Isolation

Today marks day five since my husband tested positive for Covid. He tested positive in the evening, but that morning I kissed him good morning as couples tend to do. What he hadn't told me is that he already felt horrible the night before. (Sigh). 

Blame aside, I think we just got a little complacent. COVID-19 has been around 2.75 years. We had never gotten the bug, so maybe we thought vaccinations were enough, especially at home. 

But vaccines are not the only way to protect the ones we love. We'd forgotten that. And with restrictions lifting for some, people are not as protected as they were at the beginning of this long-term siege.

So, when I awoke this morning feeling completely drained, crappy, and sore all over, one of the first things I did was take a Rapid-test. (Grr, I hate those things...) and it came back negative. I was, quite frankly, disappointed from a very selfish perspective. I missed the company of my best friend and soul-mate. 

However, if there's the off chance that what I have is NOT COVID-19, but some other virus, it would not be good for the two of us to be together to give what we have to each other. 

Picture by Firmbee at Pixabay

 So, I'm writing this from our half-renovated den in the basement. Daughter and I brought the puppy's pen and crate downstairs, set up my computer, charging station for my phone, a few blankets, and supplies I'll need for looking after the puppy, for as long as I'm here. It is so very quiet down here - no TV, just the noise of the heat pump whenever it's on. Part of me wonders how my back will handle the sectional's cushions; time will tell I guess. It has to better than sleeping in my recliner in the living room!! I even brought down a kitty night-light for the night time. (Pitch black is not an option for me.)

If tomorrow finds me testing COVID-positive, then it's back upstairs for me and the pup, and sleeping in my own bed. But whatever the outcome, I will not run the risk of putting my beloved husband in danger. That's what all the vaccines and the masking and the hand-washing are all about.

It should be an adventure, at least.

Drinking it in

It's raining today: a steady, soaking rain. After a fairly dry summer - we had to water our garden to keep it growing - the trees, grass and shrubs are enjoying the rain.  They are drinking it in gratefully, the leaves perking up where they've been drooping and the grass seeming greener than before.

All of us need that experience of a good, refreshing, cool drink of water ... whether physical or spiritual ... to keep us supple and nourished inside and out. 

It got me to thinking today about what nourishes and feeds me. I have plenty to eat, and clean water to drink, which makes me far richer than over a billion people in the world.  I also have a roof over my head that keeps the extremes of cold and heat out, and more than one outfit to wear - again, more than what billions have - and most days, I take these things for granted!

Photo "Autumn Gold" courtesy of Simon Howden
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

But as Thanksgiving approaches, I find myself feeling gratitude bubbling up from within, for many of the things I normally don't even think about. 

I have so many blessings, not the least of which are those loved ones who live with me: my husband and family (including the four-legged kids too!) who always believe in me, and always look out for my well-being. As Dory said in Finding Nemo, "When I look at you, I'm ... I'm home!" I can't begin to express the degree to which their presence in my life brings me a sense of joy and completion. I only hope that someday they will get an inkling of how important and amazing they are to me.

Sharing the little events of each other's days, the joys and the sorrows, the ups and the downs: these are blessings. Living in the moment, just as creation does, loving every raindrop, every sunbeam, every bit of provision from the Creator, is curiously rejuvenating.  Experiencing all of this with the people I love is quite the trip, and yes, I am drinking it in, like a refreshing thunderstorm after a dry spell. It restores me, makes me whole, and gives me a boost to keep going. I need that, just like I need air ... just like the plants need rain. 

This place

As I look around my apartment this morning, and reflect on the last three months here, so many thoughts and feelings arise. In two days, I will be moving back home from here. I will be resuming an improved version of my former life with my family. It will be improved in the sense that I will be spending more time with them, due to the fact that I will continue to work remotely from home for my employer. It will be improved as well, because I decided to continue my march toward retirement in spite of the fact that my practicum didn't work out; this will leave me more time to volunteer and thus enrich and expand my life and my comfort zone.

But looking around me, I find my thoughts drawn to the lessons and the skills I have learned while living alone, and to the ups and downs of having nobody to answer to in this place except myself. A common thread through it all is the truism that you never know what you can do until you are forced to do it. I've been forced to sleep alone, eat alone, work alone, amuse myself alone, wash dishes alone, take out the trash by myself, do chores without anyone's help, and many more things. 

And I have learned that I can do it. I have learned that I can survive living alone. However, I have also learned that it is a lot easier to do when I have support and connection with the people who love me. My phone has been my lifeline while living here; I talk with my husband three to four times a day on average, and I speak with my brother about once every day or so. My relationships with both of them have deepened in the last three months. 

I also find myself remembering the events of the last three months and how this place has been my "home base" - a place I could be myself - a haven from the stress of being in a practicum with a supervisor who was not a good match for me, and whose attitude and words reminded me too much of childhood traumas I have never fully addressed. This place has housed me, fed me, given me a place to sleep, to think, to cry, and to grow. 

My plants - and other friends...

And soon, I must say goodbye to it. And I find - to my surprise - that I have mixed feelings about that! 

I will miss the freedom to keep my own schedule and be able to listen to music or TV programs (read: Netflix) without using earphones. I will miss the ability to sit in my chair without removing a cat or worrying about cat hair sticking into my clothing (or anyone else's who might visit me). 

But I know that I will be able to bring back certain things with me - like the rugs I bought for the apartment. The big one will adorn my home office and the smaller one will be placed beside my side of our bed. My plants will be in my home office and some will go to their original perches in the front hallway. Others will go back to my work office (the ones that are poisonous to cats). The paintings my family bought for me will also go in my home office - and from the rest of the furniture, I hope to be able to make a livable space in the other room in the basement.

And I am looking forward to being able to be close to my friends and living (instead of just visiting) with my family again. Yes, even the cats - I have missed those furry folks! My own bed beckons me, as does my kitchen (which is over twice the size of this little one in my apartment...) and the other creature comforts: cable TV, access to exercise equipment for when the weather is bad, and oh yes, did I mention my family? And friends? 

But this place - as eager as I am to move and get back to all I hold dear - still holds some sentiment. 

It will be hard to say goodbye.

Quiet

It's quiet. But this time, the silence feels different than at other times.

I remember other times, other moments, even other places. For example, a week ago, as I was sitting in my dormitory room in Calgary, Alberta, with my roommates gone for the day and me finishing up breakfast, the quiet was deafening. I felt isolated, alone, trapped. I was thousands of miles from everyone I held dear, eating breakfast alone without their company, without their laughter and conversation, making do with my keyboard tray and my laptop as a makeshift table, and feeling incredibly homesick. Tears began to sting my eyes as they rose to the surface. 

Of course, it wasn't as bad as one time (one very LONG time) when I felt so very alone. My youngest child had died and the funeral was over, and the sympathies from well-wishers had tapered off, and I was (yes) surrounded by my closest family and closest friends ... but knowing that the tick, tick, tick of the clock would never again be interrupted by her raucous laughter or her crazy antics ... made the quiet an open sore.  I wanted to play the last video she sent to me just to hear her voice again, but it made my family sad, so I sat in the quiet - the cruel, taunting quiet - and suffered loss that no parent should suffer. 

A few days previous to the breakfast incident in Calgary, a classmate took me to "see the Rockies" - we drove up to Canmore, Alberta, (see my previous post) and I was increasingly in awe of the indescribable vastness of these wondrous creations, the closer we got to "The Three Sisters" peaks. Even though most of the time my classmate chattered away, in the core of me there settled a blissful quiet, where I was able to commune with my baby girl because she had seen the Rockies this close too, about a month before she died. It was somehow a shared experience, and in the inner quiet ... I felt close to her in a way I had not felt for a long time. And I knew she knew it, and that she was deliriously blissful and at Home, more than she ever could have felt here. I knew that she was okay, that her restless, anxious days were done. Happy tears slipped their way past my lower eyelids and slipped unhindered down my cheeks.  The quiet healed me, soothed me, comforted me. 

A black squirrel - July 19, 2017,
on the Mt. Royal U "Lincoln Park"
campus,Calgary, AB.
It nearly blended in
to the tree trunk...

A hare munching on fragrant white
clover, July 20, 2017

In Calgary this year, there were also times during the ordinary hustle and bustle of the day, when I sought out the quiet and made it part of my day; there, I could recharge my emotional batteries and gain strength to face whatever task was ahead. There was a lovely park on campus where I would linger either on my way to or from class, and sometimes both... being there seemed to restore my soul. Perhaps it was because it was so beautiful. I watched the water from the man-made waterfall tumble over the rocks and land in a little pool, close to an arbour with a little park bench inside; I smelled the roses and drank in their striking fuchsia, bold musical tones that sang to my eyes and caressed my nostrils in the breeze.

I was particularly drawn to the wildlife in Alberta. I got to see some amazing creatures there; to the locals they were a dime a dozen, but to me, they were remarkable: magpies, gophers, and hares abounded. Even the squirrels were different than at home: larger, and black instead of reddish-brown. They were fast too, so I was pleased to get a photo of one (see above, left). The quiet they produced in me was tender, almost a communal feeling. I felt somehow at one with my surroundings. It made being far away from home not quite so lonely. 

But the quiet today is different still.  It is a calmness, an assurance that all is right, that I am where I am supposed to be, that my family is not far away, and that I can rest and relax without worrying. I can close my eyes and know that when I open them, I will see the familiar - the jumble of cat toys and pillows, my books and papers, and the occasional cat walking across the floor or playing in an empty cardboard box. 

I like this quiet best of all.

An unlikely oasis

The evening stars are just beginning to wink in the increasing dark as we roll to a stop in front of the door to the tiny building.  It is Friday night and we are returning home from grocery shopping, but we have stopped here along the way.  

My parents and I exit the boat-sized 1971 Bel Air Chevrolet and enter through the screen door. The door creaks on its spring hinge, and clamps shut behind us as a wave of warmth greets us.  The smell of french fries and burgers permeates the Star Canteen.  

Matilda bustles around in the kitchen behind the counter. A middle-aged, matronly woman, she wears a house-dress covered with an apron. She catches sight of us and grins broadly. "Hev a seat.  What'll ya hev?"

"Oh nothin' big," Dad says.  "Got any pie left?"

"Yep - apple. With some ice cream?"

Dad chuckles. "You're too good to me."

"How 'bout you?" Matilda looks at Mom and me. 

"We'll share a milkshake. Coffee."

As we wait for our food, and the whirring of the milkshake machine makes conversation almost impossible, I tug on Mom's sleeve. "Can I?" 

She hands me a few dimes and rolls her eyes. "Oh, all right." 

The milkshake is almost done. Matilda serves Dad his pie and ice cream. 

Gratefully I take the precious coins and turn toward the silver and glass box just behind the row of barstools we had been sitting on.  I slide off the stool and feel my feet hit the linoleum tile floor. I peer through the glass at the row of 45 rpm records, insert a dime and make a selection, and watch the dance of the record arm as it scans over the records and stops - always at the right one - just above the record I chose to play.  I watch it, mesmerized, as it brings it forward, rotates it and places it on the turntable, which starts to turn as the play arm lifts and makes the trip to the beginning of the record. 

Photo "Jukebox" by Phil at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

A few short seconds later and Elvis Presley is singing, "In the Ghetto," and I climb back onto the stool. Mom has given me the milkshake glass,  while she has taken what was left over in the metal mixing container - to save Matilda having to wash another glass. We sip our drink and listen to the music together while Dad tucks into his pie and ice cream.  Nobody says a word. 

The chores that await me at home, the expectations, the misunderstandings, the disappointments, the uncertainty of never knowing what rules applied today - these all melted away in those few minutes, even if only for a few minutes - like an oasis in the desert, like a refreshing rain during a drought before the dust reclaims its prize.  In this one place, there was no judgement, criticism didn't exist, and each of us soaked up the strength to face another week, each in their own way. 

It might have lasted a half hour.  I might have played four songs from the old jukebox - all my favourites at the time, from Elvis to Wayne Newton.  And it didn't happen every week - just once in a while. But when it did, it was like magic, a great way to kick off a weekend.  

Even though the canteen was eventually sold and became a single family dwelling, I always glance at it on the way past, when we go back to the old homestead to visit.  It's a glowing, wonderful memory - a jewel in the mire of yesteryear - one I hope I will never forget.

Happy Holy Days

The holidays have always been a mixed bag for our family. As with most people, the stresses of Christmas shopping, combined with the extra expense, the social and family obligations of visiting and extra cooking all combine to increase the background noise that can make everyday stressors seem more ... stressful. 

But those are normal. Every family feels those to one degree or another, depending on how much fun it is to do the social thing, and on how accomplished a baker one is. 

Last Christmas, we went through a lot of the motions as a family because - well, because the youngest member of our family was spending her first Christmas in Heaven. But at the same time, we didn't want our own personal tragedy rob us of experiences that we'd later regret not having. So - with minor adjustments - we still cooked, still baked, still put up a tree, still had presents and carols, and still attended the Christmas Eve service. We still had friends over for a Christmas meal. It was hard, and we had to make some adjustments because our grief was so very fresh - her accident was only about two months before Christmas - but we did it and we survived. 

The name of the game was survival. And because of the love of friends - and each other - we did survive. 

It's been a whole year of firsts. Wednesdays - the day of the week it was when the police came to our house - hurt for months. Easter: no egg hunt for the first time since she was two. Her first birthday after the accident - July 16. Wow, that was hard: she would have been 22. Thanksgiving was so overwhelming, just a couple of weeks before the first-year anniversary of her death. All I could hear in my head was what she'd said to me the previous Thanksgiving: "Don't give up on your Thanksgiving spirit, Mom. Look at me. I'm homeless, I'm living in my car, and I'm thankful for you, for Dad, for God, for my friends." 

But we survived. We even celebrated BOTH Thanksgivings - the first with a dear friend sharing our 'unexpected' turkey meal, and the second with just the three of us and a ham dinner with sweet and sour mustard sauce.

And now it's Christmas-time once more. And we wonder if we'll ever have "happy holidays" again. We have discussions about what traditions will make the cut this year - and which ones are just too stressful to keep doing. Some things we are keeping. Others we are letting go. 

The grief is always under the surface - potentially just as searingly painful as the first day. Most days it's completely submerged; other days - or should I say at other moments, usually when we least expect it - it leaps out at us from behind a door or in the face of someone walking down the street who looks like her or dresses like she did. Today there was a moment when I was listening to a children's choir perform and they started to sing, "Somewhere in my Memory" (we hear it every year when they air "Home Alone") and the lyrics that talk about happy faces, happy people and family being all together ... reminded me that we weren't all together, and I had to get out of there, tears streaming from my eyes. 

The thing that has made this holiday season a bit more bearable is concentrating on the "holi" part of "holiday". Concentrating on the real spirit behind the Christmas season (the Holy Days, Christmas being Christ-mass or celebration of Christ) has helped to ground us and make the decisions about what to do and not to do a little easier. It'll never be the same, that's sure, but it can still be good. 

And yes, there can still be happiness and joy in the season. It's tinged with sadness because the circle is broken, but that is a given. It's okay to be sad; it's okay to acknowledge how much we love her and miss her. But it's also okay to laugh, to enjoy life, to enjoy each other, and to share what we have. 

And that's how we have decided to spend the next couple of weeks or so.

Reviving an old tradition

There are many things about my childhood I would just as soon forget; I've talked about those memories from time to time, and I won't talk about them in this post. 

There was one tradition I observed when I was growing up, however, that has stayed with me all of my life. I'm not even sure if it's still done anymore in the area in which I grew up, but it was so meaningful that it stayed with me.

Two days a year, Mother's Day and Father's Day, people wore a carnation boutonniere or corsage to church so as to "honor" their parents. If the parent was still living, the flower would be red; if not, it would be white. I remember my parents kept a collection of plastic corsages in the top drawer between the fridge and the sink, right beside the tea towels. Every year, they'd dust them off and each person would be given a flower of the appropriate color to wear on either the second Sunday of May or the third Sunday of June. 

They used plastic flowers, because it was too expensive to use real ones.

When I married and moved to my husband's province, the locals had never heard of this custom. They thought it rather sweet, but strange as well. 

I did it anyway. 

Several years ago, the church we attended started handing out carnations to all the mothers in the church on Mother's Day. It was May 1989, and I was pregnant with our first child. Since our denomination believes that life begins at conception, I stood in line to get a flower. "No," I was told. "You're not a mother." 

Hurt and bewildered, I found my seat again. I never forgot the sting of that remark; even though I have forgiven it, and even forget who said it, the experience made me resolve never to treat a first-time pregnant mom like that ... ever.  

But I digress. As the church handed out the flowers to moms anyway, I got away from wearing a flower on that Sunday morning and instead, I made a corsage out of the one I was given at the morning service to wear that evening. 

Nowadays, for various reasons, Mother's Day is very painful for me, but I thought I could at least remember my dad. And since my kids don't go to church - for their own reasons - I thought I would honor their father as well, because - well - he's an awesome dad!

They have that in common, in different ways, but they also share a love of woodworking and especially of music. My dad sang bass (yes, I know the song) - and such a full, rich voice he had - and my husband sings baritone, almost the same thing but not quite. 

So tomorrow morning, and possibly tomorrow evening, I plan to wear a little something to commemorate my own father and my children's father. For posterity though, I thought I'd stage a symbolic photo as an extra tribute :

A lapel corsage
Two tiny roses - white (for Dad) and red (for Hubby)
surrounded by baby's breath (for purity of heart)
and rose leaves (for persevering love)
and sitting squarely on Middle C.

Happy Father's Day ... to both of you. 

Across the Bridge

She rode between my knees in the vehicle, and didn't even go to the window to look out. Standing on her back legs would have been too painful for her, I thought to myself. And it was one of her favorite things to do when she went for a ride.

Hubby slowed and stopped, pulling over by the side of the road. I unhooked my seat-belt and opened the door, and got out. She didn't hear me; normally she'd be out before I was. 

She got out of the van, half-excited, half in discomfort (adrenaline can mask pain) and I tightened the leash and closed the van door. I waved goodbye to my husband; he had another errand to run and would pick me up after.

After. I tried not to think about after. All that mattered was now. 

Slowly, leisurely, even amid spits of rain, we sauntered up the long lane, lined on both sides with shade trees, grass, and all kinds of mixed wild flowers.

Raspberry canes had begun to bud already. I looked at them as we passed slowly by; their prickles were glistening in the morning's rain shower. The faint scent of raspberry blossoms not yet opened greeted me as I would stop when she stopped to explore a scent trail. After all, her sense of smell was almost the last one she had left completely intact. 

I thought of earlier times. Times when I'd have to call her back as a young dog from the neighboring field because she'd followed a scent trail out there and didn't quite know where we were or have the sense to follow her own trail back. Times when we'd scratch her just above the base of her tail and when we were done, she'd chase that tail and catch it ... and keep going round and round. We'd call her "bagel dog" because that was the shape her body made. Times when we'd be sweeping the floor and find one of those orange hockey balls she loved (and chewed on) so much. We'd throw the ball and she'd go racing after it, trotting back with it to us, and we'd have to take it out of her mouth because she wouldn't drop it unless we grabbed it first. Just two throws and the ball would be covered in dog saliva ... so we called the game "slime ball." She loved that game. As time went on and she was less able to run, she even learned to throw the ball for herself, watch it roll down the hallway and then trot after it.

A spit of rain managed to get past my glasses. It awakened me from my trip down memory lane and brought me back to the moment, on this our final walk. She was sniffing at some grass, and she nosed under some branches to get to the next patch of grass.

Among the foliage at the base in between the birches and beeches, I spotted first one, then a few, then several bunch-berry plants, the kind I used to call "trillium" ... until I knew what real trillium looked like. No, these had four smaller white petals in the center of a cluster of six much broader, green leaves. By the side of the lane, to my surprise, I saw a few late wild strawberry blossoms. Most of the flowers had dropped off most of the plants, but there were a few late bloomers amid the developing green fruit. A couple of them had flowered early, and had almost fully grown and ripened. I stopped to pick them, and tossed them gently into the greenery farther back, to start even more wild strawberry plants; I wasn't hungry. 

She was enjoying the moment. Her tail wagged a little as she smelled each new smell.

As we got closer to our destination, she hesitated more. Perhaps it was the smell of spilled oil in the parking lot that deterred her. I got her past the rainbow-streaks in that area and let her explore the front lawn of the clinic. She squatted a couple of times. It wasn't raining hard enough for her to feel like shaking off the water. 

Amid the budding "devil's paintbrush" at the top of the lane (dandelion-like flowers with multiple blooms on the same stem) I spied one lone buttercup, fully opened, symbol to me of promise and rest. They don't usually come out until July. 

Finally, after one final squat, I led Shari to the door of the clinic. 

The staff were very kind. They gave us as much time as we needed, and in their mercy gave me the paperwork to fill out beforehand rather than afterward. 

Afterward, I would be in no shape to sign papers and pay the bill. 

"Who's all in today?" I made conversation with the new girl behind the desk. "Doctor A____," she said, and Anne-Marie." 

That was such a relief for me. Anne-Marie had been there as a receptionist the first time we needed the vet's services back in the year 2000 for Shari's bladder stone surgery. Through the course of time she became the vet's assistant, and a competent and compassionate one. Though I knew this was hard for her too, I was glad she was there - a familiar face at the end.  

It made this just a tiny bit easier to bear. 

A few minutes later, Anne-Marie came out and we chatted. I told her how this had just crept up on us slowly and how the dog wasn't even asking to go out anymore; she was just doing her business wherever she wanted to inside the house. That, together with the growing discomfort in her joints, the digestive upsets, the deafness, the cataracts, the fatty tumors that pressed in on her heart and made her cough at the least excitement or exertion, the seizure she had two months ago, and the "doddering" she did when standing still (her head would "bobble" slightly), we could tell that her quality of life was starting to get really poor and that it would only get worse. 

"Yes," she agreed with me. "When they don't even bother asking to go out anymore, it's time." Her eyes filled with tears. So did mine. 

She asked me if I wanted Shari's collar and leash; I did. She switched out the collar and leash with one of theirs, handed me our set, took Shari in her arms - there was little if any struggle (unusual for her) - and carried her into the back. After having been present at Cody's final trip, I knew there was no way I could handle that experience again. I was so grateful that Anne-Marie was there.

Five minutes later, it was done. I know that the last thing she knew at the end was the touch of a compassionate hand. That meant a lot to me. 

A few minutes later, hubby was back from his errand, and he took the box containing her remains back to the van. We passed the return trip mostly in silence, only talking about anything but what had just taken place. 

I remember reading a book once by John Eldredge on the day-to-day relationship with God - it was the chronicle of just one year in his life. In the book, he described the relationship between himself and his dog, a golden retriever who loved to play ball - except he would never want to let go of the ball when he brought it back. The time came for him to say goodbye to his furry friend, and family and friends gathered with him at his home while the vet administered the final dose. At the moment of the dog's passing, even though the dog made no sound, two in the circle of friends heard a dog's bark. And then one of the friends got a strange, perplexed look on his face, turned to Mr. Eldredge and said, "I just got some words - I think they're supposed to be for you, John." 

"What are they?" John asked. 

"I'm not sure what this means, but I hear the words, 'He won't let go of the ball.' " 

That's one more reason why I know she went across Rainbow Bridge - and that as I write this, even now she is playing slime-ball.

Shari inviting me for a game of slime-ball

  And she won't let go, either.

After the miracle comes

In my last blog post, I talked about my friend whose faith through a trial has been tenacious. Of course, the amazing happened in her life and God really showed Himself strong in her situation when all seemed hopeless. Here is an account of her miracle, and a few comments on it. 

And now that she has received her impossible dream-come-true, like Henny Penny from the fairy tale by Andersen, she looked around and found that nobody from the circle of friends she expected has lifted a finger to help her rid herself of the vestiges of her old life and get started in a new one. A new group of friends pitched in their time and resources to help her. But as she sat across our supper table from me last evening, she shook her head and said, "Nobody from [XXXXX] even showed up." 

I tried to make excuses for the group she mentioned, but it was tough, you know? Everyone makes time for what is important to him/ her. 

Snowflakes - miracles in themselves

Yet ... this time has been great for her to strengthen friendships with those who really do care about her and about her happiness and who show it. I've had priceless opportunities to put "skin" on my platitudes and actually roll up my sleeves and invest a little "sweat equity" into the relationship. 

Am I stiff and sore this morning? Oh yeah. Do I regret digging deep into two of my most precious commodities - time and energy - to help her? 

Absolutely not. In fact, I've been encouraged by her excitement, even challenged by her getting into the "Christmas spirit" (something I haven't felt for years, except in fleeting moments, nothing sustained) and wanting to decorate her place for the holidays. Everything feels so fresh and new, and her gratitude for God's goodness is tangible. 

It is wonderful that so many have had the blessing of praying for her and being able to take part - in some small way - in what God did for her. But it would have been nice to not have left the other, more practical things, for others to do. 

There are a lot of ads on TV these days about child sponsorship and giving a goat to a family half-way around the world. But what about the person who lives in our city, goes to our church perhaps, who is living below the poverty line and who struggles to make ends meet? who has to choose between food and electricity? What about the homeless in our own back yard? What about "at-risk" families in our province or state who don't have enough money to buy Christmas presents or school supplies or shoes for their kids? 

I'm talking to me, too. Ouch!

I know of some families who have given up on buying each other gifts for Christmas and who donate their time at the soup kitchen, or who donate the money they would have spent on Christmas shopping ... to turkey drives or the food bank. Thinking "outside the boxes" beneath the tree might do a lot of good for people who need help; it would also let them know that someone cares for them in a way that surpasses platitudes. And the thing about giving in that way is: it not only meets a need in someone's liife, but it helps the one who gives ... in ways that can't be measured. 

It might even spark some Christmas spirit. 

Shoulds and Oughtas - Who am I - Really?

I come from a musical family. Music is a large part of what I do, how I think, what speaks to me when nothing else can. When I watched Disney's Mulan for the first time, I identified with her so very much when she came back home after a disastrous experience trying to conform to family and society expectations.

Here she is, singing that song as it appears in the movie:

The girl had spent her entire life trying to please someone else. I could understand that. I could understand not knowing who the person was that I saw in the mirror in the morning. And I had no clue how to find out who that person was, or why nobody seemed to like her. In fact, I was afraid to find out. I thought that if I knew who she was, I wouldn't like her either.

God used my obsession with other people, my compulsion to "fix" them, to bring me further and further down the path of frustration until I had to admit that I needed help to cope. I thought I was getting help so that I could fix my husband and my children, so they would change and I would THEN be happy.

But God had other plans. He usually does. By my second counseling session I was confronted with the idea that it was I who needed help. Not my addicted husband. Not my out-of-control kids. ME. My counselor looked at me at the end of that session and said, "Judy, I think that in trying to live your life for other people, in trying to rescue them, fix them, have some sort of influence over them, along the way somewhere you've lost yourself."

I burst into tears. "I don't even know who that person is." The words gurgled from my lips past a tight throat.

He handed me a tissue. "That's what I'm here for."

Since that time, I have discovered who I am. Surprisingly, I found out that I was starting to like, even admire, this person. (Who knew?)

And the more I got to know myself, the more I recognized the same lost-ness in others that I once had, that driven-ness to have an impact on my loved ones, on my world. "Gotta." "S'posta." "Should." "Oughta." "Must." "Hafta."

Living like that was so stressful. It wasted so much energy. And what's worse, the more I obsessed about what I should be doing or how others should be behaving, the more I pinged around trying to "help" (in other words, MAKE) people understand what they were doing to themselves, the worse things got. My efforts were having the opposite result from what I wanted. I gave in to temptation - more times than I can count. I lost my temper, I manipulated, I threatened, I threw guilt trip fits. My husband drank more, and my children resented me more, and openly rejected the God I believed in.

Something was wrong and I couldn't figure out what it was. I felt nobody would listen to me. I was right. But I didn't know how to GET them to listen... until I realized that what I was stressing so much about ... didn't matter. God was more interested in getting ME to listen to HIM. He had some amazing things in store for me and He did whatever it took to get me to the place where I was sitting across from this particular counselor and spilling my guts.

He - and I truly believe he was used by God to teach me this - introduced me to the power of admitting TO MYSELF that I was powerless over others, and that in trying to exert power over them, my life was a mess.

That was the first step on the road to healing.