 5:30. He offered to go in and talk to her...thinking that maybe it would surprise her enough to shut her up. I listened in on the monitor. She called out "Mom! Mom! What are you...deaf? Answer me!" Jeff entered her room and asked her "What do you want?" For a moment, she was silent. In a meek little voice she said, "Mom?" "She's in the living room. What do you want?" No reply. I was pretty hopeful at that point. Jeff stepped out of the room and she started up again. I finally just went in there and got her up and out of bed. I gave her a bowl of oatmeal...which she doesn't usually have until well after noon. She was up until 7:30.
When our bath aide called around 10:00 and asked if she could come earlier today...I said "Sure. Mom's sleeping now...but you know...she had no compassion on me and my wanting to sleep last night...so...I really can't muster up much compassion for her and her wanting to sleep right now." An hour later, mom was getting her bath. She only swore once...which surprised me. I thought she'd be swearing up a blue streak...I guess she was too pooped. After the bath, the aide asked me if anyone had talked to me about a 5 day respite break. (It's where hospice would put mom in a nursing home for 5 days so I could really get away.) I guess I really look as tired as I feel. I can't see going for that offer...as sweet as a five day getaway sounds. In reality...I couldn't see myself relaxing somewhere not knowing what was going on. Things can change so quickly. I think we'll just stick with our 4 hour break every Saturday.
She's sleeping now...and I grabbed an hour-long nap earlier. Hopefully, we'll both be happy campers tonight. And hopefully we'll be sleeping through the night tonight too!
My closing thought is...how much I appreciate everyone's prayers for mom and for me. Each week at Bethlehem we pray for the homebound members. One Sunday, I remember noticing that it said that "We pray for our members who are homebound...and their caregivers." Maybe it always said that...and that one particular week I saw it. That means so much to me. I could not do this job without support. I could not do it without Jeff's support, my daughters' support, the support of my brother and sister, the prayer support that surrounds us every day. And I certainly couldn't do it without the strength that God provides me. "I can do all things in him who strengthens me." Philippians 4:13 Thanks be to God!

Lunch Counter Encounters

One of my favorite memories from my childhood, was when Grandma would take my sister Amy and I on Rose City Transit, to the dime store (J.J. Newberry's) downtown. Newberry's had a great candy counter where she would stock up on her Horehound Drops. They were a hard oval shaped candy, brown in color with a sugar dusting on the outside that made them look almost gray. Grandma always had them stashed in her purse and also stored them in a container on her night stand...for medicinal purposes. The best part of the trip was always right before we went back home. The three of us would each take a seat at the soda fountain and order ourselves a banana split or a hot fudge sundae. I carefully watched as the woman behind the counter built those sundaes, thinking to myself what a perfect job that would be! Little did I know that ten years later I would be that woman behind the counter making the sundaes! It was my first paying job. A dollar ninety an hour...plus tips. I had forgotten it was my dream job until one day I waited on a grandma with her granddaughters...and I wondered if someday one of them would be standing at the fountain building a cool, creamy treat for another generation. I loved that job so much, I stayed there three years. (In reality, it was like boot camp for restaurant workers.) Amy saw how much I loved it and she got a job there too! And believe it or not...she ended up falling in love with our boss and marrying him! They have been married for over thirty years now. I too met someone special there...and this blog is about her. Her name is Mary.
It was 1976 and Mary had just graduated from high school in Brooklyn, NY. She and a couple of friends hitched rides across the country and ended up in Portland, Oregon. Mary was a free spirit. Long braids, flowy skirts, tie-dyed shirts and cowboy boots. I was much more conservative. Twenty years old, married and living in a big house where we rented out the extra bedrooms. It was an organic, vegetarian household...which I hated but never spoke up about. A real "communal" living experience. I looked the part, wearing railroad overalls, blue prison shirt and hiking boots...but looks were as far as it went. One afternoon, Mary and I were waiting at the same bus stop. We started talking and she thought it was pretty cool that "a chick (me) was working the grill" at the lunch counter. After a couple of minutes of chatting, Mary asked me if I wanted to smoke a joint. She asked me this as she was pulling one out of her bag. I almost died right there on the spot. "Oh no! I don't do that kind of thing!" As she lit it I heard her mutter..."Yeah right..." "No! Really!" I was sure that cops were going to come barreling up to the stop and throw us both in jail. "So...if you really don't smoke...how come you act the way you do?" My reply..."I'm just high on life." I swear that's how it went...and that was my reply. (I was one of those "Up With People" people. In fact, I still remember the theme song.) I think she finally saw how uncomfortable I was and pinched it off, putting it back in her bag for later. She mentioned that she needed a place to stay and I invited her to move in with us. That weekend, she showed up at our house pushing a shopping cart with all of her earthly belongings. We quickly became best friends.
I could write many blogs about Mary. And this will probably be just the first. The story I wanted to write about today is one that took place several years ago. Mary knew that I loved Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I had been a fan since 1969...Woodstock. In the 70's I got to hear CSN in concert. It was spectacular. They sang "Southern Cross" with a sailing video playing in the background. It became my favorite song...of all time. Neil Young went on tour with CSN a while back. Mary bought us tickets. We were up in the nosebleed section...but I didn't care. We were there. And I was hopefully going to hear my favorite song in the world. In between songs, people would yell out to request their favorites. I begged Mary to yell "SOUTHERN CROSS!" with me. She wouldn't do it. Repeatedly I begged her. (I certainly couldn't yell it myself.) She never did it. And...they never played it. I was really bummed. But...being a good friend...I let it go. That is, I let it go until about six months later. My daughter invited us to a basket ball game at Franklin High School. It was the first sporting event I had been to at her school. We were sitting a respectable distance away from her and her friends...back with the "other parents." Immediately after half time, as the players were coming back on to the court...Mary stands up, cups her hands around her mouth and yells as loud as she can, "SOUTHERN CROSS!" She then sat back down next to me and said, "There. Are you happy now?" Yep. That's Mary.

Eulogies

The past few months I have been putting things together for mom's end of life services. One of the jobs that goes along with that is writing a eulogy for her memorial service. It's been an interesting journey. Actually, the first two times I tried to get one started for her...I ended up writing one for myself! That may seem like an odd thing to do...but actually...who knows me better than I do?
My dad had gone to a death seminar one time and part of the curriculum was to write your own eulogy. Mom had it read at his memorial service. It went like this: "Fred was a person of polarities. To have known him in only one dimension of his life was to miss its rhythm. He was witty and spontaneous yet capable of depth of thought and keen insights into life. He was a 'fighter of windmills' and often not taken seriously. Some of us sensed his visionary qualities and encouraged him to go on 'dreaming the impossible dreams.' He was not an attractive man. His clothes were plain, often untidy, his manners were sometimes coarse, but there was a humaness about him that demanded respect. Much of his life was spent as a pastor. He seemed unimpressed by the role. People who knew him, had they to choose between a relationship with him as pastor or friend, would choose the latter. He did not attempt to be someone other than himself, and that kind of honesty is to us an element of Christ-likeness. Somehow his impact will be felt for time to come in the lives of those who were in touch with him. He's still here."
Those words describe my father very well. Not so much about what he did...but who he was. I hope to be able to do the same for my mother. I've lived under the same roof with mom for almost forty years. I know her well. We are in a solid relationship...even if she doesn't remember who I am. I told Jeff that knowing her as I do carries a lot of responsibility. Not just as in physically caring for her...but letting others know who she is. Who she was. How much she has impacted the world...just by being herself. And by letting God guide her.
That got me thinking about my relationship with God. There's a responsibility there too. Sharing with others who He is, what He has done...and what He continues to do every day.
I guess I have my work cut out for me. Thankfully I am blessed with my mom's book, "I Wasn't Born Old." It shares a lot about who she was. Likewise, I am blessed with God's book, The Bible.
The big difference seems to be that I will be sharing with people the story of mom, when her life here comes to an end. Whereas, God's life is endless.
Knowing that mom will be joining dad, grandma and grandpa and all of the other hosts of heaven (not to mention our Creator) when she dies is a great comfort to me. There, she will have a new life. A life everlasting.

Conversations With Mom

Over the past year, mom's ability to hold a conversation has all but disappeared. She is able to understand what I'm saying, if I say it slow enough, use simple words and give her ample time to think about it. Processing what she hears is a lot of work for her. Responding is even harder. Sometimes she'll get a few words out...like a running head start...and then she forgets where she's going with it. When that happens, she will either babble sounds and wait for a response from me, or she will start with her chanting and rocking...tuning out everything around her.
There are times...fewer than before...and further in-between...when we have a conversation that makes sense. I treasure those moments. And for that reason...I'm writing them down here. They won't be in any order...other than as they pop in my head at this point in time. (My words will be in italic print...mom's in regular.)

Tucking mom in bed I gave her a kiss and told her goodnight: "Have sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning." "I don't know who the hell you are...but I trust you." "I'm Debbie, and it's good that you trust me because I am worthy of your trust." "Okay. Good night."

Again...tucking mom in bed, on Mother's Day a year ago...which I thought for sure was going to be our last one together: "Good night. Sweet dreams." "Do I know you?" "Yes. I'm Debbie." "Do I own you?" "Yes, I'm your daughter." "Oh...okay. Good night."

Mom usually sees people around her, who I don't see. She often will respond to the question of "Are you hungry?" with "I'm not...but they are." One day I was bringing her out to the dining room to have breakfast and as I set her oatmeal in front of her she said to me..."It's rude of you not to acknowledge them." "I'm sorry...you all are welcome to join us for breakfast also." "That's better."

In the middle of the night mom called out as she often does, "Mom! Mom!" I went up to see what was going on. "That man was here. With the long hair. That famous one." "I'm not sure who you are talking about." "You know. That famous man. The one with the long hair. Usually...the men that pass through here are not famous...but this man was." I still don't know who he was. My sister guessed it was Jesus. Our social worker guessed the actor Ricardo Mantalban...who had just passed away. Who knows?

One of my favorites...while watching the Vice Presidential debates last year: "Mom...see that woman? She wants to be the Vice President of the United States." Mom looked at the TV for a moment and turned to me and said "She doesn't have a chance." I chuckled a bit and then called her attention back to the TV. "See that man? He wants to be the Vice President of the United States." Mom studied the TV for a little longer and then said, "A man that handsome...could be KING!" That's my mom!

As our social worker was leaving after a visit one afternoon, she told mom good bye and headed towards the door. "God be with you!" mom called out to her. She came back and hugged mom around the shoulders. "Thank you...that's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day!" Mom then turned to me and said, "Why don't people say that more often? They should." We all agreed on that one.

Well...I'll close off here. No doubt more conversations will come to my mind and I'll write a "Part 2" to this blog. Or...maybe...we'll still have more conversations to remember!

God's Energy

Again today I will pull up something I wrote last summer when I took the online class "Practicing Spirituality During Illness." The practice for the day was to complete this sentence: "God's energy is constantly flowing through me, __________."
God's energy is constantly flowing through me, giving me strength, washing away fear, leading me in the right direction, and doing marvelous things. I like to think of myself as a servant who God can use to help make this world more like the place He intended it to be. Sometimes I'm a sower...planting seeds along my path. Sometimes I'm a hostess...doing my best to make the people I meet comfortable. Perhaps feeding, clothing. visiting with them or simply allowing them to stay with me and just rest for a while.
We each have Spiritual gifts. Different gifts...same Spirit. When we allow the energy of the Spirit that flows through us to pour out of us...it is not lost. It produces fruit. Fruit that nourishes the lives we touch...and even live that we never meet. Think of a fruit tree. Some people come by and eat what they want, they are nourished and toss the rest. The fruit that falls and breaks down over time has the potential of becoming another tree. Some people take more than they want and share it with others...they (who have never seen the tree) are also nourished.
It is amazing to me. Amazing how many lives can be enriched by someone who is willing to allow the Spirit of God to flow through them. And another amazing thing is...that Spiritual energy is limitless. We just have to keep our taps open. Yay!

Writing has been a wonderful outlet for me. Some of what I've written about (especially about being mom's caregiver) I've shared with other people who I thought might either get a kick out of it...or it might help them understand where I'm coming from. On several occasions now, I've been told that what I've shared about my experiences were passed along to other people (that I will never know) through lectures, thank you notes and in personal visits with patients and their families. Who knows where it will go from there!
I'm glad I opened my "Caregiver's Journal" today. I was feeling a little low on energy. I really needed to remind myself that God's energy is constantly flowing through me....and I needed to get out of the way and let it flow!

Me, My Dad & St. Paul

This summer our church will be reading from the book of Ephesians. I'm very excited about that. The books St. Paul wrote, are the books of the Bible that I'm most drawn to. I have felt for many years that St. Paul and I are kindred spirits. Perhaps it's because his books were letters, and therefore are quite personal. I feel that I could have written them myself...or at least parts of them. St. Paul wrote to the early congregations when he was proud of them, thankful for them or disappointed in them. He spoke honestly about his experiences, whether they were uplifting or not. He wrote when he was in prison...tired and lonely...and even in those times...he always mentioned that he felt comforted because the Holy Spirit was with him.
Paul had not met Jesus during His ministry...but he knew Him. The moment they met, Paul's life was changed forever. As a result, the world was changed forever. That's how God works. "God's plans will not fail...and we are a part of those plans." That's very exciting. And empowering. What a great honor...to be a part of God's plans.
One thing that I appreciate about St. Paul's writings, is that they are so clear. How should we live our lives? How should we interact with each other? What should we be thinking about and what should we be doing? Answers to all of these questions are in St. Paul's letters.
In his letters, St. Paul acknowledges that we are all different...and at the same time...we are all one. Different, but not separate. We each have different gifts and talents...and we are all a part of the plan. We are all united with God, through Christ. No one is excluded.
I recently came across a news article from 1964, about my dad. He apparently felt the same towards the world as St. Paul did. Everyone is to be welcomed and supported, encouraged and loved. The author of the article said that dad felt his role as a pastor was to diminish...and let God increase. When dad quoted the Epistles of St. Paul, the author said "It was as if St. Paul himself was prompting him."
"You are your father's daughter." All my life I've been told those words by people who knew my father...and I've often said them to myself. My dad and I are very much the same. We are alike in our looks, our minds and our hearts. Our actions reflect that. Dad passed away 30 years ago...but he's very much "Still here."
Me, my dad & St. Paul. There's a connection there. I'm thankful that I'm aware of it.