For a Warbler

While out walking the dog today, we happened upon a small lump in the road that didn't quite look like a rock or clump of dirt. As we approached, it became clear that it was a little bird, barely 3 inches from beak to tip of tail. 

It was dead. The little body was still slightly warm.

To keep the dog from defiling the body, I picked it up. It was mostly the colour of dust, light grayish brown, slightly darker on its back and wings, created to blend into its natural surroundings (shrubs and trees) perfectly. But it had not counted on a sudden encounter with a car windshield.

This is the closest image I could find. Image
provided by "The Other Kev" at Pixabay

It had been an insect-eater: the beak was narrow and pointed. Its crest (top of its head) was yellow with brilliant orange feathers underneath. A little male! The tiny legs with still-clutched feet seemed like pencil leads. I marveled at the intricate design, milliseconds before my eyes stung and tears spilled over. 

"The poor little thing!" I exclaimed. "What a shame!"

Hubby asked if he could see. I laid the tiny body gently in his hand ad stroked the little head where I found the orange underfeathers that would only show through the yellow if it was agitated. 

"Its neck is broken," he said. "Death was instant." 

"...but still...!..."

He gazed at it a few more seconds, and carefully and respectfully slipped the little body into his coat pocket. "I'll bury it at home," he murmured, more to himself than to me.

As we walked along in silence, a little Sunday School song came to my mind: "God sees the little sparrow fall, it meets His tender view. If God so loves the little things, I know He loves me too." And it's like I heard in my quiet core the still, small Voice of that God say to me, "I saw him fall, too." 

And I cried.

Part of your world

I've been taking some well-deserved time off from my studies to rest, reflect, and recharge. As I ponder the various facets of my life, I find myself thinking about the people in my life and what they mean to me. I try to put myself in their shoes to empathize better with them, and when I got to my mother, I found something quite distressful.

My mom's life sucks.

She has dementia. All of her life, she always looked at folks with dementia and told us, "If I ever get like that, take me out in the field and shoot me." And now she has dementia. And she is watched, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And she is medicated if she gets unruly. And she feels like she is alone: even though people come to see her on a regular basis, she doesn't remember that. She only remembers the last fifteen seconds.

Image "Crying Old Lady" by
imagerymajestic at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

If ever anyone lived in the moment, it is a person with dementia. However, feelings - even if someone doesn't remember the reasons behind them - remain. The feelings affect mood, and can make a person with dementia profoundly depressed. Or anxious. Or angry.

And what makes the feelings? Thoughts lead to feelings, even though the thoughts are no longer remembered. And words - whether spoken by the person or by those around them - create the thoughts. Combined with core beliefs about oneself - things one tells the self through decades of habit - a person who has dementia cannot reason themselves out of those feelings. Reasoning is useless. For someone (like my mom) who has prefronto-temporal dementia, the ability to reason and to make decisions and carry them out is absolutely GONE.  All that is left is the lizard-brain ... the limbic system ... the one that lives totally in the present, that is influenced by words and thoughts but that doesn't remember them; it just feels what it feels. 

So for those who think that it doesn't matter what they say when they visit a dementia patient because "they won't remember what i say anyway", think again. Their MIND may not remember, but their FEELINGS remember. So trying to convince them of the rightness of something about which they have believed all their life is wrong will serve only to frustrate and upset them without knowing why. And after the visitor leaves, it is the staff who have to deal with the fallout: the patient becomes agitated, distressed, depressed, anxious, or whatever, and needs to be medicated more just to make them "manageable." 

So - dear readers - leave your arguments and your opinions home when you visit a person who has dementia. Learn to enter their world - the world of the continual present - and even when they bring up your pet topic, refrain from discussing it. Distract the person toward the positive (not YOUR idea of positive, but THEIRS). If that means lying to them and telling them that it won't be long before they will be going home, then do that rather than tell them that they're going to a nursing home.  To many, including my mom, a nursing home is a horrible, torturous place where people go to be forgotten and to die alone. You can't convince her otherwise; it's too deeply ingrained. Don't even try. 

Phone them. Talk to them, let THEM talk. If you can't physically be there, phone them, send them cards and letters (happy ones!) and little gifts.  Do it often. The hospital / nursing home can be a lonely place. Don't forget them.

If you can be there, then BE there for THEM.  Play cards or board games with them. Watch TV with them. Encourage them, compliment them in every way possible. They are no longer part of your world; accept that. Be part of their world. Enter THEIR reality, the reality of seconds. Not days, not hours, not even minutes, but seconds. Leave your preconceptions and your grief at what they have already lost, and what you have lost with it, at the door. You are there for that person, not for yourself. You are not there to talk anyone else down or to win any arguments.  You are there to brighten their outlook. You are there to make it easier for that person (and for the staff who look after that person) to live a little more pleasantly. 

That is the way you visit those who are infirm, who live inside the prison of their own mind. Don't judge them. Don't judge those they love. Talk only of pleasant things, things that are pleasant for THEM.

Just be there for them, whether in person or not. Just BE.

A Rainbow Day

I forget who said it, but I've heard that whenever there's a day with a bunch of sad stuff mixed in with a bunch of happy stuff, you're having a "rainbow day." Like when it's been raining really hard and it lets up a bit and the sun peeks out from behind a storm cloud ... and it makes a rainbow. 

Today is like that. 

Yesterday I had to make arrangements to help a dear friend of mine say goodbye to her beloved cat. It's a wrenching time, losing a family member you've loved for years, but we all knew it was time. And this morning I awoke and the first thought in my mind was that today was the day ... and I was sad. Sad for the kitty and also very sad for my friend. I know the pain of that kind of loss - it tears at you. 

I checked my phone to see how low the battery was - and found that there was a message waiting on my voice mail. And it was from my youngest daughter's insurance company - a call for which I'd been waiting ever since she passed away in a car crash in October 2013. The only thing remaining on the insurance that hadn't been paid was the car itself - the medical bills and so forth had to be taken care of, and they had to be satisfied that our baby wasn't under the influence of alcohol.... or they wouldn't pay. So I have been paying on the car loan and wondering when they'd make their decision.

The message was that they needed forms filled out so that they could cut a check for the car. 

So many feelings! Relief ... vindication ... even grief as that loan was the last earthly vestige of her presence here. 

But the sun started to peek through the clouds. 

Photo "Double Rainbow" courtesy of
Evgeni Dinev at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

We picked up our friend and her cat, and took them to the clinic ... it was hard, obviously, but the vet made it easier with her gentleness and compassion. My friend and I  decided to wait in the vehicle while hubby stayed with kitty during her final moments - and right around the time that the deed was being done, my friend saw it: a robin. Hopping along the grass by the driveway to the vet clinic, a brilliantly red-breasted robin was stopping every so often and listening for his breakfast. It was a symbol of new life, and (as some of the First Nations believe) of letting go of what isn't working. So apropos.

Another rainbow; another ray of hope. Soon we were back home and getting a bite to eat.

Then - at our friend's request - we paid a visit to the Humane Society shelter. There, a young little momma cat who'd just recently had her kittens taken from her was in one of the cages, up on a perch and looking out at the world - and the moment their eyes locked, there was an instant connection... Twenty minutes later there was an adoption form filled out and instructions to wait until she was able to be neutered before bringing her home.... probably in about a week. 

Rainbows, multicolored and fresh, strewed in our pathway today. Such a gift in the midst of all the sadness.

Goodbyes, hellos, doors closing, others opening. Death, life, sadness and joy all mixed in together. 

Yep. It's a rainbow day.

Rainbow Tears

It's been said that when there are hard circumstances that make you cry but there is something right in the middle of the situation (perhaps unexpected kindness or some unforeseen blessing) that makes you smile in gratitude - the tears you shed are "rainbow tears."

 

I've had a lot of reason to shed that kind of tears in the last year and a bit. As most of you know, our daughter Arielle moved "out West" last summer to make her mark in the world. Things didn't turn out the way she expected, but there were some wonderful moments, particularly on September 17 when she had an amazing spiritual experience that transformed her emotions and melted her lifelong fear of being alone. But her circumstances were such that she was soon homeless, living in her car, getting more and more fatigued ... and on October 22 she had a car accident from falling asleep at the wheel - and she died.

 

And then the rainbow tears started happening thick and fast. People were so. incredibly. kind. Such an outpouring of love and graciousness that we never expected in our lifetimes, was immediately and consistently shown to us, lavished on us, healing us. People gave of their time to sit and listen to us talk. They loved us, prayed for us, thought about us, told us they thought about us, and those who were able to do so donated money to either our named charity, to the Gideons, or to help pay off her final expenses. To each and every one of those people who reached out to us, we owe a deep debt of gratitude. That love helped us, made it easier to be who we are, to be honest about our feelings.

 

Photo "Fountain" courtesy of dan at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

 

And last night, I found out that a dear friend's child was in a serious car crash. The young person survived, but the injuries are severe - potentially life-changing. And the love and outpouring of caring that was lavished on us is now abounding toward my friend, her child, and the rest of the family.

 

I was talking to my friend earlier today. She was saying that she realized that this must bring back memories (and it does, oh yes!) and some "why"s.

 

It's strange but .... I never once entertained that thought. I was just so grateful that another mom didn't have to bury her child. So instead of what she expected me to say, I expressed my gratitude. And as she shared with me what the next days will hold, and what progress has been made since only two days ago, I was able to show my emotional and prayer support to her and her family.

 

And I found myself shedding some more 'rainbow tears.'

Aloha

Aloha is a Hawaiian word. 
It means goodbye.
It also means hello.

This has been an intense week at our house. 

Monday night, our 13-year-old cat, Angel, disappeared ... never to return. We looked everywhere, scoured the neighbourhood for her, shaking her treat bag and calling for her, shining a flashlight under trees, behind bushes, into culverts. No sign of a body or of her.

We were about 75% sure that night that she wasn't coming back. It was just so opposite to "everything that was Angel" for her not to come trotting purposefully toward us when we shook the treat bag and called out her name. Over the course of the next few days, we began to be more and more certain that she would never return. Grief has been coming in waves, combined with the mental anguish of not knowing how it happened. Or how quickly. Or whether she was afraid. (shudder). 

Angel  -  June 2013

We've been saying goodbye ever since, in bits and pieces, in habits we find ourselves repeating (like looking outside for her when we go to the door) when we know ... that there's no need anymore. 

Aloha Angel.

We weren't the only ones moping around. Our kitten Loki (9 months old) has been unusually quiet the last few days. He misses having her around to play with - not that Angel ever allowed it, but he sure tried! - and now that she is gone, he has spent a lot more time sleeping. And he's taken to watching the door where he last saw her through the glass. 

The turning point came for me last night when we were chatting and our daughter said, "I am tired of talking about death. I want to concentrate on life." 

So today, we went to the shelter to find a companion for Loki. And ... yes, for us.

She had newly been put up for adoption we saw her - not even two pounds and looking enough like Angel that at first glance, I gasped and my eyes stung with tears. The differences became obvious afterward, of course. But as we spent more time with her, we began to see how well she could fit in with our family. And even in that short time, hearts began to heal.

Playing with her allowed us to get a glimpse of her zany yet demure personality; it has earned her the name "Eris" (pronounced AIR-ess) after the Greek goddess of chaos. It suits her. ;) 

So adoption papers were filled out. And the kitten will remain there until she is ready to be homed - she'll need to be spayed and that can't happen for another week, because they have to be at least a certain weight when that happens.

So, probably around the 18th to the 20th of August, we'll be bringing home a little sister for Loki (named, incidentally, after the Norse god of mischief. Do I sense a theme here? LOL) ... and in between, I imagine we'll be visiting her as she waits to get big enough to come home.

Aloha, Eris.

Breathe. In and out. Repeat.

Some days just pass by without me taking much notice; they seem normal and uneventful, as if nothing tumultuous has ever happened to me or to those I love. 

And other times, I have fleeting moments where I need to remind myself to breathe, to let go, to concentrate on doing the next right thing. 

"Waterfall In Forest" - courtesy of
phonsawat at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Still others are entire days when I need to remind myself continually of those things: specific days such as a birthday or an anniversary, a statutory holiday like Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving. At those times, I wonder how I'll get through the day, remind myself to breathe, in and out, and repeat as needed. And it's hard, even with relying heavily on my relationship with God and reminding myself that "He's got me."  

And ... miraculously ... I get through it. 

I had a day like that recently - our baby girl's birthday was last Wednesday. She would have been 22 years old. Try as I might to treat it like "just any other day" ... it was difficult to concentrate and I kept making silly, stupid mistakes that just weren't "me." 

The love of friends and family helped me as I breathed in, and breathed out. Giving myself permission to grieve without guilt or shame was key to surviving the experience. And love, love expressed in tangible ways, was the healing balm that I needed. God usually finds a way to remind me that He cares by showing me that people care. This particular time it was through a thoughtful gift from a friend miles away from here. 

Photo "Daisy Flower" by
markuso at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Someone reminded me a few weeks ago that the pain of an initial physical injury (such as when I tore the cartilage in my shoulder on August 7, 2006) can be remembered, but not brought back and relived or re-experienced with the same intensity. (Not that I'd want to!!) 

However, the pain of an emotional injury is just as fresh and excruciating as its memory. If the emotionally painful experience is remembered, the emotional pain comes with it. 

What I didn't know until several months ago is that the brain releases the exact same chemicals when experiencing emotional pain as when having physical pain. It's therefore crucial to be gentle with ourselves when life throws a monkey-wrench into our daily experience. 

"It will pass. It will," a still small Voice says inside of me. "Breathe."

"Again." 

And I do. And it passes. 

And the next day life could return completely back to normal. And it often does. 

But I'm so glad that when those times come, when the billows roll over me and knock me around, I know I can count on Love to be whatever I need it to be for me at the time I need it. Even if it's hard. 

Love is Life's breath.

So I breathe. In and out. And ... repeat as needed.

Please Stay

Every morning he would kiss her goodbye and disappear through the doorway to a world where metal clanked, steel melted and shaped into oven doors, and grease and grime was a way of life. I would stare at him, silently begging him not to leave.

"Please stay," my heart whispered. But ... he didn't.

When she'd become angry and furiously fish around in the closet for his old belt, he'd quietly slip away and head outside, not being able to bear watching what came next. 

"Please stay. Help me," my heart screamed. But ... he didn't.

Mom and Dad, 1984

When we would go to town and I'd opt to go with him to visit his buddies at the cobbler shop, I basked in the warmth of their voices and the easy camaraderie that they had with each other. There was no bitterness, no malicious gossip, no one-upmanship. "I better get back to the car," he'd eventually say. "She'll be done her shopping now." He'd endure the gentle ribbing about being hen-pecked. 

"Please stay. I like it here," my heart pleaded. But ... he didn't.

When I was a teen, and got into a fight with one of my older cousins down the road, I came home and told him how mean she'd been, what she'd called me. He was so angry that he stormed out of the house to make her aware how displeased he was. 

"Please stay. You'll just make it worse," my heart cringed. But ... he didn't. He went anyway, and came back even more angry. That was the moment he put a dent in the wall with his fist. I didn't know why - until later. He wanted to protect me. And my cousin's husband just laughed at him. 

The day of my wedding, I looked at him standing beside me in his Sunday best as we were just about to head down the aisle together. He seemed so strong, so dependable, just like always. "I love you, Dad," I told him. He looked down at me. "I love you too, dear," he murmured softly in his deep bass voice. He walked me toward my bridegroom, and gave me away to him, and then he went and sat down.

Unknown to me, he pulled my 2-year-old niece onto his lap and held her close. And as his own baby willingly walked out of his care and into someone else's, almost nobody saw the tears well up in his eyes and spill over onto his cheeks. 

"Please stay. Stay my baby girl," his heart wept. But ... I left. And yet ... I stayed his baby girl in my heart. I always had.

When I stood by his bedside in the hospital, watching him writhe and groan in pain he couldn't pinpoint in spite of the morphine in his IV, hearing him call out for his mama, I knew that asking him to stay would be asking his body to endure even more suffering. So I stood there ... and let him go. 

"It's okay for you to go, Dad," my heart whispered.  

And he did, just a few days later.

It's been over 20 years since that day. Yet I still feel his presence with me when I remember some wacky thing my own baby girl used to do that reminds me so much of him, and I'm so glad that she is getting to know him now. She always missed knowing him. And now the two of them are laughing together. In a way, neither of them will ever really leave, as long as I remember them.

"Thank you for staying."

Every Snowflake Counts

"Whooopeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" I would hear as the door banged and her kitbag hit the floor. 

Then the door would bang and she would be off playing until supper, charging her emotional battery with social contact with everyone in the neighbourhood. 

She was "more."  More sensitive, more demanding, more fun, more intuitive, more compassionate, more comical, more ... everything. Many were the times she cried when someone else cried because it hurt her to see people sad. She could laugh longer and louder and harder than anyone I have ever known, and you'd find yourself laughing in spite of yourself, wondering what the joke even was. 

When she was about six years old, after a few snowfalls where her dad had gone out to shovel yet another foot of "partially cloudy" off the driveway, she decided to get dressed and go out to help him. She got me to help her on with her snowsuit, shoved her boots and mitts on, and with all those extra layers toddled down the stairs like some pink Michelin-tire man on his way to a rescue mission. Her dad handed her the lightest shovel and she worked beside him until she was out of wind, her face beet-red under her scarf. The little muscles were so sore and she was so tired and sweaty that she had to give up. In frustration, she started to cry. When her father asked her why, she replied, "Because I wanted to HELP you!!" 

"That's okay, honey," he said to her. "You DID help me. You really did. The snow you shoveled, every single bit of work you did, is less snow that I need to shovel. I appreciate everything you did. Because every snowflake counts."  

She burst into tears and fled into the house. 

What he didn't know was why she cried. She told me because I asked her, and she told me with tears streaming down her face!! It meant so much to her for him to say that. She never forgot it, and from then on, it became her motto. 

Someone would be frustrated with doing homework. Or trying to help with dishes, or baking, or raking leaves. Or trying to make someone understand. Or whatever. 

"Every snowflake counts," she would say to them. 

This past June, after many failed attempts to make a life for herself here, she decided to go to Alberta, to the 'land of opportunity' - or so the myth goes. It's great for someone with a high school education and someone out there with whom to stay while they got on their feet. She had neither. 

The only things she had were the clothes and supplies she took with her, a few hundred dollars from her parents to pay for gasoline, her computer, and her phone. That phone would be a lifeline between her and home, an anchor when times got rough - for her and for us. 

We texted. A LOT. Every day, several times a day. I footed the bill for her to get a 2nd hand car. At least she had transportation, and for a time, a job.

There is more to her story; I don't need to tell it all here. (Other parts are found on my other blog, http://idol-smashing.blogspot.com ) All you need to know is that on September 19, a little over a month ago, she was evicted from the place she was staying after her landlady kicked her out for breaking house rules. She found herself out on the street that night, living in her car. 

For a month she was homeless. She kept in touch with us, charging her phone in her car, living hand to mouth, with regular influx of cash from me to keep the car gassed up in order to survive and be somewhat safe. So many tried to help her; she was afraid to get help thinking that she would have her phone stolen, or someone would hurt her or try to separate her from her boyfriend whom she met up there. 

Two nights ago, she had run out of funds again. I'd given her some money Sunday night to get herself a cheap motel room. She had felt so refreshed the following day and yet had to sleep in her car again Monday night. So Tuesday evening she asked me for money so she could have a motel for the night again. She had an apartment viewing the following morning and wanted to be rested for it, showered, looking her best. 

I sent it to her.

She was so pleased, so relieved. She thanked me profusely. In the short text conversation that followed, she told me, "I'm so tired of this life (she meant lifestyle) Mom. I just want a home."

She had claimed the funds and was on her way driving to a suburb of Edmonton that night (for a cheaper rate in motels) when she swerved suddenly away from the side of the road and crossing the center line. Her fender clipped the fender of a pickup truck, knocking him off the road (the driver was fine). But there was a van right behind him - and they never saw her until it was too late. 

She was killed instantly on impact. 

Her boyfriend escaped - miraculously - with his life. He had a busted ankle and a compound fracture of the lower leg. Of the three people in the van that her car hit, only one had serious injuries - but thankfully was not paralyzed. 

The police came to our door yesterday around 1 pm with the news. When they had left, my husband called me.

What happened next was a flurry of activity. I was aware of people standing around me as I cried out loud. Kind hands led me to my manager's office. Someone made a phone call for me. Someone else met my husband at the door and people drove us home. We were held, hugged, supported, loved. And fed. Even though we didn't feel like eating. We still don't. Still the food comes, and with it, expressions of concern, caring, loving concern.

It all heals. All of it. 

Before I say what I have to say next, let me say this. I've heard people say to me that God took Arielle. 

THAT IS NOT TRUE. God DIDN'T take her. He would not be so cruel as to TAKE her away from us.

He welcomed her. He welcomed her HOME. Not the home she was expecting of course. Not the home ANY of us were expecting.

But BETTER. Safer. More permanent. 

Last spring, before she left for Alberta.
At breakfast - on Saturday morning.
Arielle. My belle.
1992-07-16 to 2013-10-22

I have two more things to say. Two things only. 

The first is that a day and a half before she was evicted, our little girl had a personal encounter with God - so real and so powerful that it transformed her heart and made her not feel lonely or alone, for the first time in her life. She was that excited about it!!  She couldn't wait to tell us about it. She told her story to me, then to her father, and then to our dear friend Dorothy, who had been her babysitter and a second mom to her when she was growing up. And it was REAL. We could tell. This was no passing fancy. This was whole. True. Pure. 

I can't say it changed her, not in a way that denied who she was.  But it was MORE. It burned away the impurities. It refined her, strengthened her faith, and turned the direction of her life around. Something that had only been a glimmer or a spark in her growing up burst into flame and became a luminous beacon that sustained her (and, truth be told, US) throughout that last month or so of her life. She got a job. She was on the upswing in her life.

The second thing I have to say is this. You may feel that what you are saying or doing to support us, the seemingly feeble and trite words that you think you are offering, do very little to help. You may feel helpless, powerless in the face of such tragedy. I know because I've felt those same feelings in my life when having to comfort someone who has known similar circumstances. 

And now I'm on the other side of the equation.  
And I am telling you THIS.

You have no idea the power that those little actions, those little words, those inbox messages, those Facebook comments, those hugs and well-wishes, what they all mean. You have simply no idea unless you've been there. But even if you don't have that experience (and I would not wish it on my worst enemy!!) YOU NEED to hear my words and know this deep in your hearts.

What she said to us, I now say to you.

Every. Snowflake. Counts.

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.

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.

Doors and Windows

There's a well-known saying that whenever God closes a door, He opens a window.

A few years ago, my husband and I weren't sleeping very well; we'd go to bed tired and wake up tired, and the whole cycle would get worse and worse until we would "crash" and have what Jim Davis (the cartoonist) called a "nap attack."  After doing some thinking, we figured out that the reason we weren't sleeping well was because the cats would come into the room at 3 in the morning (or some other such unholy hour) and demand attention. Our Internet search showed us that closing the bedroom door would help us get the sleep we needed, once the animals figured out that we weren't coming to open the door. 

It worked, but quite frequently we awoke with headaches from sleeping in a room with less and less oxygen in it throughout the night; putting a fan only circulated the "bad air."

So we opened our bedroom window. It was literally a breath of fresh air. And ... problem solved.

There've been quite a few doors and windows in my life lately. One of them has been the closure of the first ever Codependents Anonymous group in our province, for which I was the contact person for a year and a half. Through that group, God opened a window for fellowship with a dear friend with whom I had virtually lost touch. Once we re-established contact, He just let the group - such as it was (with an attendance of no more than six people and usually only two) - die a natural death. I believe it served its purpose, and its passing doesn't prevent another group from starting up, as soon as there are enough people to make a serious go of it. 

It was actually a relief to let that go, because I'd been feeling so responsible for keeping it going, frustrated that it wasn't going anywhere, and burnt out from all the energy I was pouring into it with no results. 

It dawned on me - finally, through the help of that same friend - that I was being codependent about Codependents Anonymous! Once I released my hold on the group and "stepped back," I could enjoy freedom from stress and an extra two nights a month of freedom in which to do whatever was needed: from napping, to putting in an extra hour at work, to visiting with friends. 

An open window can also let in some
fresh air - picture source

Another door/window combination has been the loss of ties with my birth family. I'll not bore you with the gory details, but let's just say that it became necessary for me to make a clean break. 

For a while, there was a gaping hole in me, with very raw edges - feelings of hurt and betrayal mostly - but as I shared my vulnerability with a couple of people I trusted, I found a whole network of these individuals who were supportive, understanding, and encouraging. Friends, I think they're called. Friends to me ... of all people. Who knew? They helped give me the strength to let go of the past and to move on with my life.

Sometimes, when God starts closing a door for my own good, I fight tooth and nail to keep it open ... such as in the case of our family finances. With my husband in retirement, our family income took a major hit in the fall of 2009, and our personal line of credit began to grow larger and larger. I tried to stay ahead of it, but it grew faster than I could pay, and it became a monster. There just wasn't enough month left over at the end of the money: major expenses like college for one child, and dental expenses for another (ones which weren't covered by insurance!) all conspired against me.  I keenly felt the weight of responsibility; for the first time in my life, I was the primary bread-winner! I was spending a tremendous amount per month - more than some people make in a month - on paying the debt from the line of credit, the credit cards, and the car loan. We were desperately casting around for ways to save on expenses and to make extra money, even to the point of my husband considering rejoining the work force; nothing I tried to do worked. Everything backfired or fizzled.

My account manager at my bank saw this happening when she did my annual financial checkup (gotta love programs like that!) and she pointed to the line of credit as the chief culprit. It had become a crutch for our family, and she helped me see that this door needed to close; having it open - having that safety net there - only served to overwhelm me because it was too easy to fall back on it. She suggested a drastic move: closing the line of credit, and restructuring the debt into something that was manageable, shutting down the credit cards that were costing me more money and limiting our credit limit on the cards we agreed were just for emergencies. Over a series of about four meetings, we were able to do just that, and reduce my monthly debt payments by two thirds. The debt payment reduction was the hidden window in that slammed-shut door. That oppressive heavy feeling in the air was gone, and I found that I could breathe freely again.

Suddenly I realized that my efforts to "make extra money" had been just the frantic flailings of someone who was drowning - and panicking. She threw a life-raft out to me, pulled me to shore, and as sure as the door closed on our unmanageable situation, I felt the cool breeze of that opened window ... ever so faintly.

Even now I can feel the remnants of that last closing door. All my desperate efforts to make money, to start my own business, have resulted in nothing. I've come to realize that people in the local area don't need proofreading services in the traditional sense anymore. They can get a software program to do it for them, so why pay someone? As this realization dawned on me, it was hard to 'unhook' from my beautifully laid out "Plan A" and admit defeat - but it seemed the only viable course of action. As I'm letting go of that, as that door is closing, I see another window opening on the horizon. 

However, I think I'll keep that one a secret. For now.

Life Lived Well - Adieu

This evening I learned that someone I've known since 1976 passed away in hospital in the wee hours of this morning.  He was 87 years old.

When I first met him, he was just a little older than I am now.  I had a crush on one of his boys - what can I say, he was attractive and I was sixteen! - but he was 20-ish and "too old for me" ;)  and so he introduced me to his younger brother, whom I dated for a little while.  During that time, I got a chance to meet his dad, this wonderful man.  He had such a quick wit and dry humour that I was constantly doing double-takes! 

But it was his heart that touched me most.  I instinctively knew that I could trust him and his lovely wife.  They were the salt of the earth. This man was a living example of a Christian life lived well, doing no harm, doing good, being kind, quietly, unobtrusively.

I'll never forget when I was pregnant with my 2nd child.  It was early in the pregnancy and I had been having morning sickness for a few weeks; I kept getting weaker and weaker, reduced to crackers and water.  This one day I looked at my active 2-year-old, and I didn't have the strength to even change her night-time diaper.  I reached for the phone and the first people I could think to call was this beautiful couple, then in their mid to late 60s, bent over but still willing.  I knew that I could count on them.  They arrived about 20 minutes later.  She busied herself with my 2-year-old and he asked where the vacuum cleaner was.  

Sitting on the sofa, I watched them, and the tears of gratitude were trickling down my face.  I had been totally unaware of how sick I was. Their kindness and my helplessness  made me realize that I needed help, and I went to the emergency ward that afternoon.  They kept me on intravenous fluids for 4 days and on a liquid diet for another day before sending me home.  I had been seriously dehydrated, near organ failure when I got to the E.R.

I believe this man and his wife helped to save my life.

When my husband's father died in 2004, my children kind of "adopted" this godly couple as their honorary grandparents.  Their presence, their constancy, helped our teens through the grieving process; I'll bet they never even knew it. 

We let him and his wife know several times and in several ways how much we appreciated them.  We admired his quick turn of phrase, his quirky sense of humour (he thought in puns and/or in literal terms) and his kindness to any and all who crossed his path.  

There is no doubt in my mind where the real man I grew to love and admire is right now.  I can't help thinking about an old hymn called "My Ain Countree" which says in part (I will use the English translation instead of the Scottish burr), "The hills are flecked with flowers, many-tinted, fresh and gay, the birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them so - but these sights and these sounds will as nothing be to me, when I hear the angels singing in my own country."  

His was a life lived well - to God (à Dieu) - and that's exactly what he's still doing.

Simple treasures

Yesterday evening we learned that a dear friend had passed away sometime during the night before.

Our minds and hearts are filled with memories of this precious man.  His incredible wittiness. His honesty.  His delight in living, really living for what felt like the first time in his life.  A new-found childlike faith that transformed him from the inside out, and helped us truly believe in miracles in the life of one who he himself described as "an old reprobate like me." 


Hours spent at Tim Horton's over a coffee and a donut or muffin, talking about deep spiritual questions.  Desperate to develop his relationship with God and take his first steps into a new way of thinking.  Passionate about so many things: spouse, family, friends, and now prayer, rigorous honesty, integrity, hope.  It was a marvel to listen to him speak about these things and more. 

Death, I think I heard on some TV program or movie like Star Trek or something, is that state in which one exists only in the memory of others.  I'm not sure that that is entirely true in that it doesn't address the hereafter, but it does represent a part of reality.  And given that, I know that we will remember him...he will continue to inspire us to believe that miracles do happen.  He was a walking, breathing miracle.

I imagine him now meeting in person this God he hated all his life until just the last few months, when in desperation he turned to his Creator and found welcoming arms and the power to be free.  Now ... now there are no more questions.  There is perfect peace and absence of any confusion or pain.

For him.  

Back to School

There she is - a month after passing the GED with flying colours. Afterward, subsequent to spending maybe six to eight months doing not much of anything except Skyping with her friends and going to a chiropractor for a neck problem - my oldest daughter announced shortly after Tsuri died, that she had decided to go to college. She wanted to take an executive assistant's program and maybe even work where I work someday.

I almost fell off my chair. I've been waiting for her to decide to do something about her education, but I had to stay silent... because she is not only my daughter but my husband's as well, and she can't be coerced into anything she isn't completely ready for. I'm only about 19 months into recovery from my obsession to "fix" people and therefore control their lives, their beliefs, their behaviour, and their lives, so I have learned somewhat how to let go and not control or manipulate. I'm SO glad I was able to "let go" and let her be who she is. Her decision is doubly rewarding for me now, because I know she came to it on her own without ANY input from me. How very freeing!

Anyway, she called the college a couple of days after Tsuri died and within 24 hours, they called her back and wanted to see her the next day. By the end of the next day, she had brochures and information up the wazoo. (What is a wazoo anyway?) And by the end of that week, she was registered. When my hubby called me with the dollar amount of her tuition - I was glad I was sitting down! Wow - five figures for like - 13 months of school... what's up with that?

So after my wallet stopped trembling, I realized that I would be spending as much if not more for her to go to university. And she'd be staying home so the expense of residence wouldn't be an issue. She has really stepped up to the plate. She's even looking forward to going.

This morning, though, I thought she was going to renege on her commitment to go to college. Tsuri's cage-mate Ceçania (pronounced Sah-SAH-nyah) died around 2 o'clock or so this morning, after my daughter's cat led her into the room and looked at the cage. It was like the cat knew something was wrong. Ceçania was very sick - appeared to be uncomfortable as well. She had gained weight astronomically since Tsuri's stroke and now she was appearing to seize, spasm, or something. With my daughter's attention and stroking she calmed down, but it was very clear that she had possibly developed a urinary infection ... or something worse, like a tumour - that would explain the sudden weight gain.

As Krysta told us about her pet's last hours, tears trickled down her cheeks, because while she was going through it, she was trying very hard to be brave for her furry friend, who was very sensitive to people's moods. After she had said her good-byes and made her apologies for neglecting her when Tsuri was so sick, Krysta made her as comfortable as possible back in her cage, in the corner where she and Tsuri slept together, with a little bit of fluffy material to be soft against her face. She had the time to say goodbye to her little friend. And shortly after two a.m., she returned, and Ceçania wasn't moving or breathing. She had died peacefully in her sleep.

After Krysta had put her back in the cage and before she knew that she had died, she wrote these words in a note to us in case she fell asleep before morning :

As of 1:15 a.m., Ceçania is very sick. Her forepaws keep trembling and she
won't move much. She hasn't been eating and I found her laying in a
puddle of her own urine.
Please set up an appointment with the vet tomorrow, if she's alive
when you read this. She looks sad, depressed, and sick. And in stress/pain.

I can't watch it again. Whatever the vet suggests, "sleep" or not.
I won't keep her alive for me.
She misses Tsuri. Take the action you think best, please.

What an ordeal she went through!! How very mature of her to think of her friend before herself. And she never once said that she wanted to back out of her college enrollment.

I am so very proud of my little girl. She is so very beautiful inside, where it counts. She has turned into the most amazing, mature, wise, compassionate, and loving young woman. I am very grateful to God - she makes my spirit smile.

My husband took Ceçania's little body out to the flower garden and buried her in the same hole Tsuri's body was in. The position they ended up in was very similar to the one they used to sleep in, together, when they were still alive and healthy.

This whole adventure - Tsuri, school, Ceçania - has been a learning experience. We learned from those two little four-footed beings, and we're learning from each other.

It's astounding.

How far He will go -

The most amazing miracles that happened during our time of want, during the bankruptcy, the court case, and the time when we were paying off the court fine, happened where it counts most: on the inside.

We learned to depend on God - yes. Out of necessity. We saw some financial miracles happen during that time and since - yes. God knows our needs; that's not in question. But the biggest miracles can't be measured in a measuring cup or by dollar signs. These are the ones that happen in the heart. One of the biggest ones that happened - and perhaps one of the major reasons we had to go through all that - was in relation to my attitude toward my husband's mother.

What I'm about to say might sound harsh, but at the time before we went into bankruptcy it is really how I thought, what I truly believed about her.

I thought she was evil. Not the "Hannibal Lecter" kind of evil. More like the Hitler kind - the kind that really believed it was doing what it was doing for the greater good.

She had bipolar disorder. It is a horrible mental illness caused (in large part) by an inability of the body to extract lithium, a mineral salt, from foods like spinach, lettuce, leafy greens, etc. It meant that she had extreme highs and lows of mood - it used to be called manic-depressive psychosis. Sometimes, yes, it seemed as though she had lost touch with reality.

She took medication for it but she hated what it did to her: weight gain, kidney problems. She would sometimes flush it down the toilet when she was feeling on top of the world. Her better self knew it was not good to stop taking her medication, so usually she remembered that she had to take it. Without it - she was ... scary. Even with it, she still had highs and lows that were far more pronounced than most people's. When she was on a manic phase, she'd talk and talk and talk. Her mouth got her into more trouble. Indiscretion was her chief enemy then - she'd tell anybody anything, her deepest darkest secrets - or ours. When she was depressed - she'd talk and talk and talk - but this time it would be in bitterness, resentment, and frustration over her lot in life. Sometimes it was hard to tell if she was on one phase or the other.

As with most people with a chronic and overwhelming condition, sometimes she excused her erratic behavior with her condition. "I can't help it. It's just the way I am."

I got so sick of hearing her say that.

It seemed - to me - that she would lay awake at night thinking up ways to screw up our lives. Then after only 2 hours of sleep, she'd get out of bed at 5:30 a.m., (there should only be one 5:30 in a day and it's not the morning) call us - no - call my husband up on the phone and refuse to talk to me but only to him. Not even hello. "Is my SON there." I lost count of the times he would just lay in bed with the phone propped up against his ear, mumbling "mfff" into the pillow as she droned on and on incessantly about how hard her life was, how nobody appreciated her, how it was so difficult to have a handicapped child (whom she depersonalized by calling her "a Glenda" - like this: "You don't know what it is like to have a Glenda..."), how her husband never told her he loved her, etc., etc. Once she'd carried on her monologue for 45 minutes or more and the night's sleep had been thoroughly ruined for both of us, she'd hang up ... and the next morning it would start all over again.

That's when we got the answering machine. One with a 30-second cutoff.

Resentment built up in me as the years went by and she made no effort to change. She'd say horrible things, usually about her daughter, and when we'd confront her about them, it was, "I never said that. I would NEVER say that!!" But she did. And always, "It's my condition."

She'd do things for us, and then expect us to return the favor. At least that was how it seemed. I believed there were always strings attached to whatever she did. I began looking for ways to avoid being around her. My husband had learned long ago to just let her talk - she would only get worse if he contributed to the "conversation" by injecting some truth or confronting her about how indiscreet she could be about our own lives in front of complete strangers, and being an extreme extrovert as well as having bipolar disorder.

I remember distinctly my breaking point. I was having breakfast at a local restaurant with my family - my husband and my two small children. We were in a secluded spot so as to be away from view to people coming into the restaurant; we wanted this to be "our time." The door opened and in they walked. She got within line of sight and made a bee-line for us while her husband sat at the table across the room from us. I knew that she would sit down right next to us and monopolize our time, this one time when we just wanted to be the four of us. How dare she!

I felt trapped. I felt like this was our last bastion, and she had ruined it.

I lost it. I was curt, clipped, and very rude to her. After about ten minutes of my downright nasty attitude and my inexcusable behavior, she went back to her table to sit with her husband. She was perplexed. I was still fuming.

My husband was silent for a few minutes. Then he spoke; his voice sounded hurt, bewildered. "Why did you do that? She didn't do anything to you just now. All she did was she happened to come into the same place you were in. She didn't know you were going to be here. What in the world is wrong with you?"

I opened my mouth - but nothing came out. I was without excuse. I had been wrong to attack her like that, and I knew it. And it was at that point that I knew that whatever her motivations were, I was the one with the problem. It bothered me - all that day.

I wanted everything to be all right. I wanted to feel what I knew I SHOULD feel for her. But I couldn't get past the hate, the hurt, the preconceived notions. I couldn't get past all the horrible things she had said to both of us, about us, about her own daughter - in front of her, no less. I could see it was ripping me apart to hold onto this. But I couldn't bring myself to be open to seeing her in a different light.

God put His finger right on that very thing that made me squirm. I wanted to do what He wanted me to do. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. However - because of how important my relationship with HIM was, I was willing to be made willing... and so I prayed, "Lord, whatever it takes - I want to be willing to let this go."

Within a few months, we sat in a bankruptcy trustee's office.

God had to let everything be taken from us. The pain was so deep, He had to start from scratch so that I could see how wrong I had been regarding my beliefs about her.

The woman I thought was so evil turned out to be one of my - our - strongest allies. The other ally we had was her daughter Glenda, who had been in our corner from the get-go (see my August 3, 2010 post.) My mother-in-law took it upon herself to buy about 50 to 60 dollars' worth of groceries (meat, no less) for us every week - and she kept it up throughout the bankruptcy period. She knew we could never pay her back. She didn't care. She never once asked for anything in return. That spoke volumes to me. She didn't know she was preaching that kind of sermon to me. She just lived it. At every turn, she never ceased to amaze me.

During that nine months and beyond, I had a lot of humble pie to eat, and I ate it alone - nobody knew. Even as we had to deal with the court case and the fine, she stood solidly behind us and refused to believe what the paper said, refused to believe that my husband intended to defraud the government, and kept on just giving and giving. Even when Glenda died in 1999, she kept her heart open to us, and as we helped her go through Glenda's things in the weeks after the funeral, she gave to us out of those items things that she believed would be special to us. And at last, when she realized that we could finally accept financial help, she took what little she had and made sure that we would be provided for in such a way that we knew we didn't ever have to pay her back.

I remember an incident that happened shortly before she passed away that illustrated to me just how much my thinking had changed - in fact, it shocked me when I thought about it afterward.

She'd already had the first heart attack. I had been to her house where there was a meeting going on between the members of the family to decide "what to do with Mom." I heard the words, "institutional care." I was told to leave, just take the children and go - I wasn't part of this decision. That stung. But I left and decided to go to the hospital to see the person they were all talking about. I found myself strangely looking forward to seeing her.

She was so glad to see me, as I knew she would be. I remember seeing a half-eaten meal on her tray. It wasn't like her not to eat. Anyway, I told her ... and I meant it ... that I liked to come and see her because she was always so pleased to see me. Then I said that I had just been at the house and was made to feel like I wasn't welcome there, that nobody wanted me around.

She fixed her gaze on me. There was fire in her eyes. "Well - that's THEIR loss," she snapped.

I was speechless. I didn't know what to say - and I doubt if I could have said anything at all even if I had tried. The last hurdle was gone. I knew that she had been generous all those times because ... she was just generous; giving was her way. And when she wondered why I treated her so badly after all she had done for us, it wasn't a guilt trip. She really was befuddled by it. In those moments, as the children played quietly at the foot of her hospital bed and the clock ticked in the background, I knew I had been so very wrong. So very wrong.

I reached out for her hand. She took it and squeezed it. "Will you do something for me?" she asked. "Will you make sure that that son of mine comes in here to see me? I miss him." I told her I would be able to bring him in, on the coming Monday evening.

She had a second heart attack in the hospital on Monday afternoon, the day I was to bring my husband in to see her, and she passed away before they could revive her.

And I grieved. I grieved for all of the lost time I had wasted being angry with her, all of the special times we could have had if she had been around longer, now that I'd just figured it all out. The resentments had fizzled and disappeared. Love and forgiveness reigned; in fact, it had already happened without me realizing it.

And when I realized (a few days later) just how generous she was, and just what great lengths God went to in order to answer my prayer ...

I sobbed.