It was a typical Sunday morning for me.....running around, doing my Children's Minister thing. I took my seat on the front row for the first Service, picked up the bulletin and perused it one last time making sure I had all of my ducks in a row. The All Saints insert slipped out, and I bent to pick it up. I had seen this insert multiple times this past week - in staff meeting, in an email, laying around in the office copy room.....
On All Saints Day we read the name, light a candle and toll a bell for each of our members that have died in the past year. 14 Saints this year. And as I read the list once again, it was as though someone hit me with a red hot poker right smack in the gut.....How close I came to being the third person on that list....between Billy Morris and Dana Hatcher....two wonderful saints if there ever were any..
I was shook. The kind of shook where you hope that no one is looking at you, or counting on you for anything in that moment. Crying and shaking, I felt, perhaps for the first time, the full weight of just how close of a call I had....If I had gone back to bed that morning like I wanted to do - I felt so unwell.....if I hadn't been standing in a crowded room when the larger of the clots hit my brain...if the ER Docs hadn't responded so well and so quickly....if the clot busting drug had not busted those 9 clots.....I could have been...would have been number 3 on that list today. My name read, a candle lit, and a bell tolled - for me.
My one year anniversary is weeks away....and I am feeling the effects.
This afternoon, my kitchen was full of laughter. Women from all periods and aspects of my life crowded into my kitchen for my first "Craft Social". Everybody brought their own art project, and we ate good food, and drank 3 pots of coffee. We worked and talked - face to face, not on FaceBook, or a text or a SnapChat...crowded around my kitchen table and a card table brought out for overflow. We squeezed around all of the chairs to get to the food, and the coffee and plugs for hot glue guns. The art was fun, the food was great - but the laughter...that was life giving. In the midst of it all, I saw clearly the thread that ran through us ...some people knew each other, some knew no one but me...they were my first self chosen friend at age three. My best friend through Jr. High and High School. A college friend. A favorite teacher that guided all three of my children through elementary school. Colleagues. Church friends....telling our stories, sharing our journeys....for those few sacred hours, in the confines of my kitchen... community.
From low to high in a matter of hours.
I was NOT number three on the list. I grow weary of being a stroke patient in recovery. I have had enough of an isolation that began long before I had my strokes....
I was NOT number three on the list. I am going to be intentional about forging community. Intentional in creating spaces for fellowship....and laughter.
I was NOT number three on the list. I am going to be mindful. The coffee was great....the Buffalo Chicken Dip was deeelicious....but the camaraderie - that was sublime. And the laughter.....as good as a clot busting drug.
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Friday, August 25, 2017
Ala Carte
I was in the WalMart this morning. It was my first big Church related shopping trip since my strokes. My list was made out in zones, so there would be no crisscrossing the store - hopefully allowing me to conserve my energy, so I could get it all done. We are having a Family Adventure Day on Sunday - cookout, games, a lesson, crafts, singing, sugar and more sugar, so there was hardly a section of the store that I didn't hit.
I had the first few items in my buggy when I noticed a middle aged woman staring me down. She took a step towards me, backed up, hesitated, then came towards me - little pamphlet in her hand. "I would like to invite you to my Church" she said - pushing the tract about Salvation into my hand, the name and address of her Church printed in large letters. "How nice of you" I replied, " I am a Children's Minister at another Church here in town - they don't let me out much on Sundays, but thanks for the invitation". I smiled at her as I went past.
And it hit me....she hesitated before giving me the invitation...she changed her mind, and then she changed it back. What was it about me, that gave her pause....I will readily admit, my white eyelet lace shirt had a wide rounded neckline - a little low, but nothing was showing. My skirt was mid calf length. I was short and roundish, just like the Lady in question. My makeup was light and my jewelry was simple....so just what exactly was she looking for? What made a person worthy of one of the Golden Salvation tickets she had stacked on top of her pocketbook?
I let my list fall to the bottom of my purse as I walked behind the Lady - interested in seeing who she would invite to her church....she passed right by the group of three young men looking at the peanut butter....they had tattoos. Down the cereal aisle, she went swiftly past a Mother and her 2 children when she heard the Mom say "Put that cereal back...it is too expensive". She didn't even return the brilliant smile of the Black woman in the snappy purple dress topped with a jean jacket and statement necklace. Up and down I followed her....past the Hispanic family laughing and joking with each other, quickly past the group of women sporting Middle Eastern heritage.
She took a detour around the ragged, grizzled looking man in the wheelchair, and zeroed in on another Mother - faltering only when that Mom backhanded her daughter square in the face because she wouldn't look at a notebook when asked.
I couldn't follow the Lady anymore.
As I filled my buggy to overflowing, I looked...really looked at the people I passed along the way. Happy people, dejected people. Dirty, smelly people, overdressed for WalMart people, beautiful women in Hijab, weary looking young Mothers, and sullen, leering men. People of every color, and multiple languages, A Mom, Dad and two cutey cute children - The Dad was bombastic and overbearing...the Mom quiet, afraid and flinching when the Dad stood by her....old couples, both holding on the buggy, so as not to fall. A woman wearing oxygen and smelling of cigarettes coughed her way to the pharmacy. A girl, younger than any of my grown children, pushing her baby towards the diapers, a homosexual couple, carrying paint chips and arguing over color, a flustered single Dad trying unsuccessfully to deal with three children under 5 - the middle of whom pulled his pants down in the middle of the aisle and demonstrated that he had really meant business when he said he needed to go potty....all different.....all in need of an Assurance - a Hope of Divine Love.
Who was worthy of the Woman's invitation?
As I headed to the checkout - exhausted because despite my best efforts, I had crisscrossed the store multiple times - I saw the Woman, pamphlets still at the ready, searching seemingly in vain, for the right kind of people..... people that were suitable salvation candidates...
It is late afternoon, and I still have the lump in my throat...the sick, sad feeling in the deep of my gut. As Christians, we should be dealing in the currency of Love, Grace, Peace and Rest for the weary. We don't get to pick - who is in, who is out.....If we are to live by the Red Words in the Bible, Ala Carte is not an option.
I despair at what we have done to our world, at how we have perverted and distorted the Gospel....the divisiveness, the hatred of the "other" - humanity's certainty that God hates who we hate.....It may not be politically correct to sing these lyrics anymore, but I have been singing them all afternoon...."red and yellow black and white, they are precious in his sight"...perhaps this old song should make a comeback.
I had the first few items in my buggy when I noticed a middle aged woman staring me down. She took a step towards me, backed up, hesitated, then came towards me - little pamphlet in her hand. "I would like to invite you to my Church" she said - pushing the tract about Salvation into my hand, the name and address of her Church printed in large letters. "How nice of you" I replied, " I am a Children's Minister at another Church here in town - they don't let me out much on Sundays, but thanks for the invitation". I smiled at her as I went past.
And it hit me....she hesitated before giving me the invitation...she changed her mind, and then she changed it back. What was it about me, that gave her pause....I will readily admit, my white eyelet lace shirt had a wide rounded neckline - a little low, but nothing was showing. My skirt was mid calf length. I was short and roundish, just like the Lady in question. My makeup was light and my jewelry was simple....so just what exactly was she looking for? What made a person worthy of one of the Golden Salvation tickets she had stacked on top of her pocketbook?
I let my list fall to the bottom of my purse as I walked behind the Lady - interested in seeing who she would invite to her church....she passed right by the group of three young men looking at the peanut butter....they had tattoos. Down the cereal aisle, she went swiftly past a Mother and her 2 children when she heard the Mom say "Put that cereal back...it is too expensive". She didn't even return the brilliant smile of the Black woman in the snappy purple dress topped with a jean jacket and statement necklace. Up and down I followed her....past the Hispanic family laughing and joking with each other, quickly past the group of women sporting Middle Eastern heritage.
She took a detour around the ragged, grizzled looking man in the wheelchair, and zeroed in on another Mother - faltering only when that Mom backhanded her daughter square in the face because she wouldn't look at a notebook when asked.
I couldn't follow the Lady anymore.
As I filled my buggy to overflowing, I looked...really looked at the people I passed along the way. Happy people, dejected people. Dirty, smelly people, overdressed for WalMart people, beautiful women in Hijab, weary looking young Mothers, and sullen, leering men. People of every color, and multiple languages, A Mom, Dad and two cutey cute children - The Dad was bombastic and overbearing...the Mom quiet, afraid and flinching when the Dad stood by her....old couples, both holding on the buggy, so as not to fall. A woman wearing oxygen and smelling of cigarettes coughed her way to the pharmacy. A girl, younger than any of my grown children, pushing her baby towards the diapers, a homosexual couple, carrying paint chips and arguing over color, a flustered single Dad trying unsuccessfully to deal with three children under 5 - the middle of whom pulled his pants down in the middle of the aisle and demonstrated that he had really meant business when he said he needed to go potty....all different.....all in need of an Assurance - a Hope of Divine Love.
Who was worthy of the Woman's invitation?
As I headed to the checkout - exhausted because despite my best efforts, I had crisscrossed the store multiple times - I saw the Woman, pamphlets still at the ready, searching seemingly in vain, for the right kind of people..... people that were suitable salvation candidates...
It is late afternoon, and I still have the lump in my throat...the sick, sad feeling in the deep of my gut. As Christians, we should be dealing in the currency of Love, Grace, Peace and Rest for the weary. We don't get to pick - who is in, who is out.....If we are to live by the Red Words in the Bible, Ala Carte is not an option.
I despair at what we have done to our world, at how we have perverted and distorted the Gospel....the divisiveness, the hatred of the "other" - humanity's certainty that God hates who we hate.....It may not be politically correct to sing these lyrics anymore, but I have been singing them all afternoon...."red and yellow black and white, they are precious in his sight"...perhaps this old song should make a comeback.
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Empty grocery bags.
We got a late start. I fully accept the responsibility for this. The car was loaded, pets fed, breakfast dishes in the dishwasher...John was behind the steering wheel, and Babiest girl was wedged in the backseat - surrounded by pillows, cactus plants and pre-cut, pre-drilled wood planks for the desk hutch. I just stood at the kitchen sink,staring out the window - unable to make my feet move. I knew that the minute I closed and locked the backdoor, nothing would ever be the same again. More than just securing the house against our absence, I was closing the door on 24 years of Mothering - years of unending sleep deprivation, scraped knees, wait to the last minute science projects, Harry Potter movie marathons, puppy piles of kids on the floor, tears, life giving laughter, public fits (theirs of course, not mine) behavior contracts, a front seat sitting schedule - affixed to the dashboard of the van - designed to put an end to the fighting, toy jail, rowdy supper tables, did I mention the laughter? trips to the park (did I take them enough?), chicken pox, bedtime stories and prayers, learners permits, snow days, singing, lazy pool days..... and the love.....oh so much love.
And while one, or all may come and live here for bits of time in their Adulthood....it will never. be. the. same. Never. Ever.
Their new names are Peace Corps boy, Word Traveling Au Pair girl, and now....my babiest....College girl.
All day yesterday, Freshman move in day at the steamy, dreamy University in the deep south, the soundtrack relentlessly playing on a loop in my mind was that song.....the one that plays while Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are deep in grief at Ron Weasley's desertion in Deathly Hallows part 1....the scene where Harry removes the Hoarcrux from around Hermione's neck, and they dance in the tent....it is a dance full of the sorrow of the moment, yet it captures the joy of being young and dancing - dancing even when the music is sad....perfect for just such an occasion as moving your youngest child into her new home....
This morning, I woke up with that epic anthem of the 70's "Bluer than Blue" rattling around in my exhausted, stroke riddled brain, and I just can't shake it.....even though I know it was written about a lover, it is so pertinent to this day. "Because I'm bluer than blue, sadder than sad....you're the only life these empty rooms have ever had. Life without you is gonna be, Bluer than Blue".
It will take me awhile to get accustomed to having adult children....and who the heck is that guy in the chair beside of mine in the den? He has white hair....what?! Didn't he used to have Jet Black hair and dancing eyes? We were sweethearts once.....I remember....but who are we now? In these empty rooms? And what the heck do we talk about? And fill our time with? And how do I just cook for two?
She will not be happy with me, but I have to share one of my favorite Mother moments.....When she was about 7 or 8, the newly minted College Girl, in that earnest way she had of eloquently expressing herself, took my hand in hers and rubbed it saying - "I love your hands Mommy" (Now let me be clear - I thought she was getting ready to say something about how much they worked for the good of the family, or how she loved it when they brushed her hair, or some such mushiness....). She continued - "They remind me of old grocery bags, that used hold alot of good things, but then somebody took all the things out of the grocery bags, and now they are kind of wrinkled and empty".
And that is how I feel today....on the first of my empty nest days....like something that used to hold alot of good things, that is now wrinkled and empty.
I marked the page in my Jan Richardson book....the one that has served me so well since my strokes...the page titled "Blessing for coming into an empty house". I marked it, but left it unread until this morning, so that I could reap the full benefits of her wisdom, as I struggle to learn how to dance, even when the music is sad. I offer some snippets of it here, for all of my friends who are entering into this new stage of life....
"I know how every time you return, you call out in greeting to the one who is not there. I know how the hollow of the house echoes in your chest, how the emptiness you enter matches the ache you carry with you always. I know there are days when the only thing more brave than leaving this house is coming back to it...On those days, may the delight that made a home here find its way to you again, not merely in memory, but in hope, so that every word ever spoken in kindness circles back to meet you, so that you may hear what still sings to you within these walls, so that you may know the love that dreams with you here, when finally you give yourself to rest - the love that rises with you, faithful like the dawn that never fails to come."
So let it be said.....so let it be done.
Amen.
And while one, or all may come and live here for bits of time in their Adulthood....it will never. be. the. same. Never. Ever.
Their new names are Peace Corps boy, Word Traveling Au Pair girl, and now....my babiest....College girl.
All day yesterday, Freshman move in day at the steamy, dreamy University in the deep south, the soundtrack relentlessly playing on a loop in my mind was that song.....the one that plays while Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are deep in grief at Ron Weasley's desertion in Deathly Hallows part 1....the scene where Harry removes the Hoarcrux from around Hermione's neck, and they dance in the tent....it is a dance full of the sorrow of the moment, yet it captures the joy of being young and dancing - dancing even when the music is sad....perfect for just such an occasion as moving your youngest child into her new home....
This morning, I woke up with that epic anthem of the 70's "Bluer than Blue" rattling around in my exhausted, stroke riddled brain, and I just can't shake it.....even though I know it was written about a lover, it is so pertinent to this day. "Because I'm bluer than blue, sadder than sad....you're the only life these empty rooms have ever had. Life without you is gonna be, Bluer than Blue".
It will take me awhile to get accustomed to having adult children....and who the heck is that guy in the chair beside of mine in the den? He has white hair....what?! Didn't he used to have Jet Black hair and dancing eyes? We were sweethearts once.....I remember....but who are we now? In these empty rooms? And what the heck do we talk about? And fill our time with? And how do I just cook for two?
She will not be happy with me, but I have to share one of my favorite Mother moments.....When she was about 7 or 8, the newly minted College Girl, in that earnest way she had of eloquently expressing herself, took my hand in hers and rubbed it saying - "I love your hands Mommy" (Now let me be clear - I thought she was getting ready to say something about how much they worked for the good of the family, or how she loved it when they brushed her hair, or some such mushiness....). She continued - "They remind me of old grocery bags, that used hold alot of good things, but then somebody took all the things out of the grocery bags, and now they are kind of wrinkled and empty".
And that is how I feel today....on the first of my empty nest days....like something that used to hold alot of good things, that is now wrinkled and empty.
I marked the page in my Jan Richardson book....the one that has served me so well since my strokes...the page titled "Blessing for coming into an empty house". I marked it, but left it unread until this morning, so that I could reap the full benefits of her wisdom, as I struggle to learn how to dance, even when the music is sad. I offer some snippets of it here, for all of my friends who are entering into this new stage of life....
"I know how every time you return, you call out in greeting to the one who is not there. I know how the hollow of the house echoes in your chest, how the emptiness you enter matches the ache you carry with you always. I know there are days when the only thing more brave than leaving this house is coming back to it...On those days, may the delight that made a home here find its way to you again, not merely in memory, but in hope, so that every word ever spoken in kindness circles back to meet you, so that you may hear what still sings to you within these walls, so that you may know the love that dreams with you here, when finally you give yourself to rest - the love that rises with you, faithful like the dawn that never fails to come."
So let it be said.....so let it be done.
Amen.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
TwoHundred SixtyTwo Thousand Eight Hundred minutes.
At the Fancy Pants school, the Senior Chorus members (as is tradition) select and stage a number that is meaningful to them, to be performed at their final concert....This year, our Seniors (MY Senior) chose one of my favorites....Seasons of Love, from Rent. Babiest would not divulge what the song would be....not even the slightest hint. My tears started with the first notes of the introduction. From my seat in the darkened auditorium, I felt Babiest Girls' eyes search me out....".Five Hundred TwentyFive Thousand Six Hundred Minutes, how do you measure, measure a year?"
When you plug in the number Two Hundred SixtyTwo Thousand Eight Hundred minutes, it doesn't have quite the same musical ring, but that is what I am singing this morning.....Half of a year. 6 months. 26 weeks. 182 days. 4,368 hours.....262,800 minutes.
Six months ago today, I suffered a series of strokes....9 blood clots to the brain.
I lost my speech, movement on the right side, the ability to formulate clear thoughts, and gained double, distorted vision. I was given tPa - a miracle drug, when it works. Over the course of the next 24 hours, I began moving, engaging in garbled speech, lost the double vision and embarked on my journey with scrambled egg brain.
In the days since, I have celebrated holidays. I have sent a son off to Africa. A Daughter off to Europe. I have returned to work and to working out. I have seen my last child graduate from High School. I have resumed cooking and driving. I have been to the beach and to the mountains. I am the same, yet not. I have learned many things about Stroke/Brain Injury recovery.
I learned, in the early days. what it was like to be dependent on others for everything....and I mean everything. I have learned to say "I would love to, but this time my answer has to be no." I have learned what is like to have difficulty reading, and to have an inability to follow directions - written or spoken. I have learned that there is no shame in an afternoon nap. I have learned about the debilitating nature of post stroke anxiety which strikes with no rhyme or reason and is no respecter of time or place. I have learned to laugh when I can't find the right word, or can't remember when you use the words "sale" or "sell". I have learned that it is ok to ask someone how to pronounce a word, when the word coming out of your mouth doesn't sound right. I have learned that I may have to come to terms with the fact that my singing voice might never return. I have learned that crafting is great physical therapy. I have learned that until the Auto Regulation systems in my brain heal, it is best to hold on to a piece of furniture if you need to bend over. I have learned to make peace with the new bifocals that help me combat the permanent damage to my vision. I have learned that no matter how much I hate it, I am bound to my pill box for the rest of my life. I have learned that I want to live, both in terms of not dying and with regard to the quality of my days. I have learned that there is much to appreciate - even with scrambled egg brain. I have learned that you can find laughter in anything. I have learned that hope is more precious than gold or rubies. I have learned the absolute truth in the little sign I inherited with my office so many years ago..."If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it". I have learned that high doses of Coumadin make you hyper aware of all the ways you could receive a head injury.....free bleeding is not something to take lightly! I have learned (okay...fine, I already knew it) that my Husband and Children are awesome. I have learned that red soft blankets are my favorite.
I have learned that you choose to live and laugh and keep on keepin on, every minute of every day, or you choose to quit....whether you have had a stroke or not.
I have learned that 262,800 minutes is just the beginning...
When you plug in the number Two Hundred SixtyTwo Thousand Eight Hundred minutes, it doesn't have quite the same musical ring, but that is what I am singing this morning.....Half of a year. 6 months. 26 weeks. 182 days. 4,368 hours.....262,800 minutes.
Six months ago today, I suffered a series of strokes....9 blood clots to the brain.
I lost my speech, movement on the right side, the ability to formulate clear thoughts, and gained double, distorted vision. I was given tPa - a miracle drug, when it works. Over the course of the next 24 hours, I began moving, engaging in garbled speech, lost the double vision and embarked on my journey with scrambled egg brain.
In the days since, I have celebrated holidays. I have sent a son off to Africa. A Daughter off to Europe. I have returned to work and to working out. I have seen my last child graduate from High School. I have resumed cooking and driving. I have been to the beach and to the mountains. I am the same, yet not. I have learned many things about Stroke/Brain Injury recovery.
I learned, in the early days. what it was like to be dependent on others for everything....and I mean everything. I have learned to say "I would love to, but this time my answer has to be no." I have learned what is like to have difficulty reading, and to have an inability to follow directions - written or spoken. I have learned that there is no shame in an afternoon nap. I have learned about the debilitating nature of post stroke anxiety which strikes with no rhyme or reason and is no respecter of time or place. I have learned to laugh when I can't find the right word, or can't remember when you use the words "sale" or "sell". I have learned that it is ok to ask someone how to pronounce a word, when the word coming out of your mouth doesn't sound right. I have learned that I may have to come to terms with the fact that my singing voice might never return. I have learned that crafting is great physical therapy. I have learned that until the Auto Regulation systems in my brain heal, it is best to hold on to a piece of furniture if you need to bend over. I have learned to make peace with the new bifocals that help me combat the permanent damage to my vision. I have learned that no matter how much I hate it, I am bound to my pill box for the rest of my life. I have learned that I want to live, both in terms of not dying and with regard to the quality of my days. I have learned that there is much to appreciate - even with scrambled egg brain. I have learned that you can find laughter in anything. I have learned that hope is more precious than gold or rubies. I have learned the absolute truth in the little sign I inherited with my office so many years ago..."If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it". I have learned that high doses of Coumadin make you hyper aware of all the ways you could receive a head injury.....free bleeding is not something to take lightly! I have learned (okay...fine, I already knew it) that my Husband and Children are awesome. I have learned that red soft blankets are my favorite.
I have learned that you choose to live and laugh and keep on keepin on, every minute of every day, or you choose to quit....whether you have had a stroke or not.
I have learned that 262,800 minutes is just the beginning...
Friday, April 28, 2017
Short Sleeved Shirt
I have read about it. I have heard about it on radio and T.V. Today, I experienced it first hand.
I guess it all started when I got dressed this morning. I needed a short sleeved shirt. I had to go to the Doctor for a tweaking of my blood pressure medication, and a calibrating of my home BP machine... With all of the BP cuffs on the docket, short sleeve was definitely the best choice. It's my day off, so I immediately gravitated toward my favorite Tee. I made it last year - using my Faux Batik method. It is a beautiful blue color, and the lettering came out perfectly, with a really interesting negative image fading around each letter. One word, emblazoned across the chest - COEXIST. With each letter representing a different culture - just like the Bumper Sticker. I added my super cool turquoise and pearl choker, some big silver hoop earrings, and, of course a pair of pants - I was ready to roll. After all of the cuffing and uncuffing at the Docs, I headed to the Teeter in search of some Coconut Flour for a new recipe.
I grabbed up my favorite low cal popcorn from the rack by the front entrance, a case of Cherry Seltzer water, found the Coconut Flour - added that to the buggy, and was on my way to grab some chocolate almond milk (Yes, I am back on my diet), when I found my way blocked by a Shopping Cart. The pusher of said cart, a beefy, bald, scowling 30 something man, came around beside me. Leaning over, he pointed towards my shirt and with a snarl, said in a menacing tone - "Just what is that supposed to mean?"
Now, the pre-stoke me, the one that was not inclined to back down from a fight, would have pushed my buggy into his and said "Just what the heck (probably not the word I would have used) do you THINK it is supposed to mean?" POST stroke me, tightened my grip on the cart to steady the shaking and panicked me. I looked around - we were alone on the aisle. I took a deep breath and said something to the effect of "well, it means that you should have an open mind towards all people, living in harmony - not hating folks just because of who they are and what they believe. That you should live out The Great Command, and love others as Jesus loved us" I could have expounded on my explanation and schooled him in the fact that Jesus often used the marginalized, the least, the "Other" in his teachings. I could have told him that Jesus himself consorted with all types of people...There are so many other things I could have said. But that was all that would come out...I didn't have enough breath for more, because by this time I was visibly shaking, and my knees were threatening to buckle. He stared at me for a time, said some version of "hummpppff", and moved his buggy, allowing me to pass.
No chocolate almond milk for me. I headed straight to the cashier. As I waited in line, I periodically looked over my shoulder. There he stood, on the same aisle, looking at some food item or another. I felt exposed...furious.... vulnerable. The cashier (one of my favorites) asked me if I was OK, after she noticed my hands shaking so badly I could hardly handle the money. I nodded, anxious to be finished with the transaction. As I got into my car, unleashing the tears I had been holding back, it occurred to me I didn't feel much safer in my car. The car which sports a bright yellow Hippie Chicks Rule bumper sticker.
Now lets be clear. I never felt like I was in any specific physical danger. I think his intent - his delight - was to intimidate.
And therein lies the problem. I have read about it. I have heard about it on the Radio and TV. And now, I have experienced it first hand. There is a segment of the population in our country that have become emboldened by the careless and dangerous words of those that lead us. Words that are tinged with inuendo. Words that grant tacit empowerment to those that lean towards bigotry and hate.
And there we are. I don't know what to do about it. I only know that it sickens me. It angers me. It terrifies me.
So, here I am. Back in my chair....under my red blanket. Since I fell ill, any strong emotion - good or bad, leaves me so mentally and physically exhausted that I can barely function. Even though I feel like I am not breathing, my finger pulse ox meter assures me that I am getting enough oxygen. I am still shaking so badly that my back is threatening to surrender to muscle spasms. I am wishing that I had that dadgummed Chocolate Almond Milk.
This was not some FaceBook meme that leaves me confounded with the way of our world. This was not Lester Holt reporting on some incident in a distant state. This was not hearsay, or some bit of vaguery. This was ME - in the Broad Daylight - in the Teeter - in my little southern town. I will stop crying. I will stop shaking. I will keep on keepin on. I will wear my shirt again, and should I meet this kind of hate and intimidation again, I hope I will once again stand my ground - shaking and all.
I guess it all started when I got dressed this morning. I needed a short sleeved shirt. I had to go to the Doctor for a tweaking of my blood pressure medication, and a calibrating of my home BP machine... With all of the BP cuffs on the docket, short sleeve was definitely the best choice. It's my day off, so I immediately gravitated toward my favorite Tee. I made it last year - using my Faux Batik method. It is a beautiful blue color, and the lettering came out perfectly, with a really interesting negative image fading around each letter. One word, emblazoned across the chest - COEXIST. With each letter representing a different culture - just like the Bumper Sticker. I added my super cool turquoise and pearl choker, some big silver hoop earrings, and, of course a pair of pants - I was ready to roll. After all of the cuffing and uncuffing at the Docs, I headed to the Teeter in search of some Coconut Flour for a new recipe.
I grabbed up my favorite low cal popcorn from the rack by the front entrance, a case of Cherry Seltzer water, found the Coconut Flour - added that to the buggy, and was on my way to grab some chocolate almond milk (Yes, I am back on my diet), when I found my way blocked by a Shopping Cart. The pusher of said cart, a beefy, bald, scowling 30 something man, came around beside me. Leaning over, he pointed towards my shirt and with a snarl, said in a menacing tone - "Just what is that supposed to mean?"
Now, the pre-stoke me, the one that was not inclined to back down from a fight, would have pushed my buggy into his and said "Just what the heck (probably not the word I would have used) do you THINK it is supposed to mean?" POST stroke me, tightened my grip on the cart to steady the shaking and panicked me. I looked around - we were alone on the aisle. I took a deep breath and said something to the effect of "well, it means that you should have an open mind towards all people, living in harmony - not hating folks just because of who they are and what they believe. That you should live out The Great Command, and love others as Jesus loved us" I could have expounded on my explanation and schooled him in the fact that Jesus often used the marginalized, the least, the "Other" in his teachings. I could have told him that Jesus himself consorted with all types of people...There are so many other things I could have said. But that was all that would come out...I didn't have enough breath for more, because by this time I was visibly shaking, and my knees were threatening to buckle. He stared at me for a time, said some version of "hummpppff", and moved his buggy, allowing me to pass.
No chocolate almond milk for me. I headed straight to the cashier. As I waited in line, I periodically looked over my shoulder. There he stood, on the same aisle, looking at some food item or another. I felt exposed...furious.... vulnerable. The cashier (one of my favorites) asked me if I was OK, after she noticed my hands shaking so badly I could hardly handle the money. I nodded, anxious to be finished with the transaction. As I got into my car, unleashing the tears I had been holding back, it occurred to me I didn't feel much safer in my car. The car which sports a bright yellow Hippie Chicks Rule bumper sticker.
Now lets be clear. I never felt like I was in any specific physical danger. I think his intent - his delight - was to intimidate.
And therein lies the problem. I have read about it. I have heard about it on the Radio and TV. And now, I have experienced it first hand. There is a segment of the population in our country that have become emboldened by the careless and dangerous words of those that lead us. Words that are tinged with inuendo. Words that grant tacit empowerment to those that lean towards bigotry and hate.
And there we are. I don't know what to do about it. I only know that it sickens me. It angers me. It terrifies me.
So, here I am. Back in my chair....under my red blanket. Since I fell ill, any strong emotion - good or bad, leaves me so mentally and physically exhausted that I can barely function. Even though I feel like I am not breathing, my finger pulse ox meter assures me that I am getting enough oxygen. I am still shaking so badly that my back is threatening to surrender to muscle spasms. I am wishing that I had that dadgummed Chocolate Almond Milk.
This was not some FaceBook meme that leaves me confounded with the way of our world. This was not Lester Holt reporting on some incident in a distant state. This was not hearsay, or some bit of vaguery. This was ME - in the Broad Daylight - in the Teeter - in my little southern town. I will stop crying. I will stop shaking. I will keep on keepin on. I will wear my shirt again, and should I meet this kind of hate and intimidation again, I hope I will once again stand my ground - shaking and all.
Thursday, April 13, 2017
MAUNDY
Tonight I had the great privilege of participating in the most beautiful, moving, Maundy Thursday service.
Maundy. Translates into Command.
Tonight we remember the last command of Jesus of Nazareth. Love. Love one another.
In our Homily, we were asked to ponder what our last words would be.....our last command to those we love. What would we want them to know.
I didn't really have to ponder. The proof of my last words hang on the bulletin board in my office - steps away from the place I wrote them.....4 months ago tomorrow. I knew that something devastating had occurred in my body. I used the last of my spoken words to ask for paper and pen. I wanted my family to know that my last thoughts, if that's what they turned out to be, were of them. I tried to write that I wanted them all to be careful as they traveled to the hospital. I attempted to write that I loved them. I remember when the realization hit - that I could no longer use my hand or brain to form words or letters on the paper -as a last act, I underlined the important words....Love. Children. Care. John.
LOVE.
Our country dropped a bomb today. The largest non nuclear bomb ever made or used. A MOAB - Mother of all Bombs. A terrible misnomer. Madness....Monstrosity....Murderer - those would be appropriate "M" words for the acronym.
Not Mother.....not that which is synonymous with Love and Care. Life giving and Fertile with creation, not desecration.
Love. And its' antithesis.
At about the same time this bomb was dropped, a three year old in a far away land knocked on the door to his home, having returned from an adventure in the park. With him was my Baby Girl. As the Mother stood on the other side of the door and playfully inquired "Who's there?", the young Master piped up proudly....announcing himself and his boon companion using both first name and surname. The thing is....he gave my Baby Girl HIS last name. When corrected by his Mother, he told her in no uncertain terms that My Girl was HIS FAMILY, so of COURSE she had the same last name.
LOVE. Across nationality and culture.
Us - Them. Right - Wrong. Black - White. Rich - Poor. Resident - Alien. Straight - Gay
We have become an adversarial people. Made blind and narrow in our rabid quest to be Right. We have ignored the Maundy in the Thursday. The great, last command. Love.....Love one another. No conditions, or exclusions.....no index of those deemed unworthy. Love. One Another.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
All Good Gifts
I remember where I was standing. I remember my exact thoughts...."What a wonderful time to be alive, and to be a parent". What was the momentous event that precipitated such a heady thought? The new shopping carts at the Teeter....the ones that had the two forward facing green plastic seats attached to the regular buggy. PERFECT for a 5 year old, a 2 year old and a new baby. I could strap the two big kids in the green seats, put the baby carrier in the regular buggy - badabing, badaboom. I was invincible. I COULD shop with three children!
I passed just such a buggy earlier this afternoon, as I left that same store. As I smiled at the young Mother, and her two littles, I chuckled at my young Mom self and thought how little my younger self could have imagined the day I have had today.
Early this morning, I kissed Babiest Girl at the door as she left to drive herself to the fancy pants school - one town over.(That alone would have been enough to render my younger Mother self verklempt!) I had just poured myself another cup of decaf (thanks, stroke) and settled in my chair to watch a little Good Morning America (NOT the TODAY SHOW, my show of choice, which I haven't been able to watch in WEEKS, THANKS Dish Network and NBC and the RIDICULOUS contract dispute), when my phone rang. MILAN calling! Baby Girl on the Video Chat! Through the miracle of technology, I was able to join her picnic lunch in the park at the Freedom Arch. (Sunday morning before Church, I was able to join her on a Bike ride past the Castle!) The sun must shine differently in Italy, because she was bathed in this glorious mid-day golden light - her face so beautiful, relaxed and happy as she made the most of her time before she picked up her charge at preschool.
My phone rang once again, just as I was beginning to consider lunch. This time, for the first time in two months (exactly two months today, but who is counting), it was ZAMBIA calling! Peace Corps Boy was on the video chat. For 45 minutes I tried to control the tears of joy as we talked about his life in Africa, his bed bug rashes, food, birds, snakes, wild animals, his new friends, his new life......all the while, he was moving - changing positions so I could see his surroundings - the exotic place that is now his home. The sun shines differently there too. He looked so good. So happy. So fulfilled. You will be glad to know that I refrained from asking him to pull up his shirt, so that I could diagnose the bed bugs for myself.(Diagnosing maladies of all kinds is a hobby of mine....don't ask - I wanted to be a Doctor...). As the sun was getting low in the horizon, he had to go. His compatriots were waiting on him there in the training center, so they could make the 30 minute bike ride back to their respective villages before it got dark. I have never wanted anything so much as I did at that moment - I wanted to be able to reach through the screen and the miles for one hug.....just one. He ended the call with a dazzling smile and his signature two syllable "Bye" (Bie-eee).
I sat in the silence, tears streaming down my face, looking at my phone - marveling at this device that in less than 4 hours had let me see and talk to two of my Children - on two different continents. Marveling at the fact that I HAVE two children on two different continents.
I have a friend from childhood....he lives far away from our home town now, but every day, I drive past a stretch of land that has three houses in a row. In them live my friends' parents and his sisters and their families. I am THAT kind of Mama. The one whose fondest dream would be that we would all live beside each other - separate, but together. If I were a betting gal, I would place sure money on the fact that this dream will likely never come true. My consolation and amazement lies in the technology that allows me to have mornings like this one....Where I can spy with my own little eyes the beautiful faces of my children....share their experiences and hear their beloved voices.
It is not lost on me, that my ancestor - Alexander Graham Bell made all of this possible, by his invention of the phone - So, I give thanks to my very distant cousin, (perhaps I should also thank Al Gore for inventing the interwebs) for the phone calls I received today......I give thanks to my Children for remembering to call their poor old Mama....I give thanks to God, for all good gifts around us. I say to myself - what a wonderful time to be alive and to be a parent.
I passed just such a buggy earlier this afternoon, as I left that same store. As I smiled at the young Mother, and her two littles, I chuckled at my young Mom self and thought how little my younger self could have imagined the day I have had today.
Early this morning, I kissed Babiest Girl at the door as she left to drive herself to the fancy pants school - one town over.(That alone would have been enough to render my younger Mother self verklempt!) I had just poured myself another cup of decaf (thanks, stroke) and settled in my chair to watch a little Good Morning America (NOT the TODAY SHOW, my show of choice, which I haven't been able to watch in WEEKS, THANKS Dish Network and NBC and the RIDICULOUS contract dispute), when my phone rang. MILAN calling! Baby Girl on the Video Chat! Through the miracle of technology, I was able to join her picnic lunch in the park at the Freedom Arch. (Sunday morning before Church, I was able to join her on a Bike ride past the Castle!) The sun must shine differently in Italy, because she was bathed in this glorious mid-day golden light - her face so beautiful, relaxed and happy as she made the most of her time before she picked up her charge at preschool.
My phone rang once again, just as I was beginning to consider lunch. This time, for the first time in two months (exactly two months today, but who is counting), it was ZAMBIA calling! Peace Corps Boy was on the video chat. For 45 minutes I tried to control the tears of joy as we talked about his life in Africa, his bed bug rashes, food, birds, snakes, wild animals, his new friends, his new life......all the while, he was moving - changing positions so I could see his surroundings - the exotic place that is now his home. The sun shines differently there too. He looked so good. So happy. So fulfilled. You will be glad to know that I refrained from asking him to pull up his shirt, so that I could diagnose the bed bugs for myself.(Diagnosing maladies of all kinds is a hobby of mine....don't ask - I wanted to be a Doctor...). As the sun was getting low in the horizon, he had to go. His compatriots were waiting on him there in the training center, so they could make the 30 minute bike ride back to their respective villages before it got dark. I have never wanted anything so much as I did at that moment - I wanted to be able to reach through the screen and the miles for one hug.....just one. He ended the call with a dazzling smile and his signature two syllable "Bye" (Bie-eee).
I sat in the silence, tears streaming down my face, looking at my phone - marveling at this device that in less than 4 hours had let me see and talk to two of my Children - on two different continents. Marveling at the fact that I HAVE two children on two different continents.
I have a friend from childhood....he lives far away from our home town now, but every day, I drive past a stretch of land that has three houses in a row. In them live my friends' parents and his sisters and their families. I am THAT kind of Mama. The one whose fondest dream would be that we would all live beside each other - separate, but together. If I were a betting gal, I would place sure money on the fact that this dream will likely never come true. My consolation and amazement lies in the technology that allows me to have mornings like this one....Where I can spy with my own little eyes the beautiful faces of my children....share their experiences and hear their beloved voices.
It is not lost on me, that my ancestor - Alexander Graham Bell made all of this possible, by his invention of the phone - So, I give thanks to my very distant cousin, (perhaps I should also thank Al Gore for inventing the interwebs) for the phone calls I received today......I give thanks to my Children for remembering to call their poor old Mama....I give thanks to God, for all good gifts around us. I say to myself - what a wonderful time to be alive and to be a parent.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
Edification
Well, it has been an edifying weekend.
I have learned that the phrase two steps forward, one step back is truly applicable to stroke recovery. I have learned that driving home from the Fancy Pants school the next town over ( a drive that after 4 years, I should be able to do in my sleep), even with 2 other drivers in the car ready to take over should I fall out, is beyond my capabilities just yet. I have learned that overtaxing myself in that way produces sit straight up in the bed at 1:00 in the morning post stroke anxiety of epic proportions. I will let you know when it subsides.(I may have to resort to the green pill of oblivion to reset my nervous system) I have learned that in a domino "no sleep" effect, my brain reverts to swiss cheese. I have learned that it is tremendously mortifying to have to ask for assistance when using the self pay machine at the Teeter because you can't figure out where to put the money, even though you have done it a thousand times in your previous life. Subsequently, I have learned that I have retained the wherewithall to restrain myself, because I did not deck the woman in line behind me, who was loudly sighing and harumphing and muttering under her breath at my inability to move it along.
I have learned that sometimes trips to Italy really can be planned on the fly....I have exactly one week to help Baby Girl get ready to return to the Au Pair world.
I have learned that even though you are in the throes of the Sabbath morning "I am running late to work rush", it is NEVER advisable to take your morning meds with the dregs of your still hot coffee.
I have learned that when a 5 year old Moppet announces in Sunday School during our Mindfulness Moment that he feels like a rainbow, your heart melts and your tank is filled, even though you feel like a dogs breakfast.
And finally, I have learned that when you are on the phone with your Son in Africa, it is never a good thing when he says, "Do you want to hear about the exciting thing that happened to me today?" It is never the smart thing to assume that the words "exciting" and "great" are interchangeable.
I also learned that there are Spitting Cobras in Africa, and that they really do raise up and flair out that thing behind their head, and that sometimes when they strike, they miss, and that they then slither away into the grass right beside the path that a certain Peace Corps Boy travels every day, and can't be found by villagers wielding hoes and other assorted weaponry.
If you need me, I will be in the bed, nursing a raging bout of edification.
I have learned that the phrase two steps forward, one step back is truly applicable to stroke recovery. I have learned that driving home from the Fancy Pants school the next town over ( a drive that after 4 years, I should be able to do in my sleep), even with 2 other drivers in the car ready to take over should I fall out, is beyond my capabilities just yet. I have learned that overtaxing myself in that way produces sit straight up in the bed at 1:00 in the morning post stroke anxiety of epic proportions. I will let you know when it subsides.(I may have to resort to the green pill of oblivion to reset my nervous system) I have learned that in a domino "no sleep" effect, my brain reverts to swiss cheese. I have learned that it is tremendously mortifying to have to ask for assistance when using the self pay machine at the Teeter because you can't figure out where to put the money, even though you have done it a thousand times in your previous life. Subsequently, I have learned that I have retained the wherewithall to restrain myself, because I did not deck the woman in line behind me, who was loudly sighing and harumphing and muttering under her breath at my inability to move it along.
I have learned that sometimes trips to Italy really can be planned on the fly....I have exactly one week to help Baby Girl get ready to return to the Au Pair world.
I have learned that even though you are in the throes of the Sabbath morning "I am running late to work rush", it is NEVER advisable to take your morning meds with the dregs of your still hot coffee.
I have learned that when a 5 year old Moppet announces in Sunday School during our Mindfulness Moment that he feels like a rainbow, your heart melts and your tank is filled, even though you feel like a dogs breakfast.
And finally, I have learned that when you are on the phone with your Son in Africa, it is never a good thing when he says, "Do you want to hear about the exciting thing that happened to me today?" It is never the smart thing to assume that the words "exciting" and "great" are interchangeable.
I also learned that there are Spitting Cobras in Africa, and that they really do raise up and flair out that thing behind their head, and that sometimes when they strike, they miss, and that they then slither away into the grass right beside the path that a certain Peace Corps Boy travels every day, and can't be found by villagers wielding hoes and other assorted weaponry.
If you need me, I will be in the bed, nursing a raging bout of edification.
Friday, February 10, 2017
Godspeed
He never did learn to crawl. It wasn't fast enough for him. He rolled. He would spy the place he wanted to go, then lay down and roll to it with unerring accuracy. His first word was not Mama, or Dada...no, something much more exotic for my boy - his favorite character in all of his many books....Big Bird. He did not walk, he danced on his toes. If he got a two step head start, I could not catch him. Every surface was a drum. Every thought a song.
At the age of two, he started doing this really funny thing. If he thought that you were sick, or sad, or just out of whack, he would come up to you and look deep into your eyes. He would take his little stubby fingers, and reach into that shaggy mop of black hair for a magic, invisible substance...he would then sprinkle it all over your head with a flourish. He called it Fee betters (feel betters), and oddly enough, you always did.....feel better.
At the age of four, he begged me to paint a jungle in his room, full of the animals he loved the best - zebras and giraffes, lions and monkeys....I had never so much as sketched an animal before, but over the course of a couple of weeks, his room was transformed by a four wall mural.
His bedtime prayers could rival the most eloquent southern preacher....long and specific, inclusive and imaginative - full of love for others and delivered with an absolute assurance that he was heard.
He liked to snuggle with his Mama long after his contemporaries had given up such babyish indulgences....he has allowed me to hug him publicly for all of his 23 years - even at 13, the age at which the aliens come and snatch your sweet little boy and replace him with something moody and foreign. (They bring them back, along about the age of 14)
At the onset of the driving years, he was a good sport as I called out the door, "text me when you get there" - and, out of his kind consideration for my feelings, he almost always remembered to do so.
Recently, he sat at the side of my hospital bed - late into the night, and early in the morning - going so far as to sneak his crowd of friends into the ICU close to midnight, bringing with them laughter and love (and reprimands from the night nurse).
Since my strokes, I have relied on him far more than I should, but I have been oh so grateful for the time it has afforded us - when he has been my driver and my shepherd.
Tomorrow, in the blink of an eye, he will be off. He will get his two step head start, and I will not be able to catch him.
At feeding time, when he was an infant, I would use those quiet, sacred moments to pray over that precious baby....Lord, help him grow strong and healthy....give him a loving heart....do not use him for war, but for peace.....over and over again, I would pray these things.
And so, tomorrow, the journey begins, as the Lord will use him for Peace - not war... perhaps, I should have mentioned to the Almighty that He did not have to be quite so literal in His interpretation of my prayers......the PEACE CORPS? AFRICA?
I know one day I will see the humor in that, but for now, in the wee hours of the morning, I am left with the remembrances of the boy who became a man. A man in whom I take such pride....for whom I have such love....a man/boy that I will miss, and worry about and pray for every minute of every day....
This song woke me up this morning at 3 - I imagine it will be the soundtrack in my mind for the next 27 months....the inimitable Dixie Chicks......."God hears Amen wherever you are, and I love you. Godspeed little man...sweet dreams little man...oh my love will fly to you each night on angel wings...Godspeed....Sweet Dreams....."
At the age of two, he started doing this really funny thing. If he thought that you were sick, or sad, or just out of whack, he would come up to you and look deep into your eyes. He would take his little stubby fingers, and reach into that shaggy mop of black hair for a magic, invisible substance...he would then sprinkle it all over your head with a flourish. He called it Fee betters (feel betters), and oddly enough, you always did.....feel better.
At the age of four, he begged me to paint a jungle in his room, full of the animals he loved the best - zebras and giraffes, lions and monkeys....I had never so much as sketched an animal before, but over the course of a couple of weeks, his room was transformed by a four wall mural.
He liked to snuggle with his Mama long after his contemporaries had given up such babyish indulgences....he has allowed me to hug him publicly for all of his 23 years - even at 13, the age at which the aliens come and snatch your sweet little boy and replace him with something moody and foreign. (They bring them back, along about the age of 14)
At the onset of the driving years, he was a good sport as I called out the door, "text me when you get there" - and, out of his kind consideration for my feelings, he almost always remembered to do so.
Recently, he sat at the side of my hospital bed - late into the night, and early in the morning - going so far as to sneak his crowd of friends into the ICU close to midnight, bringing with them laughter and love (and reprimands from the night nurse).
Since my strokes, I have relied on him far more than I should, but I have been oh so grateful for the time it has afforded us - when he has been my driver and my shepherd.
Tomorrow, in the blink of an eye, he will be off. He will get his two step head start, and I will not be able to catch him.
At feeding time, when he was an infant, I would use those quiet, sacred moments to pray over that precious baby....Lord, help him grow strong and healthy....give him a loving heart....do not use him for war, but for peace.....over and over again, I would pray these things.
And so, tomorrow, the journey begins, as the Lord will use him for Peace - not war... perhaps, I should have mentioned to the Almighty that He did not have to be quite so literal in His interpretation of my prayers......the PEACE CORPS? AFRICA?
I know one day I will see the humor in that, but for now, in the wee hours of the morning, I am left with the remembrances of the boy who became a man. A man in whom I take such pride....for whom I have such love....a man/boy that I will miss, and worry about and pray for every minute of every day....
This song woke me up this morning at 3 - I imagine it will be the soundtrack in my mind for the next 27 months....the inimitable Dixie Chicks......."God hears Amen wherever you are, and I love you. Godspeed little man...sweet dreams little man...oh my love will fly to you each night on angel wings...Godspeed....Sweet Dreams....."
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