Finding the Holy in an Unholy Mess

 

      An unholy mess. That is how my Dad would describe a situation that he could find no worse negative descriptors for. I have found myself using that expression almost daily in the last 6^th months. A Pandemic, an abrupt cessation of life as we knew it. No socializing, Work from home, don’t work at all. No restaurants, no concerts, no in person school, no assurances, no toilet paper, no Lysol, no Bread flour. No Gathering in our Sanctuary with our Church family. No handshakes. No hugs. Race relations. Politics. Hurricanes. Earthquakes. Fires. We suddenly became a country even more polarized than before – who would have thought THAT was possible? There are the  “I think we have a responsibility to the greater Good to Wear a mask” people, and the “Don’t tread on me and infringe on my rights - I WON’T wear a mask” people. Climate change is real – climate change is fake news.  Trust the Science – Science is bogus, Black Lives Matter – All Lives Matter, Democrats will be the ruination of our country – Republicans are will be the ruination of our country…..it seems there is no end in sight. The issues are so big and overwhelming, that it easy to feel powerless – like you have no control, and I am weary to the bone of it. How do you find the holy in an unholy mess?

  Last Sunday, at our first in person, outdoor Vespers , I sat in the parking lot and tried to take my mind off of how hot it was while waiting for the service to begin. I was thinking about how much the trees in the side courtyard have grown in the last 50 years, when I was struck with a memory – of lying  on my stomach in the grass beneath the largest tree as a teenager. I was looking for 4 leaf clovers  with Steve, our youth minister at the time…Pouring my heart and my pain out to him…receiving his wise counsel and words of comfort – it was a golden, holy moment. Then I looked at the birdbath in front of the Gathering Room Picture Window – painted by the Children of Emerywood Baptist Church as a gift for our congregation, and remembered our laughter and happy chatter as we worked on it…another holy moment…it was then that this notion took hold, and I have thought of it all week….how in the midst of the everyday, holiness – sacred moments can be found. In Music….In cool water on a hot day….in the smell and feel of the stirrings of Autumn… In walking outside and seeing red and yellow and blue birds eating together at the bird feeder…. When sitting around the table with your entire family at the end of a long anxious day – realizing you had made it through another day, safe and sound…together. If it is indeed truth when our Pastor Timothy prays “God of all things”…..God of ALL things – then we are surrounded by the divine, the sacred, the holy, in the midst of an unholy mess….In her book The Liturgy of the Ordinary, Tish Harrison Warren offers that we are shaped by the everyday. The ordinary. In regards to the ordinary divine She writes this -  “ In the creation story, God entered chaos and made order and beauty. When we seek the divine – the sacred in ordinary things, we can do the same. And of all the things he could have chosen to be done “in remembrance” of him, Jesus chose a meal. He could have asked his followers to do something impressive or mystical – climb a mountain, fast for 40 days or have a trippy sweat lodge ceremony – but instead, he picks the most ordinary of acts, eating, through which to be present to his people. He says that the bread is his body and the wine is his blood. He chose the unremarkable and plain, average and abundant, bread and wine.” If we ARE shaped by the everyday, then how much better shape would we be in if we had hearts and minds and eyes open to the presence of God in our every day. The normal – the ordinary, as we see time and time again in Scriptures, is deeply holy and sacred to God. God came to us as an ordinary baby, born in an ordinary town to an ordinary Girl. Maybe the secret to an unholy mess is to find the Holy in the small things, and the Sacred in the everyday.

  Did you know that you can trap bees if you get them to the bottom of a mason jar? You don’t even need a lid. They become trapped because they don’t look up to see the freedom above them. They will continue to walk around, bumping into the glass – getting more agitated and distressed as they repeatedly hit a solid wall.  As he so often does, John O’Donohue says it best “ We seldom notice how each day is a holy place where the Eucharist of the ordinary happens, transforming our broken fragments into an eternal continuity that keeps us.”  In much the same way, we can become trapped in these days that are so full of overwhelming, disheartening, frightening things. Waiting for the next news cycle for the Other shoe to drop, grieving our changed circumstances, being brought low by divisiveness…We too would benefit from looking up, and around for the holiness in the moments, in the everyday – even in the midst of the unholy mess….

For the Living of these days....

Her little feet were dancing. There she was, being a good, big girl - holding on to the side of the grocery cart like Mama must have told her to. But she undoubtedly had music in her 4 year old soul that she couldn't contain. Mama had her hands full, and I noticed several things at once. She had 2 buggies full of the cutest stairstep children. The youngest were with her, and the older ones were in a cart pushed by the eldest brother - perhaps 10 or 12 years old - big and burly for his age.. From a distance I could see that he was making his charges laugh as they sat in the buggy. I had two simultaneous thoughts.....He is a good big Brother - entertaining his siblings, and That is a large family not wearing masks....As they drew closer to me, I heard Mama loudly complaining about the lack of goods, the dancing curly headed cherub smiled at me, and I gained awareness of Big Brother's antics.
    You see.....he was engaging his younger siblings by leaning into fellow shoppers, coughing on them and saying "Oh, I got choked on air". As each person passed him, he would repeat the action and words. Now, on the one hand, I was relieved to know that I can still stop a misbehaving child in his tracks with one glance(and a masked, half face glance at that!) - He did not cough on me. On the other hand, I was undone by what I had witnessed. He was coughing on people. For entertainment. For meanness. The younger children in his charge seemingly familiar with the sport of it were getting immense enjoyment out of it.
   Children learn by example. It is not too far a stretch to surmise that this boys behavior has been modeled and perhaps encouraged by the adults in his life.

  I headed to the checkout. I was not finished shopping, but I could not continue. Tears streaming down my cheeks into the soft flowerdy cotton of my mask, I stood, head bowed as my favorite cashier rung me out. "You ok today?" she gently asked....I could only shake my head.

  What are we doing?

We mock science. We have lost sight of the greater good. We the people have turned into Me the people.

I am undone. I despair today.  And most days, if I am being honest. I do not recognize this place and space that we currently inhabit. In these days I have learned things about strangers, friends and family that I would rather not know....could never have imagined or believed.  I am often left asking how this can be. I feel I can not adequately guide Ivy League Man, Baby Girl and Babiest, because I can barely guide myself in this minefield of madness. Breathing is made difficult by a body that feels like petrified wood.....and Children are coughing on shoppers for sport.

By this time, I know God is tired of me. The constant conversation I carry on with Her has got to be getting on the sanctified last nerve. It is a never ending story, where I unburden my aching heart, harangue, tattle, plead and grieve with an incredulity that colors every prayer. I am tired of me. And Adults are teaching Children to hate and mock and cough on Grocery shoppers on Senior Citizen Day for sport.

Her little feet were dancing, and there must have been music in her soul. Her Brother was coughing on people....what replaced the music in his soul?

My feet drag and shuffle. I am weary. Worried. Tired. In Pain.....what has replaced the music in my soul?

"Set our feet on lofty places, Gird our lives that they may be. Armored with all Christ like graces In the fight to set men free. Grant us Wisdom, Grant us courage For the living of these days....for the living of these days" This is the last verse to one of my favorite hymns....it's a bit of a dirge, but I love it....And truer words were never sung - we need some serious Girding for the Living of These Days....Come on....let's sing it together.....may it be our prayer.

Laughter, Love and ice cream

   In preparation for recording my Children's Sermon for Sundays online Worship, I dug my Dad's old binoculars out of the closet. I opened the case and......I was transported. As impossible as it sounds, they still smell like him. Leather, and office goods - a hint of English Leather cologne and Cigar. I have left them out on my desk, so I can pick them up and breathe deep. More than once during this Sheltering at home, I have thought about Dad and the summer of 1973. We were deep in the midst of the Gas Crisis - and then Dad lost his job. My Mother, like many Mothers of the day did not work outside of the home, So there was no. income. Due to the bills from my Mom's illness, my folks didn't have much in the way of savings. (I knew this because my worst character trait as a child is that I was a MASTER eavesdropper! I am happy to report I have outgrown that particular characteristic - there are some things I would just rather not know/ignorance is bliss - also, I can no longer fit between the sofa and the wall) My Grandparents sent my Parents money each month of Dad's unemployment. Included in that amount was "treat money"(Information that was also gathered in the "behind the sofa" maneuver.) The manner in which that money was spent is one of my favorite childhood memories.....we went to Mayberrys a couple of times a week and got one scoop of ice cream each. We would go to the park, or sit on our front porch and eat ice cream, tell stories and laugh. All these years later, I am convinced that this is what got us through that difficult time. When I think of those days, I remember laughter, and love and ice cream. I am certain that there were many tense moments - but they are not my primary memories.
   In our current hunkering down, I have tried to be mindful. In the midst of the worry and tears, anxiety and fears, I have tried to find and supply fodder for memories that in far flung days will bring a smile....that will be starch for the backbone and balm for the soul. Which is how I find myself covered in flour. This morning, I woke up with my Grandma Florence on my mind. Short in stature and long on homespun wisdom, she was a force of nature and a baker extraordinaire. She would sit me in the kitchen on the red foldy three step stool, and teach me her ways. Her chocolate cupcakes were my favorite, and the stuff dreams were made of. (She was famous for her Chocolate Cake, but I preferred the cupcake version - so she would make them, just for me) As she gathered her ingredients, she would teach. "Sister" she would say," Always use the Nestles Cocoa - not the Hersheys". (Now, the best part of this is that she pronounced it Nes-els Coe Coe ah.) (And yes....that is what I still call it)  "Sister, always sift that flour and cocoa" (Did you say it? Coe Coe ah!) "Sister, you need to even up that cup of flour with the flat of the knife", "Sister, clean as you go".  I still do not clean as I go, and Grandma would be horrified to see that today I am baking in my old grey and pink nightgown in the middle of the day (Because "Sister, always wash (warsh) and get dressed as soon as you get out of the bed"). But I evened up the cup with the flat of the knife, and I sifted the flour and cocoa. I greased and floured the cupcake pans, and even licked the beaters. The cupcakes are cooling, and soon I will make the thick, dark, chocolatey frosting.
  There have been nights around our new firepit - built by the Kennedy menfolk. Early mornings in the den drinking coffee snuggled under blankets. 6:30 suppers where the 5 of us gather around the table and laugh and debate politics and the current state of affairs, (Not so much of a debate - we are all on the same side) share memories of days gone by and laugh some more. Movie night with popcorn, made on the stove top Whirly Pop. One on one deep discussions and Group sessions as well. And sourdough bread. And Brussel sprout salad. John's amazingly delicious Guacamole, and Cilantro lime Black beans and rice. Food, stories, laughter and love.....plenty of fodder to deposit in the bank of future memory.

 

Nothing...and everything.

   As a child, my favorite place to be was on a swing...I could swing for what seemed like hours at a time. My favorite Childhood poem? The Swing by Robert Lewis Stevenson...."How do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue. Oh I do think it's the pleasantest thing, ever a child can do...."
   I never outgrew my love for a swing, and if I see one, you better believe I will be on it, and you will be hard pressed to get me to leave it. I passed that love of swing on to my children. When we moved to our current house, the kids had mostly outgrown our big play set, but they requested we build a frame for a couple of swings. In a fortuitous turn, the only flat place suitable for a swing in our back yard lined up perfectly with the window over the sink in the kitchen. I can't count the times that I have looked up from that sink over the years and spied one of my children swinging..or wished that they were.....
   Tonight, as I was doing the dishes after supper, I looked out the window, and there, swinging, was my Grown up Boy, talking to one of his friends on the phone. The feet were bigger, the legs longer, but he still pumps those legs with the same form from his childhood. My breath strangled in my throat, and gratitude filled me up. This time we find ourselves in, this season of our lives - is uncharted, frightening...horrible in most every way. But dear Lord, I give thanks that we are all together. John, Baby girl, Babiest girl, Grown up boy and me. Our house buzzes with life, and even in these dark times, celebration. Today we found out that Grown up Boy (also formerly known as College Boy, Peace Corps Boy and most recently Mongolia Man) will become, in August, Ivy League Boy - as he pursues his Masters in International Agriculture and Rural Development at Cornell. Also in August, Baby Girl will graduate from College, followed by Babiest Girl in December. Kennedy paths will diverge exponentially. These weeks that have and will continue to take so much from us, have given me the greatest gift. Time. Time with my family. Time to laugh around a table. Time to swing. Time to plant a garden. Time to try new recipes and tell old stories.Time to do nothing....together. Which is everything.

Sabbath Inchworm

Early last week, when it looked like we were going to need to hunker down, I spent a bit of money I really didn't need to spend. I have been looking at this portable chair for a long while....except it is not a chair....it comes in a tote bag like the many chairs we have for beach and former sport's Mom use, except, as I mentioned, it is not a chair. It is a HAMMOCK CHAIR!! In what may have been an unwise expense in these financially uncertain days, I ponied up the 29.99 plus tax at the Wals Mart and carried it on home.

   I slyly waited for everyone else to be occupied, and took it out of the back of my car and set it up in the Pavilion (fine - I know some of you call it the carport, but I have a table and chairs and my Grandma's glider and some small settling benches and rag rugs in mine - hence the fancy name) Now, to a woman who has some balance issues, getting in said Hammock Chair was a bit of a trick. I steadied myself on the table, and gingerly lowered myself awkwardly into my prize. I'm not going to lie. It was uncomfortable....really uncomfortable. Disheartened, I was about to try to figure out how to get out of the darned thing, when Baby Girl came outside and said "Wow - where did that come from"? I said "ummm, the back of my car", and tried (unsuccessfully) to get up with at least some grace. Once I was up and out (It was a sight, let me tell you), Baby Girl plopped down in it and said...."Huh...not real comfortable, is it?" I turned tail, and made a bee line for the house. I was angry with myself for spending the money, and heartbroken that it wasn't the stuff of my dreams. I puttered around the kitchen for a while. Baby Girl came in and said "Come here...I figured out how to sit in it, and it is wonderful!"

    And she was right. Once you figure it out, well...to me, it is Nirvana.

Which is how I found myself outside early this morning, in the Pavilion, swinging blissfully away, drinking coffee, reading my book and waiting for our pre-recorded Worship service to come online.

And let me tell you....I had  true Sabbath. For the first time in a very long while. I sat. I rested. I swung in my Hammock Chair to my hearts content. I breathed the fresh air. I felt the beautiful breeze. I heard the symphony of birds. I saw the first Butterfly of the season, bright yellow and beautiful.

   I noticed it as I reached forward to get my coffee cup off of the table. A bright green inchworm at eye level, on the other side of the table. As I took a sip of coffee, I put my book down, and decided to watch for a minute, or twenty....you see, as I studied the inch worm, I saw that  he was just going about his daily business of spinning silk to climb, one little scunch at a time. And every few scunches he would stop and rest, then continue on his way, doing his inchworm thing. Scunch, scunch, scunch, rest. Repeat. It was mesmerizing. He had gotten about five feet up in the air, when a big gust of wind sent him swinging like a trapeze artist. He held fast to the silk that had come from deep inside and let himself be carried by the wind - buffeted back and forth, secure in the knowledge that the silk would carry him. Once he came back to steady center, he continued his journey Scunch, scunch, scunch, rest. The last I saw of my friend, he had made his way to the roofline, and continued on, out of my sight.

  I learned a great lesson from that inchworm today. We should go along as best we can, using, relying on that "thing" that is inside of us...that "thing" that carries and guides us. It is good and necessary to rest along the journey. And when you are hit with an unexpected wind that turns everything upside down, hold tight to that thing that comes from within you...let it carry you. Cling to it. Be flexible, and work with what you've got. And when everything comes back to rights, continue on, secure in that which carries you....that which you carry inside of you. Thus endeth the lesson.

The Gloaming

  It's a familiar kind of feeling....one from my long ago past, and while not exactly the same, it is similar enough. It has happened every afternoon for the last couple of weeks. As the day bleeds into late afternoon, I feel it as a dull flutter behind my forehead that funnels under my right ear. It spreads around my neck and down my shoulders - into my arms. Once there, it shoots into my center and floods into my lower extremities  In my teenage years it's name was sadness....worry....melancholy. My Mothers illness and impending death colored my every waking moment, but in that part of the day known as the Gloaming, it went into overdrive.
   In the present, it's name is anxiety....what if....fear.
Once I saw the pattern returning, I tried to change my routine. No news while I make supper, just lovely Celtic music, Native American Flute, or New Age Piano. I am mindful of the warmth of the water and the lovely fragrance of the soap as I wash my hands.  While I chop the vegetables, I say a prayer of thanksgiving that I am able to provide a hot, nutritious and hopefully delicious meal  for my family. I look forward to the five of us gathered around the table - laughing, talking, telling stories....powerful juju for sure, yet none of it vanquishes that Gloaming feeling.

    Tonight, as I was working on supper, slogging through the Gloaming, I caught sight of my reflection in the kitchen window. And I flashed back to another reflection in another window.
  This past Sunday, our Worship Service was live streamed. Just the Four of us - the Ministerial staff -were present. As we met to discuss the order of service, we automatically distanced ourselves in the sanctuary - how odd that there were no hugs, or claps on the shoulder. Although we were happy to see each other, there in that sacred space, the emptiness was palpable - the silence a veritable hum. Our conversation bounced off of the walls and wood pews, making it almost an echo chamber. Our business finished, we turned our talk to Covid 19....sharing bits and pieces of new information we had heard....discussing the possibility (now reality) of a Statewide Shelter in Place order....what that would look like, how our lives would become very small indeed.....
   I was left unsettled and tearful - that Gloaming feeling was kicking in hours ahead of schedule. As I zipped up my black robe, I walked to the window to collect myself before we started recording. Our windows are the most beautiful architectural feature of our Church. They flank the pews, and soar to the ceiling. The light is unbelievable. I looked out into the yard where I played as a child...where my children played, running around the giant trees....Above the reflection of my right shoulder I could see the large solitary candle in the center of our altar being lit behind me. As the candle caught and flared, I saw - not the reflection of one flame, but two. I turned to see if another candle had been added, but there it remained - the lone candle. Once again facing the window, there was no mistaking it....two flames danced happily together. It is that image I want to carry with me into the Gloaming. Proof that we are never alone. There, dancing just above our right shoulder is evidence of God's love and constant presence, 2 flames from 1, whispering "Come ye who are heavy laden, and I will give ye rest". May it ever be so.... for "Those who walked in the darkness have seen a great light".

Grocery store humanity

After the strokes, I was left with several deficits. Things that I have learned to manage and live with. The issue that affects me the most on the daily is Post Stroke Anxiety (yes, that is a real thing). On a normal day it is something like the low flame of embers that are burning themselves out -  under every inch of my skin. On a bad day, it is like a conflagration under my skin, racing towards command central, somewhere in the vicinity of my solar plexus. Which is how I found myself in the parking lot of one of our local grocery stores this morning, a few minutes before they were set to open. My rationale is that the germs present will be at their lowest of the day, as will my anxiety, which has been in overdrive since the Corona virus stepped onto the scene. The store was delayed in opening - by 30 minutes - which gave me plenty of time sitting in my car, and then standing in the line that was forming, to observe my fellow man.

   There, in the line waiting for the doors to open, I encountered lovely people - happy to have someone to talk to....share concerns with. I encountered people who looked so terrified and broken that the merest breeze would have shattered them into a million pieces. I encountered people who boldly broke into the front of the line, the look on their face daring the rest of us to challenge them. I knew a moment of pure terror, as a middle aged white man (WHY is it always the middle aged white man?!) pulled into the parking lot, saw the line waiting to get in - and stopped his car dead - screaming and cursing. He revved his engine, hit the accelerator, and for the briefest of seconds, I thought he was going to plow into the people in the line. In a display of  rage and neanderthalism , he circled the parking lot twice, tires squealing, before he sped off.

   We entered the store without further incident - plenty of smiles and nods, as we acknowledged our shared plight. I shopped from my list, and quickly found everything I needed. Eggs topped the list, followed closely by fruits and veg. I was swift, but still encountered a massive checkout line. The manager was directing the shoppers into one long line, flanking the aisle and wrapping around the end cap, which would then branch out to one of the cashiers when you arrived at the front. It really did work very well, and seemed an efficient system. While I waited, I eavesdropped on the conversations around me (one of my less appealing traits, I know). The 60ish couple behind me, were discussing how ridiculous this all was....how people were overreacting, how the Corona virus was just a fabrication of the left wing media....how stupid the closing of the restaurants and schools seemed....(And, once again, I failed at my Lent offering....because at this point I was judging them, and hard) All this I heard without outwardly flinching...I was looking straight ahead, moving with the line, but I whipped my head around when they started congratulating themselves on their superiority....simpering and smirking at those around them, they proclaimed loudly that even if there was a virus,  they would be immune, because they were Christian. I could not believe my ears. I have encountered such ideology in the news, and on social media, but never in the flesh. Fortunately, I had reached the point in the line where I was invited to stand behind a register, thus being spared the rest of their diatribe. After unloading my items, I had a brief conversation with the cashier - she was tired, and feeling on edge, but was happy that I had found the things I needed. I moved to the counter to bag my groceries. Focused on my task, I heard "I'm sorry sir, there is a limit of two on those waters, and the chicken too". Voices quickly raised, and I turned to find the source of the fracas....the self same believing nonbelievers....the immune Christians - fighting with the cashier, who was already weary, 15 minutes into her shift. "Well, that's the dumbest thing I ever heard" shouted the man - spittle dribbling down his chin in his righteous indignation. "I am buying ALL of these things", he continued....In a moment of magnificence, the young woman behind the cash register stood to her full height and said "No you are not. There is a limit, because other people need these things too, and we are going to make sure that as many people as possible can get what they need."  The best of humanity, and the worst - in one grocery transaction. Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison.... Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

A Swift Mistress

I wouldn't exactly call it a slamming on of the brakes....it was more like a moderate, sustained application. At any rate, the result was the same. You see, Baby Growndy Up Girl was driving behind me, as we went in search of the perfect little black skirt for her. As we turned into the parking lot, I was forced to stop rather hurriedly, to avoid hitting the car that without so much as a glance from it's driver pulled straight out of a parking space, right in front of me... then....BOOM. Baby Growndy Up Girl missed the fact that my car was no longer moving, and she rear ended my beautiful Gypsy Rose (recently sprung from the car hospital for the repairs needed as a result of the incident which shall not be named), with the force of something between a bump and a slam.  I would argue that it was more of a slam, and less of a bump, seeing as how every muscle in my back and neck has now frozen up and I am in dire need of a muscle relaxer, but be that as it may, we quickly parked and jumped out to asses the damage. Remarkably, neither car bore a scratch, so maybe it WAS more of a bump, and I am just a wuss. After a mild lecture from me on the importance of being alert when driving, and striking out on the black skirt in the Boho store, we headed to the second shop on our list. No black skirt was found, but when we exited, she was the new owner of a cute tee, a new pair of pants and a dress (Happy Early Birthday to my girl). There we parted ways. One big hug and two I love yous later, I headed to my car. I was answering a text - vehicle still in the parking spot, like a good girl - when my phone rang.
   It was Baby Growndy Up Girl, and I couldn't tell whether she was laughing, crying or both. I managed to make out the words "I didn't hit another car..." "Well....what did you do then?"  I mean really....we had only been apart for a minute - what trouble could she have gotten into?
   This might be a good time to insert that BGU Girl has always been a really good sport about the fact that she drives an antiquated boat of a Grandma car...a BUICK for goodness sakes. She calls him Gunter, and is appreciative that he gets her where she needs to go.
    "Mom", she gasps...."I was trying to unlock my car...I put the key in the door, but it wouldn't unlock. I took it out, tried again, and then jiggled the door handle. Behind me came this old man's voice". "What the hell are you doing, young lady?!", he shouted. BGU girl was unwittingly trying to break into Grumpy Old Grandpa's car, having mistaken it for her own. "Oh Lordy...what did you do then", I inquired, trying to suppress the belly laugh that was starting deep within. "Well, I just kind of yelped, and ran off", she replied.
     As I hung up, convulsing with laughter, I said to myself.....well, sometimes, Karma is a swift mistress - that is her payback for hitting my car and causing these spasms in my back.(OK, fine...I will own up to it - perhaps not the most Motherly of responses)
   Off I went to the Teeter. Produce was my first stop. The aisles were full of  people pushing buggies back and forth, jamming the up and down sides, going the wrong way and stalling in the middle....OH NO!! I silently began berating myself....this is THURSDAY....I try to avoid the Teeter like the plague on Thursday because it is SENIOR SHOPPING DAY. I always leave angry on Thursday, because in the last year, the Cashiers have taken to automatically giving me the senior discount - without even inquiring as to my date of birth...the Senior Discount is for people 60 and OVER. I am nowhere NEAR that....alright, FINE...I am not quite there YET.
   I took a calming breath and persevered. I wanted the Pork Loin that was on Special, and I needed some cream for my coffee....and Asparagus to go with the Pork Loin. The required items being secured, I headed to the checkout. I scanned the Cashiers. I selected the kind looking new girl. I anxiously watched the register screen....and AAUUUUGGGGGHHHH....there it was. The discount....she entered it without so much as batting an eye - and I was wearing my best tie dye shirt and super cute earrings! To add insult to injury, as she put the last bag back in the buggy, she said it.       "Can we take these to your car, DEAR?".       Before I could utter a terse No THANK you, the Malibu Barbie that was unloading her kombucha and Kale in the neighboring lane fixed me with a knowing smile (displaying blindingly perfect white teeth) and gave me a cock of a perfectly manicured eyebrow as if to say "You really should take her up on the offer of help, DEAR".....I stood as tall as my muscle spasms would allow, gathered my dignity, and exited stage right. As I stewed in my aging juices, I could almost hear Baby Growndy Up Girl saying with a shake of her head," Laugh at me, will ya? Karma is a swift Mistress!"

Blessed and Messed

Yesterday morning, I had coffee with some friends. Laughter and conversation were abundant, and as these ladies were talking at the same time, one ended her sentence with "I am blessed" - the other "I am a mess" (referring to the flake of the delicious pastry we may or may not have been consuming).
   You know how I love rhyming words....Blessed and messed. Those words have swirled around in my poor stroke addled brain ever since.
   They really describe my week.
On Monday I took my beautiful Gypsy Rose car to the body shop, for the repair of the damage from the accident which shall not be named. Then, I waved off a beloved group of people heading to serve on the mission field...in Zambia.....where they will be spending time with my Peace Corps Boy/Man...able to hug him, assess his degree of health and happiness, and did I mention hug him?   Messed.
On Tuesday, John and I marked our 30th wedding anniversary. Impossible to believe. Blessed.

On Friday, we woke early, to get a jump start on the fun. John had the day off, and we were going to celebrate Tuesday's anniversary. First stop, my nail place. Kudos to John for suggesting it. (Full disclosure - my feet were in rough shape - I was ruining the new sheets with my cracked heels, and I may or may not have scratched his legs once or twice lately.) After my pedicure, I decided to get my eyebrows done - seeing as how I was already there, and they were approaching giant caterpillar shape and size.
   The lovely young woman stirred the wax and applied the strips. Before she yanked, she took my face in her delicate hands and murmured. "You need chin waxed", and rip - off came the wayward bits of eyebrow. After I caught my breath I stammered, "Beg pardon"? (As any good southern women would). "Chin. Need wax"...after further examination, she amended her statement - "Face. Face need waxed". (Full disclosure - I hate the fine hair that has sprouted on my face as I have gotten older, and nothing sends me running from a room faster than one of my daughters giving me the high sign. You know, the one where they discreetly point to their chin. That is code for - EEWWWW, you have a long white hair sprouting from your chin). "I.....well....ummm." I managed to get out - equal parts insulted and intrigued. "You can DO that? Won't it hurt?!"  "For you, worth the pain" she responded. So, that is how I found myself slathered in hot wax - looking for all the world like Emmet Kelly with a clown beard. Riiiiiip...rip, rip, rip. I rose a good two inches off of the chair, and to quote Wanda Sykes - "Everything went white". It is not an exaggeration to say that when I finally made it to a mirror, I was astonished and mightily relieved to see that I still had a couple of layers of skin remaining. (Full disclosure - I love the hair free look, and I will be subjecting myself to this monthly torture from now on!) Blessed AND Messed.

   The week was bookended with Two post stroke victories that I long felt would not be gained. Last Sunday, I had my first audition since the strokes, and am proud and astonished to announce that I will once again be treading the boards in an upcoming production of Steel Magnolias. Today, after 17 months and 2 weeks of having completely lost my singing voice, I sang in Church - 3 weeks after regaining the ability to sing. I mangled the last 2 measures, because I couldn't sing through my tears of joy.
It was a voice not quite as strong, agile and reliable as in days gone by. But I will take it. It's loss was so grievous to me, that I didn't speak of it to many. It was the thing I mourned the most - hands down the worst thing that the strokes took from me.  I am so grateful that it has been restored to me.     Blessed.

Each day this week, I have struggled with my anger at the state of our world - our country. Appalled by the mistreatment of the Stranger, the child, the other....Disgusted by the twisting of scripture to support things that are the very antithesis of the Bible I read. Flummoxed as to how we came to be so polarized and lost as a nation.....as people....as Children of God.  Messed.....So Messed.

   Messed and Blessed.   Blessed and Messed.      Rhyming words that not only describe my week, but life as a whole. In the immortal words of the poet Stephen Sondheim "Good times and bum times, I've seen them all and my dear - I'm still here. Plush velvet sometimes, sometimes just pretzels and beer, but I'm here. I've run the gamut A-Z, three cheers and dammit, C'est La Vie, I got through all of last year, and I'm here....look who's here....I'm still here".  Blessed and Messed.   I'll take it.

Number Three

   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.
 

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.
 
   
 
 

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.

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...
 

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.

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.

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.

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.
 

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....."
 
   

There is Treasure even here....

 I remember a blanket of confusion....how did all of the items that had just a breath before been in my hands, find their way to the floor...Why did my arm suddenly twist of it's own accord? Standing in the middle of my office surrounded by my friends as I lurched to the right, I was able to utter one word...."stroke". Beloved, trusted voices swirled above me....hands took mine. I could feel that prayers were being said; I could not understand the words but I could sense the power and love behind them.
  In that moment, I felt the separating of the wheat from the chaff....the cream from the milk....the ego from the id. I could feel the rending...I could see the separation. Every once in awhile, as the EMT's were working on me, transporting me..I would try to make words. When unsuccessful, I would  retreat to that place - where my essence was floating....a spectator - watching the vortex that surrounded me - trapped in my head...all my lost words and thoughts....faces....worries that had seemed so pressing moments ago.
  Upon arrival at our local hospital, I was rushed into the CT scan, whereupon I left my cocoon of Id to feverishly fight to find the word that I needed above all others...."Claustrophobic!" The son-of-a- gun word remained elusive, and into the tube I went. Once inside, I was greeted by what others might have previously discovered through various chemicals and herbs in the 60's....I could see the colors and shapes of the various tones emitted by the machine. I became one with the Sound, and as it changed tone, color and shape, so did I. Now THAT was some trip.
  I never lost consciousness, so I was aware....through a series of early cinema type flickering moving pictures. So many people....words about a clot busting drug... Baby Girl, John, Babiest Girl, SoonToBePeaceCorps Boy...colleagues, YaYa's...tests to gauge whether the clots were breaking up....the shock that the one phrase that hadn't deserted me was one of my most colorful sets of kitchen words, and the fervent prayer that if those were the last words I uttered before I stood in the presence of my Creator, that He/She and I would share a similar sense of humor and irony.
  I was to learn later that I had fallen victim to a spray pattern stroke. 9 strokes, affecting both hemispheres of my brain. At fault - free floating bits of a blood clot hanging out on some calcium on my Mitral Valve. My life and way of life saved by a miracle drug.
 Through ten days of hospitalization and multiple MRI's, CT scans and a test that required me to swallow a Buick sized camera, I have discovered that my heart function is good, my Cholesterol is low and I am in good health for a "woman of my age"(Thanks Zumba)....save that pesky little Mitral Valve Problem.
   Multiple treatments have been discussed - back and forth, until we are back at the beginning determination that a course of blood thinners and 8 weeks of wait and see (I can already tell that I am NOT a natural at that regimen) is the best first approach...hopefully avoiding heart surgery.
  Of the many miracles that I have experienced in these 12 days, one of the most surprising is that I rate a Zero on the stroke scale...meaning my deficits are mild and, with time and therapy should resolve. I lose some words, and can't figure out how to pronounce others. I cry.....a lot - over nothing. I suffer crippling anxiety that comes out of nowhere and goes from zero to one hundred in the blink of an eye...both (hopefully) temporary effects of the strokes. I can't retain names of new people and some familiar people. I have to walk with a walker - my balance is not so great, my right leg is heavy and that foot now turns out at a 45 degree angle. My right arm and hand are weak and clumsy. I am exhausted most of the time, and require help to do so many things. I can no longer abide Law and Order SVU (Too intense, I think...and hopefully another temporary thing.) My vision has changed, permanently I think...  

    I am alive. I am home.  I have felt the prayers and good wishes from all across the globe. I am humbled by the friends and acquaintances that have offered help in a myriad of ways. I have been buoyed by the visits...and I especially cherish the visits from "My" kids....their hugs and cheerful chatter have been the best medicine of all.

Some friends sat on my sofa last night - Christmas Night - their sons, a couple of my favorite little fellas, in the kitchen, helping Baby Girl frost some treats. As we chatted, the Husband of the pair said "So....what have you learned from all of this?" I had a few obvious answers, but I was left with a feeling that his question will haunt me, as I "unpack" this whole experience, and journey on towards health. As I remember each of the Doctors, Nurses, Aids,and Lab Techs that treated me with such expertise, skill, humor and tender care. As I remember - when I thought perhaps that I might be dying, my only thoughts were of my awareness of the presence and love of the being I call God, and my concern for John, Jake, Katie, and Maggie....my love and thankfulness for them. As I remember how superfluous all those words and worries swirling in the vortex around my essence seemed, as I was in the throes of the strokes....

  My colleague....the person I consider my Minister, read a Blessing over me in one of the first days. It resonated so with me, I asked her to make me a copy. I had Babiest read and reread it to me until I could remember the words, and these were the words that I chanted to myself in the hour long specialized MRI in a totally enclosed capsule, during my anxiety attacks while I was waiting for the meds to kick in, during the crying times.....I leave you with these words to ponder, as I will continue to do. I sadly can not give credit to the author - because I have no idea what book it came from (Update: I have found that these words were written by Jan Richardson - look her up - you will be blessed!) - I only know that it gave me the greatest comfort imaginable....."Now the world falls from beneath your feet, all over again, as if the wound were opening for the first time, only now with an ache you recognize as ancient. Here is the time for kindness - your own, to yourself - as you fall, and fall, as you land hard in this layer that lies deeper than you ever imagined you could go. Think of it as a secret room - this space that has opened before you, that has opened inside you, though it may look sharp in every corner and sinister no matter where you turn. Think of it as a hidden chamber in your heart where you can stay as long as you need...where you will find provision you never wanted, but on which your life will now depend. I want to tell you there is treasure even here - that the sharp lines that so match your scars will lead to solace, that this space that feels so foreign will become for you a shelter. So let yourself fall. It will not be the last time, but do not let this be cause for fear. These are the rooms around which your new home will grow - the home of your heart, the home of your life that welcomes you with such completeness, opening and opening and opening itself to you, no part of you turned away."

10 days beyond the Silence.

So....once again, for the second time in less than 10 days, I find myself at the beach - an unprecedented embarrassment of riches. This time, it is My Husband and me....our first vacation without children since 1990. I took this picture today. I love how the sun is bursting through the cloud - spreading it's rays in all directions. This is how I felt, for the last three days of my Silent Retreat. After the Dark Night in Room H, and the next morning's nap in the new room - the one full of light and sweet air, this was me. It was as if some hard, oppressive vise had loosed it's hold on me. I felt a freedom and peace that I had not known for years. Well....that is not exactly true. The week before I left on my retreat, we visited SoonToBePeaceCorps Boy at his place of employ. He delighted in taking us on a tour of the beautiful Camp. Up one hill...up an even higher hill....scenery and vista's to to take your breath away. Poised at the very top - the pinnacle of all the hills, my Boy turned to me and with a sheepish look on his face said "Sorry Mom, the brakes on this Golf Cart aren't the best", and with that, we were off. Straight Down and around. Normally,This - is not my thing....I do not like it, Sam I am....
But the wind was cool and brisk, and it played around my neck, ruffling my newly shorn hair. The feeling was one of pure pleasure, so I closed my eyes, tilted my head back and gave myself permission to feel the feels, to delight in the wind - to lean in to the freedom.
  So here I am 10 days beyond the Silence. I still feel free. I still feel like I am on the Ferry....looking behind....looking ahead. I am still in that place of Giving Over. I have rediscovered something that I used to know - that there is Music between the notes...the Silence itself is beautiful music.
  I have read and re-read my journal. My word art for happiness. My flow chart of Joy, and Joy Drains. I laugh at the musically notated Mantras that I wrote...I will keep these - they have power.
   There are entries that are deeply personal, entries that are heartbreaking to and for me. There are words of hope. Words of anger and words of exhaustion. My words...words and feelings that have bought me my freedom.
   Dusk is my favorite time at the beach....but only at the beach - anywhere else, I find it full of Melancholy. At the beach, it is golden....you can feel a shimmering aura, and the air has a particular taste. Tonight, as I was sitting there watching John fish in the surf, I realized the tide was coming in at an alarming rate. Our chairs were on a raised portion of the beach, and the tide was coming up and circling around - effectively cutting us off - making us an island - rimmed in by the sea on an increasingly diminishing patch of sand. I grabbed the chairs and towels and beach bag, and slogged through the new channel of ocean to even higher ground, where I had a great view of the spot I had vacated. It was there that I learned my last lesson from my Silent Retreat....the words that my journal have been trying to tell me.
   When the Children were little, John and I had a series of unbelievable catastrophes...one right after the other, each worse than the one before. Our friends, in solidarity, and at an attempt at humor started a little phrase. If their car broke down..."Oh no, I am starting to feel like the Kennedys!" If their basement flooded..."Oh no, I am starting to feel like the Kennedys". Somehow, in the intervening years - we have bought into that phrase...Oh no...WE are the Kennedys - shutting ourselves off - becoming an island. When our friends moved away, either in distance or in spirit, we did not search out others. My good, smart, funny Husband and I became removed and wasted our emotional currency bracing ourselves for the onslaught of the tide. Well NO MORE.
   We are the Kennedys.....free and seeking. Giving over to the experience of the Ferry. Looking behind AND ahead.
    AlmostPeaceCorps Boy has a Childhood friend....she is wise. She had a Facebook post on the night before I left for the retreat. It so resonated with me, that it was the first entry in my Journal. "Respond out of clarity, rather than reacting to Chaos".
   The gift of Silence - breaking free of the Chaos on my way to clarity. Thanks be to God.