September green

Looking out the window, I see our largest maple tree dancing in the wind, its green leaves reflecting the sunlight and casting shimmers of verdure toward all who watch. Patches of sunlight on the green lawn celebrate the wind and the trees with a shadow puppet show, ever changing with the wind speed and direction. 

In the final days of summer, there is a crispness to the air and a sense of waiting, of hesitation, as if the world of green is not quite ready to admit to the changing of the seasons. My soul echoes that hesitation with a sense of urgency: I want to get out in the sunshine and experience its warmth before the world leans into winter. 

Free Image by PublicDomainPictures
at Pixabay.com

I do so love the autumn (fewer bugs and more colours!), but these last valiant days of summer inspire me to be true to myself to the end, to give of myself and to enjoy each day as a gift - the present, as someone said once - and I find myself reflecting on how to best let that enjoyment play out. 

Truly, I don't know what the next season in my life will hold. However, I can hold onto the image of September green in my mind as I make each choice each day. I can be grateful and make music in my heart for the wonderful gifts the Great Maestro has allowed me to experience: love, friendship, and so much more. I can enjoy those gifts and invest myself in them even more deeply. I can spend quality time with loved ones. I can calm my soul and relax in the goodness of the Creator. I can be inspired to pay forward to the world the light I have received. 

In tender moments like this, I perceive a sense of real communion with creation and with the Creator who has given to me all things to enjoy. It quiets me. I feel peaceful, grateful, blessed, and rejuvenated. 

And somehow, today, I wanted to share that with you.
 

Time To Retire

I have a countdown on my computer. Currently, it says 414 days until I retire. And I remember a time when that number was over double that ... not all that long ago. 

As the weeks and months wind down toward that magical date, I am working hard at keeping my stress in check, because that day also marks for me a day when I can devote more time toward my second career. From the looks of the way things are going right now, that second career may be starting only eight short months after that.  

Free Image by Mabel Amber from Pixabay

And then I might have more say over when I take days off, or how much (or little) I work. I will be able to schedule time for things that - until then - will have been on hold for a very long time. Too long, actually. Horseback riding, golfing, traveling for fun, reading for pleasure, and (best of all) spending time with family and friends will all be possible again. That's the dream, at least. I've missed all of those things, and those who know love me have been very patient with me. VERY. PATIENT. Sometimes I am not sure how they put up with me always looking to dive into my next assignment for school, or with me having to work when their schedule frees up time for them, or with me nodding off when we do occasionally have a visit. What amazing people I have in my life!

It's getting within sight now, this finish line. But it's not really a finish line ... it's more of a starting line where I can walk (or ride, haha) and not run. That will be nice!! 

In the meantime, I need to remind myself frequently that it is time to retire: that is, it is time to schedule regular rest stops on my journey. I have been going at such a break-neck pace, especially since 2013, that burnout is never very far off, and perhaps I need to slow down a bit more. Sometimes, it takes the harsh reality of circumstance to bring me to that place of rest and re-creation.  I hope that I can learn to take the hint sooner rather than later that I need to make time for me and for the things (and people) that/who are important to me. I'm not thirty anymore. Nearly twice that now!!  I need to cut myself some slack!! 

I am so grateful for the ones who know me best and who love me anyway, who take the time to gently suggest that I take the time to look after myself and not run myself ragged. Such friends are hard to come by; I am very blessed to have more than one. 

So - in this time between semesters, I may be looking to reconnect with a few people, and take the time to do things that I like doing. After all, I am the only me that I have. :) 

Her Shoes

They caught me off guard the first time I saw them again. I was looking for something else, about three years ago, and there they were, as if she had slipped them off and thrown them in a corner. They were her sneakers, with a Velcro closing, from when she was about two. 

I found this picture on Pixabay.com - free!

And the sight of them - and the memory of whom they belonged to - stung at my eyes and swelled my throat until it felt tight. Images from when they fit her flooded back, unbidden, and I relived those days in a brief moment in time. It felt like months but in fact, it was only about a minute as I stood there, transfixed, the vivid film in my memory playing like some long-forgotten and perhaps discarded footage. I gathered it all and threaded it back on the reel, each ordinary moment now precious. The puddles she jumped in, while I scolded her for getting her shoes wet. The grass she ran through after her father had just mowed it, spreading grass stains on the toes. The tap-tap-tap of those little shoes beside me as I ran an errand with her while her older sister was in kindergarten. The tug on my hand as she stopped to inspect the rainbow of motor oil in a puddle of water, crouching down right beside it in those little shoes. I would have missed out on that beauty. She noticed it. 

She noticed everything. Nothing escaped her attention. She noticed the man sweeping the side of the parking lot, went to him and told him what an important job he was doing keeping the parking lot safe for people, and left him whistling as he continued along the edge of the walkway. She noticed the birds on the wires, the bumblebees backing out of flowers with their legs heavily laden with pollen, the squeaks in bicycle wheels, the chirruping sound of robins seeking mates, and so much more as those shoes carried her to her next discovery. 

In that one minute, I remembered, and the memory was painful because she was gone from us, and I missed her so very much!.  And part of me wanted to discard those little shoes because I didn't want my heart to hurt like it was hurting. But then I stopped myself - and I left them there, exactly where I had found them, because.... 

In spite of the hurt, the memory was somehow comforting. I did not want to toss away the fact that she had graced our lives - even for such a short time - with her indomitable zest for life and laughter, with her uncanny ability to see and believe the best about everyone, with her unshakable faith that everything would work out in the end. Those memories - painful as they were - were a reminder of the lessons she taught me about noticing, about being a friend, about being a person. 

And today, I came across those shoes again - and this time I picked them up, and put them together neatly, as if laying them out for her to wear again. Even though she had long since outgrown them, trading them in for flip-flops, tight jeans, eyeliner, and a driver's license ... to me, those little shoes were an ineffable symbol of the wonder and optimism she took with her from her childhood into her everyday young adult life, and of the legacy of "today" that she gave to me just by knowing her. 

They are a reminder that she is still with us. She still watches, still notices, still cheers us all on and believes the best for us. She is aware of every celebration, every anniversary and birthday, everything that is the stuff of everyday life for us. And she enjoys them with us. I have felt that giggling presence so many times I have lost count. 

And so now, when I see her shoes, I smile and say hello. 

BE that person!

For many years, I have dreaded Mothers Day. MANY years. I have viewed it as a quintessential guilt trip, an excuse for members of the previous generation to lord it over the younger one and for others to jump on board and make a person feel five times guiltier because she doesn't gush platitudes about her own mother. 

And really, with the kind of upbringing I had - which can only be described as violent - who can blame me? Yet - since having children of my own, I have 'allowed' the celebration of the second Sunday of May ... for their sake. I always felt like a hypocrite about it though, knowing how much I detest the approach of that day and having to wade through all the gushy, mushy stuff on store shelves, social media, and even store flyers.

But my view is changing a little lately.  Maybe it's happened partly as a result of losing one of my children (October 2013). Or maybe it's because I realize that I have been punishing my present self for having had a rotten past.  And guess what? That's not fair.

This free photo is from Pixabay; check them out!
https://pixabay.com/

I saw a little sign posted in one of the bathroom stalls at work, and its message has been haunting me the last little while, especially with the approach of Mothers Day.  It says, "A great future does not require a great past." 

And as I ponder the approach of yet another Mothers Day ... perhaps my focus is starting to change. As a result, the dread I normally feel is slowly being replaced by ... something else I cannot quite identify yet. What I do know is that I cannot change what happened in my past. I cannot change the fact that I cannot feel what many women my age feel about their mothers, because I did not have that kind of close, trusting relationship with her that my friends had with theirs. 

But I can BE that mother. I can BE that person who engenders trust, love, and loyalty in people, especially in my only remaining offspring. I can BE her because I HAD to BE her for MYSELF. In the last nine years or so, I have had to literally re-parent myself and tell myself all the things she would never have dreamed of saying: that I was worthy, that I was good at things, that I was appreciated, that I was loved simply for being myself.  And I can tell those things to my own daughter - because they're true, and because in the telling of them, I am not diminished, but rather, I grow.

So this year, I am saying this - Happy Mothers Day to my daughter. Happy Mothers Day even if you are NEVER a mother yourself; I hope I have given you the best present I could give you: my love, and my self, in a way that you could understand and take into yourself.

Because I want to BE that person, my dear. Because YOU are WORTH IT.

Choosing wisely

There's a scene from the 3rd Indiana Jones movie (after all the scary stuff where the bad guy picks the wrong grail and ... well, we won't discuss that, but the knight does comment, "He chose poorly..."), when Indy gets to choose a specific cup (the Holy Grail) among several ornate cups and other containers on a large table. He picks a clay goblet, saying, "This looks like the cup of a carpenter," and plunges it into the basin containing the water of life. 

He takes a drink and looks at the old knight. "You chose wisely," the old man states slowly. 

Choosing wisely. 

As a new year begins, there are millions of people making resolutions, promises they might fully intend to keep. And some of them will. Most of them ... well, did you know that in the gyms and health clubs there's this term known as the "resolution rush"? That is, the glut of gym memberships people buy right after the holidays so they can lose that pesky five pounds (or more) ... and after that, most don't use their membership or get their money's worth out of it. At one time I did get a gym membership - and I used it for about two weeks. After that, I lost interest - because it wasn't something that meant a great deal to me. It was outside my routine, and I was already doing too much other stuff to fit it in.

I'm afraid I have Garfield the cat's attitude about exercise - whenever I get the urge, I just lie down til it goes away. Besides, I've yet to see anyone exercising for its own sake who looks happy while doing it. Unless, of course, they're already skinny and they just THINK they're fat because they have five or ten pounds to lose according to some chart somewhere (those types just drive me around the bend - it's like they're masochists or something, and there's always something at least a little bit judgmental - intended or not - about their attitude toward people like me.) 

But I digress. 

Photo "Daily Planner With Pen" courtesy of
BrandonSigma at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Setting goals is a laudable thing - if those goals are short-term, can be achieved and measured, mean something to the person, and are easy to remember. 

Platitudes and esoteric statements - like "I will be a better person" for example - are too hard to measure, depending on whether or not the person is a perfectionist. Who decides what's better? How much better? Is that realistic? With all the other things going on in that person's life, could that goal be achievable, or would it mean he or she would have to give up something important?

i could say, "I will lose a hundred pounds this year," but unless liposuction or gastric bypass surgery is in my immediate future, that's not going to happen. It's not realistic. Any time I've put a number on my weight loss goals, I've ended up disappointing myself. And unless I have the energy to devote to the changes I'm going to need to make, it's pretty well pointless to start talking about even losing ten pounds. I might lose it - but I know I'd gain it back. 

Besides, my weight issue is only an external image thing. I'd rather work on something inside of me, something that will have long-lasting effects. The last five years, that something has been setting boundaries and enforcing them, respecting others' boundaries, letting go of the need to control other people, and learning to forgive myself.

I like what a fellow blogger has done - she picks one word. It's easy to remember, once chosen, and she doesn't have to go to some book or recipe card to remind herself. It's just one word, after all. She doesn't give up the previous year's word because that's become a part of her mental makeup - and it's not like she expects to apply that word in every situation (because she's human) ... but it's a word that will recur, that will guide, that will remind her to do what it says more and more often. 

Because I'm so wordy, perhaps one word might not do the trick for me, but one small, short phrase or sentence might. 

I've thought about something like "Pursue excellence" - and while that is a great idea, I might get myself bogged down in how that plays out for me in the everyday. The same thing goes with "Help someone" - often I don't get the chance to do that every day, and I think often enough about that anyway. I could choose "Learn something" - but there are days when I don't learn anything ... or what I learn is not helpful to me or to anyone else. Besides, I think I've cultivated a teachable spirit over the years. 

Photo "Sun Ray Behind Dark Cloud" by
Sura Nuralpradid at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

So after much deliberation, I think I've hit on something that will speak to my own tendency to see things in a negative light. This is choosing wisely for me because negativity is something that is a recurring problem and it has the effect of discouraging me and also those around me. 

The phrase I think I've chosen is, "Look up." By this, I don't mean physically looking up all the time, but keeping an attitude that is more positive, that remembers that I'm not the centre of the universe. Looking up reminds me that there is something higher, something that supersedes my plans and those of other entities like systems or governments. It reminds me that even on the cloudiest, darkest day, the sun still shines even when I can't see it. It reminds me that there is always help, courage, strength, and love in the One who is higher than I, and that in every circumstance, I can look up to Him for what I need. Even if all I need is to remember that He's with me.

It also reminds me that I can choose to look for the good in things - and in people. In my own inner life, it is something simple that I can do to become more aware that I am not alone, that I am loved and cherished, and that I am important. 

Yes, that fits me this year. It will help me to choose wisely.

The Annual Drive

Christmas Eve, and all that is left of the church service is the smell of smoking wick from several dozen candles, and murmurs from the little pockets of conversation as people leave the building. 

We pack up our things and load them in the vehicle, and drive home to unload them before piling into it again for the Annual Drive.

2013

Someone brings a Christmas CD. We put it in the player and take off to view the Christmas lights in and around our city. In some areas it seems that folks try to outdo each other to create jaw-dropping displays. Others are more quiet, understated, and yet hopeful ... a few electric candles in the window, the muted twinkling of the Christmas tree from inside the house, showing through the window. 

As the music plays, we join in the singing, each one putting in his or her part until we feel the stirring of that elusive Christmas spirit in our hearts. 

After about an hour or so, we head back and we have something hot to drink - a little cocoa usually, topped with marshmallow bits. We watch our own Christmas lights reflect and twinkle amid the decorations. We turn on some soft music (or we tune in to the Fireplace Channel) and we sip our warm drinks and enjoy each other's company. Later, we might watch a Christmas movie on TV before turning in for the night.

We have done this tradition for over 20 years. Last year, we did it with one less among us ... so we asked a close friend to join us. We felt free to feel what we felt, no matter what that was. And we will again this year. 

This year, we don't have the luxury that the initial numbness (shock) of the loss brought. Its cold, harsh reality seems to dare us to plunge into the abyss. But a big part of Christmas is about never needing to be alone again. So, we reach out to others, and we share what we have. And though it feels ... different ... we can still be grateful, still know peace, still laugh and enjoy quality time together. Not just this night, but any night we want to. 

Because we're family. Because we love each other. Just because.

Fresh pages

September rises on the scene almost unannounced ... whispering, 'Oh, by the way, school starts soon.' And soon ... is now. 

Yes, I'm back in school again, this time taking an undergraduate course from my alma mater to beef up my qualifications to take a grad program from a school in Calgary, Alberta. It's on learning and motivation (maybe I'll learn something, haha!) and it will take me about three months or so. 

Attending the first class made me feel really good; I understood the prof and had some hope that I could actually get a leg up on my educational quest. That is, perhaps she (if I do well, which I think I will) would be willing to write a letter of reference on my behalf when I apply to Athabasca University in another five months or so. 

There's something oddly satisfying about opening a new book that has not been used, or turning a fresh page in a notebook, especially the first one. There is so much that has yet to be learned, written, experienced. It's so hopeful. 

Photo "Notebook And Pen" courtesy
of jiggola at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

It's been a month of fresh pages and new beginnings for our family. 

Specifically for me, this new course has represented a new start, an opening of the door to new possibilities and the promise of a future as a counsellor ... eventually. 

At home, there are fresh pages turning as well. We discovered that our deck - which was here when we moved in 25 years ago, was rotted and being eaten by carpenter ants. So, we paid a couple of guys to build a new one! (I've already flooded Facebook with those photos, so I won't put more here...) 

It's been good though, to be able to feel secure about going out on the deck without fear of falling through, or getting splinters in our feet, or slipping and falling. The guys did a great job - thanks Mike and Dalton W!

And then there's new life as well. We got a call from the shelter about three weeks ago, asking us to take our newly adopted kitten before she got to be big enough to spay. (Usually they like to keep them until after the procedure is over.) They said that she was losing weight, and that that she needed to be away from the shelter atmosphere to thrive (this happens sometimes). They asked us if we could foster her until she was old (and heavy) enough; they have to be at least two pounds! (We didn't hesitate to say yes!) So she is here as a foster-kitty (which means that all vet bills are the shelter's, a bonus!) Once she is spayed, we can finalize the adoption (that is, pay the adoption fees and take ownership.) Her operation is scheduled for September 17.

So, in the meantime, we've been getting her used to her "big brother" Loki. The size difference (he's five times her weight) means we have to supervise their play rather closely, and limit their interaction, but we find that they really look forward to that time together. Surprisingly, sometimes Eris even gets the upper hand!

It's so interesting having a small (but VERY active) kitten in the house again. Eris moves so quickly that we've joked about getting whiplash watching her!! Her zest for life and her honest expression of how she feels is contagious and encouraging. It helps us to concentrate on life and happiness again. There's been too much death, too much sadness. 

We need hope. 
And laughter. 
I like laughter. It's good. 
And do-overs. 
And a never-ending supply of fresh pages.

Firework

Eight months ago we were getting ready to say our farewells to one of the most amazing, unpredictable, compassionate, loyal, intense people we've ever met. That she also just happened to be our daughter was a happy bonus. 

When we were talking about how we would remember her, how we would honour her, her sister came up with the perfect tribute. We'd pass out sparklers at her funeral to celebrate her life, her joy, her zest for living to the fullest, her 'go-big-or-go-home' attitude. We'd suggest that when it got dark that night, for people to go outside and light their sparklers, and hold them high in her memory. 

The night following her funeral, a few of her closest friends got together and videoed themselves doing just that. Together. Which is the way she'd want it.

 
In fact, a lot of what I and those people who remember her best have done these past several months, has been in honour of her and the way she lived her life. Full bore. Full court press. Hard forward. Brightly burning just like the firework she was (and is.) Mediocrity wasn't even in her vocabulary. If she believed in something (or someone) she showed it, no questions, no reservations, no holding back. She plunged head - no - heart-first into everything. Fiercely loyal. Generous to a fault. Passionate. 

And whole-hearted. Courageous.

If you are on Facebook, I hope you can view this video, taken by Darcy Anthony Brown on November 2, 2013 and shared on Arielle's wall. 

The idea was inspired by Katy Perry's "Firework." CARPE DIEM. Seize the day!

 https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151698891516817
 

Unexpected

So much about the last several weeks has been unexpected.

Not the least of which was the unexpected visit from the police on October 23 informing my husband and oldest daughter of the death of the youngest member of our family the night before. Or the unexpected call I then got at work from my husband informing me of the same. 

Immediately, there were unexpected people standing there beside me, hugging me, doing unexpected generous and caring things in unexpectedly kind and thoughtful ways. People we thought barely knew us rallied around us - all of it unanticipated - we were never alone, never without support, never without the prayers and love of people near and far. 

There were unexpected reconciliations in relationships that seemed to happen almost unbidden. Family relationships, work relationships, church relationships. 

There were the unexpected gifts we received: food, friendship, finances, fellowship - each one bowling us over with implicit messages of caring, of concern, of compassion. 

Her friends "friended" me. They ask about how I'm doing. They show that they care. My family got a whole lot bigger. All unexpected. 

There were the condolences. The flood of people who came to the wake (okay, for those where I grew up that means visiting hours, not an Irish wake!) to hug us, to cry with us - from every facet of our lives, and some we hadn't seen in over a decade. The folks we didn't expect, who attended the funeral. Those who took their sparklers and lit them that night ... and made a video to put on Facebook to show that they honoured their best friend. The father of the young man who was a passenger in her car that night sent condolences on behalf of himself and his son. He let us know how the young man was doing; we heard his pain at his son's anguish in those words. He didn't have to contact us. It was unexpected. The card we got from someone in Ontario who used to go to youth group with her, telling us it was a joy to know her.

Getting every last morsel of icing off the
candles of her birthday cake - 2012

People we didn't know in Alberta contacted us. RCMP people, insurance people, coroner's office people. As professional as they had to be, they were also compassionate, sensitive, and kind. They still are. The medical examiner called our house Friday night to let us know the results of his report. He could have waited until we received it in the mail, but he wanted to let us know personally and as soon as possible, that alcohol was not a factor in the crash. That was unexpected.

And most recently, just in today's mail we received something that the RCMP in Wetaskiwin, Alberta had received and forwarded to us. It was a sympathy card, with heartfelt condolences inside ... from the family who was in the van that was struck that night - a mother and two of her children. Yet all their names were listed, and the names of those who were in the vehicle underlined. We'd been told that the mother's back was broken - that thankfully there was no paralysis. There was every reason for her to be resentful. Yet there was no tone of anger or of blame. Only sadness that our daughter "didn't make it."

Unexpected. 

And humbling. The overwhelming, overarching feeling we have as each piece fits together in this crazy jigsaw puzzle, is one of gratitude. There is so much that could have happened, which didn't. We've had to rethink a lot of things, redefine a lot of words.  Miracles abound - they started happening the very day we heard ... and they continue to this very day.  

And all around us, people are lifting us up, letting us talk, and welcoming us into their hearts. We are loved. And astounded.

And even these words are not enough to describe it all. And neither are the following words, but with all my heart, I'm saying them anyway.

Thank you.

The Acid Test

The term, "the acid test" has been around since the days of the early gold prospectors. They needed a way to determine if the metal they found was real gold or some other metal. So, they would mark the metal with nitric acid, which would melt other metals; gold, not so much. That term came to mean the way by which someone would know if something was genuine or not - from merchandise to someone's promises or beliefs. 

I got to thinking about this expression this morning as the face of this one person came into my mind, someone to whom some people react one way while others react the opposite way.

I first met Joseph in the late 1990s. He's an itinerant - a man who chooses to be homeless. He has a "home base" - the home of a relative in a different province - but he only goes there once in a while to catch up on his mail. Most of the time, no matter what the season, he walks and sometimes hitch-hikes from place to place.  He has a full beard, wears layer upon layer of clothing (because there's no other place to put it) and smells of spruce, wood smoke, and sweat. He makes no apologies for his appearance or his lifestyle. He sleeps in the woods, sometimes in a sleeping bag and sometimes not. 

It's intriguing to see the reactions of different people to this man. The first time I saw him, I was a receptionist at a church office. He walked into the office one day in 1998. My immediate impression was that he was a homeless man in his mid-fifties, in need of a bath, a good meal and a change of clothes.  There was something about him, though - something in his eyes, which contradicted what my sense of smell was telling me. My boss at the time, a wonderful pastor, caught sight of him and came out to greet him warmly. I decided to watch him, talk to him, and get to know him a bit better. 

Taken at Picadilly Circus, London.
Thanks to photographer Mantas Ruzveltas
for this photo, "Homeless Man" - obtained at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Over the course of the next week, as he used the woods behind the church to sleep in (with the pastor's permission of course!) I learned that he loved his life, that he enjoyed country and western music (well, nobody's perfect), that he was a diabetic, and that he had the most gentle, humble character you would ever want to meet. I instinctively knew that if I ever needed anyone to look after my preschool children, I could trust him implicitly to guard them with his life. 

I began to look forward to his visits; he was always so full of joy, so content with his chosen lifestyle, so grateful for every bit of help offered to him, and so accepting of others. About once or twice a year he would show up, stay a few days and then move on. Whenever he did, he'd stop for a church service on a Sunday morning. He'd usually sit at the back, close to the door, so that he could slip to and from the washroom unnoticed. It was there that I noticed the varied reactions to his presence. They were much like my original impression had been - except that they were a bit more (how shall I put this nicely? oh never mind) "in your face."  Some reactions were downright visceral; they were clearly repulsed by this man and got as far away from him as possible. 

Many of these people are the first to attend prayer vigils and go to spiritual retreats, talk about the glory days, and tell others exactly what they believe. 

But Joseph is the acid test  -  his very existence challenges people and he isn't even aware of it; he just is who he is. Yet the challenge hangs in the air, "Do you really believe what you say you believe?"

A few months ago, as winter melted into spring, I found myself wondering where Joseph was, if he was still out there tramping the roads and touching lives with his uniqueness. 

And then one Sunday morning recently, I saw him - sitting by himself in the back near the door. His hair and beard were more gray; his face was more gaunt, but it was him. He was beaming, basking in the simple but profound pleasure of good music and shelter from the rain. When the service was over, I rushed over to where he'd been sitting, but he was gone. Disappointment settled on me like a wet blanket. I made my way back to my seat and began to pick up my purse and other items.

Then I turned and saw him, not ten feet away! He'd been in the washroom (most likely) and was coming up to the front to talk to the pastor and ask for a drive. My eyes misted over; what a beautiful soul. I shook hands with him and was delighted that he remembered me - his grip was a little weaker, but still firm. He was wobbling a bit with age and the ravages of life on the road - but it was the Joseph I remembered. His eyes were still as bright, and his smile as ready as it always was. 

Given the rainy day, the pastor asked a young man (a student interning at the church) to drive Joseph to where he needed to go next - across town - and I wondered if yet another generation would come to appreciate the inner beauty of this simple man ... and pass the acid test. 

I sure hope so.

Big Deal

The sound of the vacuum cleaner greeted me as I walked through the doors and into the church foyer. It was 1998 and I was volunteering a few hours a week as a secretary. The man holding the hose - the custodian of the building - saw me. A half-smile flickered across his lips and he leaned over. He flicked a switch, and the vacuum's engine wheezed to a stand-still, rumbling its last bit of protest as he approached me. He had his "I got something to tell ya" look on his face, all serious. I wondered what in the world was next.

"You heard that Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves, did ya?" he asked me.

I nodded. "Yeah, I heard that somewhere or other." 

He leaned in closer and his voice became a hoarse whisper. "Well - he didn't get this far north!" Then he rocked back on his heels as I laughed ... and grinned as he turned back toward the vacuum. 

He was like that. 

He loved a good laugh. He loved food (cooking it and eating it!) He loved his dear wife. And he loved his Savior. Everything he did, he did with his whole heart. There were never any half-measures. It was whole hog - or in his case, whole "Jiggs dinner" (corned beef and cabbage) - or nothing.

He took particular delight in making people laugh. With him, not AT him. Though he and his wife were never able to have children, kids loved this guy. They flocked around him, calling him by his first name with the title "Mister" before it. "Mister Merrill" was a fixture at the preschool that was housed in the basement of the church for many a year. 

He was a living example of joy and of how the flame of romance never had to go out. He never lost the wonder that his little slip of a wife, whom he considered to be the most beautiful lady on the planet, was in love with him. And my, how he loved her. He always referred to her as "the bride." His bride. Wow.

This photo, "Wedding Day Thoughts"
courtesy of Timeless Photography at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

One friend tells me that he'd say her name over and over to himself as he worked. Out loud - so her name would echo in the halls and come back to him. He did all the cooking, all the housework. He drove her to Costco nearly every weekend and filled up the van with whatever she wanted. And speaking of the van ... since she was small of stature, he would outfit any new van he got with running boards, so that she could step up into it with no trouble. He'd hold the door open for her. He doted on her every whim. 

On the days I'd come in a little late to the church office, the vacuum would be silent. I knew he was catching a little snooze in one of the back pews - a habit he started in his youth and never saw any reason to stop - and that he would be awake in a half hour or less, full of energy to face the rest of the day. 

He shared his philosophy of daily living with anyone who would hear. "We're here for a good time," he'd tell me. "Not for a long time." As a matter of fact, he shared his opinions on a bunch of things with anyone who would take the time to listen. I remember him telling me about what he thought the problem with the modern church was. "Unbelief." He'd shake his head. "Unbelief, pure and simple." Religious people, he shared with me, were more concerned with the right way to do things (and whether everyone else was doing it right) than they were about enjoying the life they had and the relationship with God that they had. 

Over the last six months, he had not been coming to church because he was physically unable to get out. And this morning, as we were worshiping, his wife, mother-in-law, niece and nephew gathered around his bedside in the hospital as he quietly slipped into the presence of the Master. 

He truly found out, as former Imperials singer Jake Hess sang, "Death ain't no big deal." The "big deal" awaited him as he made his entrance this morning.

I'm sure they had a great big rotisserie bar-b-que (with all the utensils) waiting for him when he got through the gates of Heaven, and a big ol' apron with "Kiss the Cook" written all over it. I can't imagine anything he'd like more to keep him busy until his bride arrives.

Life will never be the same.
For him  ...  or for those left behind - those who love him.

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. 

A Bigger Picture

The last few months, I've been focusing on working out my response to some burning and long-standing boundary issues with my birth family. Basically the Cole's Notes version is that (1) I have boundaries now, and that I need to look after myself, and (2) they - well - they don't get that.  

I've been trying very hard to figure out what is the right thing to do, praying about it, talking it over with people I trust.

It all boils down to this.  What I've really been trying to do is the same old thing: trying to get these people to think better of me.  It is difficult for me to accept that the people who are supposed to be my safe haven - just aren't.  How sad is that? not only for me, but for them?

About two weeks ago, I got a relatively long letter ready to send to one family member in particular, explaining my reasons for pulling away and setting a boundary based on her behaviour.  But I didn't send it.  As loving a tone as I tried to set for what I thought I had to say - deep inside I knew that what I had to say would hurt this person, because she doesn't understand in the least and would take anything I said as a personal attack.  I know this because that is what has been done so many times in the past by this permanent citizen of the continent of Victim-land. (I know the terrain well; I used to live there, right by the river of Denial next to the over-inhabited city of Martyrdom.  It's a sad, pitiful place.) 

I just shredded the letter this morning. 

Found this photo at THIS SITE

Last week, on a totally unrelated matter, I sent a second letter to someone else - in response to an inner prompting that didn't have anything to do with me.  It was only a couple of paragraphs, and it was to someone I care for very much - who is NOT a family member.  As it happened, (and as God usually does) the letter arrived just at the right time, and met an emotional need that went beyond anything I could have imagined.  The timing was ... well, it was perfect.  And God worked it out perfectly.  I was humbled - awed - by it all and I still am. 

As I pondered this morning about those two letters, the differences between my motivations for writing them came crashing through.  The second had nothing to do with myself but only with the person to whom I sent it, and only to build up and encourage. 

The first, on the other hand, had more to do with justifying my choices and my feelings to someone who could no more understand them - than a person completely blind from birth could understand the colour red.  Different universe. As Someone wise said once, "[Don't] cast your pearls before swine, lest they turn on you ... and tear you apart ..."  Basically that means that if someone couldn't possibly understand - don't give them ammunition to use against you. Because they will.

Point taken.  :s

Comparing the two letters, I realized that I felt about each of the intended recipients in opposite ways, too.  The first was written to someone with whom I have never felt and still do not feel emotionally safe, nor do I trust that person around my children or my husband.  She would find a way to end up making me look like the villain, a classic case of projection (attributing to another person one's own motives and character while hiding those very things from oneself).  

If I can't trust her with my own loved ones, what makes me think I can trust her with words on paper conveying my innermost thoughts? No, as difficult as it is for me to refrain from self-justification, I must.

The second letter recipient, though, has been a friend through a lot of ups and downs - and has been a safe place to land and be myself when I needed to be loved and not judged.

She is a kindred spirit.  A sheltered harbour.  A welcoming soul.  

When I prayed for clarification as to my motivations and whether to send that first letter (to the unsafe person), I was shown - given a bigger picture from higher up - how I don't need to chase after the approval of someone who will never approve of me.  

And conversely, I don't need to keep asking for approval from someone who already loves me anyway (wouldn't it be insulting after a while if your spouse or your child came to you every single day and asked if you approved of him or her?) I can accept that I am already accepted. I don't have to prove anything. 

As a people-pleaser in my natural state, I would normally be blind to that sort of thing.  It's not something I would have seen on my own. So I am grateful for this epiphany.  Even though it might not seem like a big deal to someone else, it's a lesson I never learned in active codependency, and I am thankful. It's simply this, in a nutshell: seeking approval from anyone but God only leads to heartache in one way or another - for me, or for the person from whom I am seeking approval.  Or both. 

And in the final analysis, God's opinion is the only one that matters anyway.

What a relief!!

Middlin'

It's a common expression in England.  Ask someone - especially an older person - how they are and you're likely to get the answer, "Oh, middlin', lad [or lass]".  

It means they're doing about average.  Nothing to write home about, nothing to complain about - well, a few aches and pains, but who wants to listen to that?  Just the same old same old.  Middlin'. 

One of the things I say to people when they ask how I am is "Okay" or "Not bad" - it's the truth, it's much like, "Middlin', lad."  Yet I've lost count of the number of times some zealous optimist has said, "What? you're not GREAT?  you should be FANTASTIC!" (...usually followed by some religious or positive thinking platitude, sorry folks but that really gets me going.)  Lately, if I get that response, I have been known to come back with, "So, I should lie.  Hm."  Which usually gets them backpedaling - hee hee.  (Ain't I a stinkah?)  Honestly.  Don't you mistrust a salesman who's ALWAYS grinning? 

Most of the time, I'm middlin'. I'm okay.  Life is throwing an equal amount of pleasant and unpleasant things my way.  It all evens out (as they say around here) "in the warsh."  

That's a whole heckuva lot better than it was just a few years ago.  Life sucked.  It just did.  Every day was a drudge, more reasons to be upset because nobody would do things my way (which, of course, was the right way!)  - and I had this huge happy-faced facade up so nobody would suspect how miserable or how incredibly lonely I was.  

When I started living my new lifestyle of respecting boundaries: my own and others', and started taking care of myself and taking responsibility for my own actions and expecting others to take responsibility for their own actions... such a weight fell off my shoulders!! My stress level was reduced by at least 75%.  And I began to trust my "feeler."  I'd always been taught to distrust my emotions, taught that my feelings were somehow evil.  When I started paying attention to how I was feeling and letting that alert me to those things in my life that were out of balance, my life and my relationships started to improve.  

So now, when I get to feeling really awful inside, and I can't shake it or seem to deal with it - even with the new tools at my disposal - that's when I'm no longer middlin' and then I know it's high time to pay attention.  

Like a couple of months ago.  I slipped into a bout of depression that made me doubt my own sanity.  People who remember what I was like during that time frame will remember how concerned they were for me. I wasn't sleeping well at all, losing on average three hours a night of sleep, perhaps a bit less on the weekends when I could nap in the afternoons.  I was bone-tired-weary all the time.  Everything ached. I dragged myself around. I was paranoid, fearful of everyone. My self-confidence was non-existent. I seriously doubted my own judgment, my own thinking patterns. I didn't want to do anything or go anywhere, especially work and church. It was a herculean effort to even get out of bed in the morning. I was on the verge of either tears or an outburst of rage nearly all the time. I lost my temper more.  And I cried.  A LOT.  

When I finally did ask for help, and started to get it, I realized that I had allowed certain things to go on far too long without dealing with them.  I had permitted things to build and accumulate until I was convinced that some people were just out to get me.  My perceptions were clouded by my own inner reality.  When I started looking after myself more, and got the rest I needed to get, things slowly righted themselves.  I'm so thankful that they did; I know that some folks aren't quite so lucky. 

Even with that, it took nearly a month for me to start feeling more like myself, getting back to middlin'.  Just to wake up in the morning and not dread putting my feet on the floor is worth more than I can express.  I might not look forward to this or that thing that I will have to do that day, but it all balances out.  That's a good thing. 

Middlin' is okay. Okay is good.  I like it.

No way out but down

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  Beep.   The measured noise of the heart monitor almost blends into the background except for one thing - it is reassurance that he still lives.  I wonder how long even that will last, even if he survives this time, whether he'll try a fool stunt like that again.  

A medicine cart rattles by, pushed by a nurse doing the morning rounds in this open ward.  There must be about two dozen people lined up in hospital beds, side by side, with just enough room for a chair on one side and a heart monitor on the other. Some have the curtains drawn for a bit of privacy - but nobody can get away from the sterile, no-nonsense activity of this place. 

My mind goes back, unbidden, to the events of the last 24 hours.  The trip to the emergency room, the chest pains that started right in front of the registration nurse.  The blood tests, the intravenous drip to rid him of the poison he ingested. The concern on the doctors' faces as they talked to each other in hushed tones about numbers and letters that would mean nothing to anyone but them.  Occasionally I would catch a snippet I understood - like 'organ failure' for example - and my heart would jump into my throat. They weren't sure they'd transfer him to a hospital in the next province, but if it looked like there was the possibility of endocrine system shut-down, they'd not hesitate to ambulance him over. The words became a blur.  Everything felt somehow out of phase, as if I was there but I wasn't really there.  This couldn't be happening. 

I barely remember the four-hour drive to the second hospital, just that I was on edge the whole time, praying with all the love in my heart, "Please God.  Please."  It was all the prayer I could muster; the Almighty could understand the pain of fear, of panic deep in my heart.  The ambulance had gone on ahead of me and I was going separately in our vehicle with our two children, then aged 17 and 14; we had hastily had packed a few belongings and made arrangements for friends to come and house-sit with the dog.  I kept thinking that I had forgotten something.  What was it?  yet my mind was racing ahead to where I was going, not behind me to where I had been. 

My oldest sat beside me, tight-lipped, pale and fearing to speak aloud what her naturally worrying mind was screaming. "What if he dies?"  The other, full of faith (for she has always been so) simply quipped, "He's going to be fine.  I don't know why you guys are so upset."  I envied her trust in a God she barely spoke to on a regular basis ... but I knew that when she did, God listened. I allowed myself to be comforted - if only a little - by her words. Throughout the whole trip, silence hung over us like a thundercloud. We followed the directions that the doctor had given us to reach the infirmary, and found ourselves - at last - in the parking garage, able to get out and find our way into the place where only the most exhausted ones sleep.

He was vaguely aware of my presence, but unaware of anything at the same time - in and out of consciousness, not even knowing where he was - I knew that he would never remember this.  But I would always remember.  I would never be able to forget.  I stayed as late as I possibly could - the nurses promised me the doctor would see him at ten pm (after which he would call me) and then again in the morning - and I withdrew into the cold February night, leaving the number at my friend's apartment, my friend who opened her small place up to the three of us to stay the night - or however long it took.  I thought how grateful I was to have a friend like her.

And now it is the next day, although the light level inside has stayed the same and one loses all track of what time it is.  I sit by his side in a chair provided by the nurses, holding his hand, listening to the beep of the heart monitor, watching the numbers on the blood pressure monitor hover dangerously high (now I know what I forgot at home! his blood pressure medication!) listening to the noises of the other monitors, the medication carts, the code yellow announcements, and the voices of nurses nattering on about their normal lives.  All of these sounds are miniscule darts that pierce into my soul again and again.  Time seems to have slowed, or my perceptions have quickened.  

My friend is looking after the kids; she is taking them to a birthday party for her granddaughter.  I tear up again - and there have been many such episodes - at her acceptance and her love.  

The curtain parts.  It is the doctor on duty, a young man with a slim physique, black hair and blue eyes. I briefly wonder how fresh out of medical school he is.  "We were thinking about sending him home today ... but there are some concerns.  One is his blood pressure.  Is he on any medication? did he bring any with him?"  

"No-o. I mean yes, he takes medicine for his blood pressure, but I forgot to pack it."  I smile miserably. "Everything happened so fast, I - "

"Do you remember what he was on?  perhaps we can order it at our pharmacy and see those numbers come down..."

"Of course, yes, that's a good idea," I blabber, so weary yet so relieved that the end was in sight.  And I tell him what the medications are, and give him the dosage instructions.

"Very good. We'll get that probably within the hour.  Now.  One more thing."  He takes a deep breath.  "He ingested a known poison. We are treating this as a suicide attempt.  We can't allow him to go home without some sort of assurance that he will get counseling."  He saw my hesitation, the fear, the doubt in my eyes.  "We can refer him to a psychiatrist in your city if you like - or you can go to see a counselor of your own choice, but he would have to be registered."  

"Well, someone did recommend a counselor ..." I gave him the man's name. 

"Ah yes.  I am familiar with him.  Very good then.  We'll get that blood pressure medication in here and then monitor his numbers.  If they come down, we'll release him.  We took him off the drip last night around midnight.  He'll still be a bit groggy (you may have noticed he's a bit more alert today) so he shouldn't drive for the next 24 hours, just to be safe."  He looks at my face, searches my eyes in what is as close to compassion as I have seen from the bustling people in this white, antiseptic place.  "This was a close call, ma'am.  Too close.  Please get him some help."  

"You can count on it, doctor."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over six years have passed since that day.  We know so much more about what really happened then, and much of it was harder to hear than the original crisis was to experience. But it was the truth, and the truth does set free - albeit through the fire.  

He had never tried to commit suicide.  He had only told us that to hide his addiction problem.  Three years would have to pass and it seemed that every time we ended up in emergency care, things were a little worse.  The monster of addiction took more of his life, affected more and more relationships, even the ones at work, eventually took his job from him.  But those things (hard as they were) needed to happen.  They buffeted him, and pointed out to him how he was trapped in an insane pattern from which he could not escape on his own.  

That process took over three years AFTER that hospital stay was done.  And when he was finally down to his lowest ebb... (and it's hard to imagine anything lower than that experience six years ago, but that's exactly what happened) when he was at his "bottom" - he finally asked for help.  And God stepped in and ever so slowly started to transform his life.  It's not anywhere near perfect; there are still significant struggles and doubts - but the addiction problem has been removed.  

As damaged as he thinks he is ... he's back.  And I am so very grateful.   

"Me" time

It's been pretty stressful the last little while in a lot of areas for me: work, home, church, family relationships.  Lots of change.  Lots of uncertainty.

The stress can really get to me when I am not rested, when I've allowed the tyranny of Just One More Thing to take over.  So the last couple of weeks I have been taking every opportunity to make a little "me" time.  After a couple of days of much-needed time off from work and a change of duties, I find myself able to make small jokes where I couldn't have before that time.  Dealing with the changes in my personal life and family relationships has been challenging as well. But I do remember the principles of recovery from codependency - that it's important to make time for me because self-care is the first step to setting healthy boundaries.  

So earlier today I found myself coming back from picking up some lunch (and carrying it back to my desk - which is another issue) when I heard music coming from the other side of the door that led to the stairwell.  Singing, to be exact. Our department has a choir that sings for Veterans in nursing homes and other places. So I decided to stop, go into the stairwell and eat my lunch while I listened to the Canada Remembers Chorus practice their next performance.  It only took about ten minutes, tops, but that little interlude left me going back to my desk with a smile on my face.

Later, after work, hubby picked me up and we turned our attention to where we might go on our weekly "date" which has been a fixture since the children were old enough to look after each other at home without us.  Instead of the usual haunts, we decided to hop in the vehicle and head about 35 miles away to one of our favorite restaurants - just because we like it there and this was our night. What a lovely treat it was to be able to do something out of the ordinary. 

This photo taken last summer, late August 2011

Right now, he's out doing something he loves doing ever since last summer when our daughter and her boyfriend presented him with a ride-on lawnmower. Yes, he's mowing the lawn, wearing his hearing-protection earmuffs, with a huge grin all over his face.  I'm smiling just thinking about it.

It's those little things that count, those things that tell us that we matter, that God cares enough to give us not only what we need, but sometimes what we want - those times when we are reminded that life can be fun ... and good ... and not sucky.  

Sometimes we just have to be intentional about looking after our own needs.  It's okay to do that.  It's okay to make some "me" time if we need to. We're people too; we're not invincible. I had forgotten how easy it is to slip back into those old patterns of behaving where I'd put my own need for nurturing aside and nurture someone else's stuff at my own expense, over-extend myself, and then resent the person not only for not appreciating it, but for coming to expect it!! I've had to remind myself lately that I can't do it all perfectly the first time.  And that when someone has a problem with something I do, I can acknowledge the feelings of hurt, frustration and anger that I might have, and then focus on what needs to happen so that I don't do that again or so that the person who gave me the bad news learns a more tactful way to give bad news. ;)  And to remember that what I DO doesn't define who I AM.  Huge lesson!  One I have to relearn over and over again.

When I make more time for me, though, it reduces my stress and allows me to stay grateful for the many blessings in my daily life.  Not the least of which is the ability to make some time for me in my busy schedule.  ;)

Comings and Goings

When you came to us, you bore

 the unseen scars of hidden wars

and untold truths and spoken lies. 

So innocent with such ancient eyes. 

  A lost boy, starved of love, of respect 

from self and for self.

But you grew...by millimeters and 

 sometimes by miles...

yet soundless, but for furtive glances

that shouted -

 unable to believe the gift before you -

The gift of acceptance.

Tracing line upon line of feather-light touch

 you quietly soaked in never-before 

yet simple joys.  The power of choice -

the freedom of no-ulterior-motives. 

  Yet your eyes still distant, unable to 

express the growing gratitude within, 

powerless to stop the million voices

 of the past screaming you 

were not worthy - 

 Yet here you were: belonging...  

a little less lost.  Perhaps even a little bit

found.

And now - suddenly - you are going.  

All around you are

 the tears and sadness of a thousand

what ifs and if onlys.  Only you remain

in quiet tearless pain, mixed grief and joy 

 over all that might have been and 

all that is coming

 while you are going. You leave behind

a host of memories which bring

fused laughter and tears - yet you, still silent

 and stoic, barely a flicker behind your eyes

belying your emotion, 

feel more than anyone the word 

Goodbye. 

Family is that person or people one chooses 

 where one feels safe and welcomed. There need 

not be blood ties; often blood ties mean 

abuse, criticism, bullying.  

You can choose who is family.  This you have come

to understand.

As you are going, we know that someday 

you will be coming back.  

For you, though you are loath to speak the words, 

 this, where you are loved,

where you are accepted,

where you are welcome,

 is "home."

Brandon on 16 July 2011

Our message to him and his to us
when we said goodbye