Storm Stayed

 It was January 1980. My (then) fiancé and I were sitting on the floor in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace at my brother's apartment. Each of us sipped on a hot chocolate. All the lights were off, and the fireplace exuded wave after wave of nice, dry heat through our sweaters, soaking us in hearty, healing warmth.

It was over 40 years ago. But the memory is just as vivid: the taste of the mini-marshmallows smooth on our tongues, the warmth of the hearth making one side of our faces hotter than the other, the utter peace and joy in that moment, nestled in each other's arms, the crackling and asymmetric thrumming of the flames, the only other sound being our own breathing or the occasional whispered confidence as we gazed into the dancing tongues of fire behind the mesh grate. 

The storm was raging outside: one of those come-out-of-nowhere winter storms when the snow gets into cracks and makes ever-changing desert scenes in swirling snow-devils barely visible in the starlight. That we would possibly not make it to church the next day was the farthest thing from our minds. We were lost in the dwindling flames, kept just as hot by the glowing embers as the clock slipped past one o'clock, then two. We were loath to leave it, because it meant I would head to the guest room and he to the sofa. So we lingered.

Free image by Capri23auto at Pixabay.

That scene flashes into my mind when there's "nothing on TV" and I see that the Fireplace channel is featuring a roaring fire in Banff or les Laurentides... without music. The decision to change the channel is not hard! 

With just the sound and appearance of the flames, without any of the deleterious side effects of wood smoke (stuffy nose, watery eyes, etc.), somehow my body feels warmer, and that peaceful, relaxed feeling slips over my tired soul and lulls me into an extreme state of mindful gratitude. Sometimes I even drift off into a doze and catch myself nodding off. My head jerks upward - did anyone see? Nobody would care anyway - they were doing the same thing.

I even enjoy seeing the wood become charred, like rows and rows of charcoal, black alligator hide all aglow with dancing fire-creatures, the flames burning lower and lower until the embers seem lit from within: last, brilliant jewels of their former glory. 

Other memories surface. Sitting in a cozy living room in Dorchester, New Brunswick listening to the flames inside a wood stove and enjoying their heat to the music wafting up from my brother's Ovation guitar. Singing along with him in harmony ... and wondering if life got much better than this. I had long since put my own guitar down, fingertips throbbing, but he kept going - joying in a gift re-given when he recovered from a woodworking accident enough to be able to play his "axe" again.

All those images, sensations, sensory memories of times gone by, swirl around me like the flames swirl around the logs they consume. I am in the fire, and I AM the fire. I both consume and I am consumed. There is no difference. Past, or future, only feeds into the now. I bow my head and fuel my own flame. 

And here, surrounded by the crackles and the wisps of smoke, I am more easily able to wait. Time becomes an abstraction. Minutes, hours, days ... all meld into the moment of becoming who I am. 

Drinking it in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keeping Christmas

"And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!" - A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

I know, I know. It's too soon to talk about Christmas for most of my readers. Notable exceptions exist of course (Anne, Stephanie, I'm talking to you wonderful ladies!)

I used the above quote because when people refer to someone as a Scrooge, they mean the miserly old skin-flint in the "before" picture and not of the "after." In the same way, a "Grinch" is a mean-spirited, selfish person who hates Christmas. Yet in the story by Dr. Seuss, "the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day" and he ended up being sweet and generous! 

Christmas 2014 - everyone gets in on the fun!

When I was a little kid, I heard stories of my dad waking my mom up at 3:30 a.m. just because it was Christmas. He couldn't wait to see our faces when we opened our presents, to see the wonder and hear the laughter of that day. It was his favorite day of the year. And he didn't get anything else out of the day. We had no money to give him a present. His joy, his Christmas spirit, came from giving to those who had no way to return the favor. 

What a wonderful feeling that is! I've had occasion - here and there - to experience that kind of excitement in anticipation of someone opening a gift that I have made or bought for them. It is truly magical. And it doesn't matter if it's for Christmas, or their birthday, or even "just because." I don't expect anything in return. It just blesses me to bits to be able to give to them something that they need or want - that they like - and that they will cherish and use. 

So, perhaps we can "keep Christmas" all year round. Wouldn't that be great? If everyone had that spirit of gratitude, generosity and goodwill all year, how much sweeter life would be! Folks would be much easier to get along with ... as long as there was no trace of obligation or duty involved ... and therefore, no mad rushing about in the stores, no impatience in parking lots, or any of that. 

How much fuller life would feel with that kind of attitude - to give is better than to receive - present not just at Christmas but every day? How it would transform each of us to find joy in giving to those who have no hope of ever paying us back (which isn't the point anyway)!! Hungry, homeless people, people with hardly two nickels (or tuppence) to rub together, could eat, be warm, and have their daily needs met through the generosity of those who love to give! 

Isn't that worth more than getting the latest gadget for ourselves? 
I'll leave that thought with you, as it has been burning in me. 

And happy Christmas to you!

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. 

This Old House

It doesn't look like much from the top of the hill where the old church sits.  It looked like even less when I was growing up, shaped like those children's drawings of their house, taller than it was wide, with windows that looked like rectangular eyes. Dad always said that it looked like a "two-storey outhouse." It was nothing more than part of someone else's house when it was moved to the property in 1954. Dad, providing for his oldest son and pregnant wife, closed off the open end and built the second storey. Though it served the purpose, it wasn't much to look at.

But it was home. All the rooms were cramped, and there was never enough space to put things, but there was always - miraculously - room for one more person to share a meal. I remember one family gathering where there were nineteen people there for the meal and we ate at two tables plus a child's table to accommodate everyone. 

When my brother's marriage ended, and he had nowhere else to go, they opened their arms wide and the house became home again to him. Dad realized that their other children had homes of their own, but that this child no longer had that luxury. He insisted that the family home pass to this son. My mother honoured his request only a few short years ago.

Photo "Childs Drawing Made With Chalk" courtesy of
m_bartosch at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Dad had always wanted to "build on." He never saw that day, but in 1994, about a year after he passed away, Mom got a contractor's license and contracted the work out herself. That's how the house got an extra bedroom, bathroom, dining room, and living room, all on the main floor, and the stairs got relocated to the "new part." This opened up the old living room to convert to what is essentially a bedroom with a TV in it.  This is where my brother sleeps now.

The walls of this old house have rung with laughter. They have dripped with grief, and fear, and anger. The memories haunt me when I go there to visit, so I focus on the people and not the memories. The last time I was there, Mom was still living there, but now she lives in a hospital room, waiting for someone else to die so that she can be placed in a nursing home ... not by her choice or any of ours. 

It will be hard going back there without her to greet me with a hug ... but go I will, to visit my brother. He and I and this house are linked together. We have all experienced a common history.

It is my brother's ability to manage the house and its expenses that occupies my thoughts lately. He is missing Mom, and having to deal with paying the bills and providing for his needs without help.  If all goes well, though, he will be able to handle this responsibility. 

Although I no longer call this old house "home", I still feel a connection to it, and I want to make sure it is available to my brother for as long as he needs it. I don't know exactly what all that will mean, but the old homestead still has some memories left to build. And I'm willing to do my part to make sure that they are good ones.

An unlikely oasis

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

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

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

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

"Yep - apple. With some ice cream?"

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

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

"We'll share a milkshake. Coffee."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The cost of sharing your life with someone worth missing"*

*  - I am indebted to John Pavlovitz for the quote used as my title - read his original article, entitled "The Day I'll Finally Stop Grieving"  here 
If the link does not work, just copy and paste the following address into your web browser's address bar:  http://johnpavlovitz.com/2015/10/31/the-day-ill-finally-stop-grieving/   

 Once deep grief has touched your life, you are never the same again.  You don't "get over it."  It becomes part of you, just like your glasses (you don't always notice them on your face but they are always there)  - always beneath the surface - affecting you to one degree or another.

At first, it is all you can feel.  Wave upon wave upon wave of pain, sadness, anger, anguish, and love - yes, love - for without love there would be no pain, no sadness.  Those waves can last for weeks, even months, with no letup.  Every moment hurts. The pain is intense, indescribable, searing.  Sometimes it feels like your heart is going to burst out of your chest. It literally physically hurts.  You lose sleep.  You re-experience the trauma of the loss, over and over again. It's all you can think about. Everything you see, everywhere you go, every person you meet is somehow a reminder. 

It's not like every single moment is like that.  There are oases, respites or breaks from the suffering, however fleeting they may be.  But at first, there is no respite. 

After a while, there may be breaks from the relentless onslaught.  I truly believe that humans were never created or designed to experience loss of this kind.  We are eternal beings; separation is not something we were meant to cope with. That being said, the mind can only bear so much before it creates breaks - even minor ones - rays of light piercing the gloom. Life has a way of forcing you to pay attention to it ... even if that paying attention is putting one foot in front of the other, looking after someone else, doing household chores, paying the bills, playing music, or exercising ... or something else. And in the midst of that, inexplicably, there can be moments (however fleeting) where you can forget about the loss. For a while.

Sometimes you can laugh.  I mean, really belly-laugh!  (Part of you feels guilty perhaps, but you DO laugh.) Sometimes (and as time goes on, those sometimes become most-of-the-time) you can enjoy the little things you always did. 

Our belle Arielle (1992-2013) ... in 2012

But there is no escaping that loss.  It's there all the time. The expression "time heals all wounds" is not true.  Time might distance you from the intense, constant pain - but there will always be that pain, and at any time (and you never know what will set it off or when) it can flare to be just as bad as the first day, catch you off guard when it does, and leave you breathless and shaking when the wave passes over you. 

Queen Elizabeth II once said, "Grief is the price we pay for love."  I would add that the more intense the love, and the more invested in the other person's well-being you are, the more intense the grief will be when that person is gone from you.  

I'm not saying you won't remember something that they said and laugh along with the memory. Those times will come, and they are precious when they do.  That's all part of the grieving process too.  Even with that happy memory there will be a pang, though, that inescapable fact of their absence.  It becomes part of your "new normal" ... which is essentially learning to live with missing them.

I know all the platitudes people give you to try to make you feel better (and that could be because they are uncomfortable with how deep your suffering is). You know the platitudes I mean: that your loved one is in a better place, or that God needed another angel (I want to punch people who say that!), yada yada.  The fact remains that the person is gone and you can't get them back - so you have to live the rest of your whole life without them.  You don't stop missing them. You don't stop loving them. And that is as it should be.  You'd be a pretty heartless and unfeeling person if you just "got over it."

So the next time (or any time) someone says to you, "You know, it's been ten months, (or ten years, or twenty years) since you lost so-and-so, isn't it about time you moved on?" ... you can know that this person has never lost someone that close.  And you can be grateful that they haven't experienced the kind of pain you have felt.  Nor would you wish that upon them, truth be told. Besides, missing your loved one is definitely not "not moving on."  It is holding them in your heart. It is honouring them the only way you have left - by NOT forgetting them.

The experience of missing them sucks, yes.  Grief is not pleasant.  However - as John (whom I quoted at the beginning of my post) said, grief is "the cost of sharing your life with someone worth missing." It is by far the highest price to pay and still remain alive, but hear me: it should never be anything to be ashamed of, or to be shamed for. Take it from someone who knows. 

Reviving an old tradition

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

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

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

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

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

I did it anyway. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby

Around 1969 or 1970, a locally famous musician (whose name I was never told) commissioned a locally famous guitar-maker named Frankie Richard to make a new Martin-style guitar for him to use on a television show on which he would be appearing. 

It was a beauty, and Frankie put a lot of care into making it, so the sound quality was rich and full. When the man came to pick up the guitar - for which he was prepared to pay the exorbitant sum of $300 (a lot to pay for a guitar in those days and in that area), he looked it all over and noticed what he considered to be a small flaw in the wood that made up the top of the guitar (which would be facing the camera). He refused to pay the money and left Frankie's shop. 

Frankie wanted to recoup his costs for at least the wood he used and when he heard that my dad was looking for a guitar to give to his son, he slashed the price to "at cost" and sold it to his friend for fifty dollars.

Fifty dollars. 

My brother loved that guitar. He played it, wrote songs with it, took it on ministry trips to sing with me and my other brother as a trio - built all kinds of memories with it over the next seven years or so. 

He frequently left it standing by the door of my room - and when he wasn't there, I'd pick it up and play it (instead of the old Barrington my dad had said I could use to learn on because both the boys had learned on it - the one where the frets were about 1/4 inch from the strings: ouch!) I had learned to play when I was about 10 or thereabouts, and to pick when I was about 12 or 13. My style was vastly influenced by my brother's and by the music he listened to: John Denver, James Taylor. 

Sometimes he would catch me playing it and he would get upset with me - rightly so, of course - but the attraction of the instrument and how easy it was to play (compared to "mine") always brought me back to it. 

Fast forward to 1976. Our trio, which we called the Three Grains of Wheat, was scheduled to go and sing at a church in the Maritimes with the New Christian Singers on the upcoming weekend. It was a Thursday, I think. I was rushing around trying to get some chores done, and I opened my bedroom door quickly to go get something . My brother's guitar was leaning against some of my clothes I had hung on hooks that were by the door. The clothes overlapped the door jamb, and when the door opened, the clothes pulled away from the wall, and the guitar started to fall.

You know those moments that seem to happen in slow motion but all too quickly too? that was one of them. I tried to catch the instrument ... but I wasn't quick enough. 

It fell forward ... and hit the floor. Cra-wannnnnngggg! (I'll never forget that sound. It seemed to last forever.)

I gasped, horrified at what I saw happening before my eyes.

The neck of the guitar cracked at its weakest point, a jagged crack back to front at the top of the neck, tilting the head forward and making the guitar useless. 

I felt sick to my stomach. The guilt was overwhelming! I knew I had to tell my brother what had happened, and that it had been my fault because I'd been playing the guitar and I had leaned it against those clothes by the door!  

I told my dad what happened. (I'm not exactly sure why he was home, but it might have been his vacation). He was disappointed but he never said it, nor did he punish me; he could see the guilt of what I had done was punishment enough. He turned his attention to the next pressing question. His son was without a guitar and he had a commitment to play and sing ... in just days. 

In desperation he called Frankie and told him what happened (without going into details, bless him!) He asked him if he had another guitar of the same style already made. Miraculously, Frankie did... and Dad busied himself with arrangements to pay for it. He never told me how much he paid for the replacement. I'm sure it was at least a hundred dollars. 

Meanwhile, I prepared myself to face my brother when he got home from work. My face was tear-streaked and puffy; I had been crying a lot because I was so afraid of his reaction. When he got home, I took him aside and said, "I've got something I need to tell you." He saw the look on my face, the red-rimmed eyes and the puffy cheeks and knew it wasn't good. In tears and sobs, I told him what I had done and I apologized profusely for it. I told him that Dad was going to get him a new one - but that it could never replace the one I'd broken.

His face was a study, a mixture of shock, sadness, fear, and then relief mixed with ... with something else I couldn't figure out. He watched me closely as I struggled for the words to say to him, waited wordlessly for me to finish. Then quietly, he said, "I want to see it."

Feeling miserable, I took him up the stairs and showed him the guitar. He picked it up and looked carefully at the cracked wood, and stroked the loose strings. I knew he was saying goodbye to his friend.  He laid it carefully down and turned to me. This was when he was going to "let me have it." I braced myself. 

His voice was gentle. "It was an accident, Judy. I forgive you."  The tears again started to trickle down my cheeks ... but he wasn't finished. "Why don't we take the guitar to Dad and see if he can do something with it to fix it. If he can, well, I'll have a new guitar anyway - so if he can fix this one, you can have it." 

I blinked, hard, and just stared at him. 

"I'm serious. If Dad can fix it - and he probably can find a way (you know Dad; he can fix anything) - it's yours." 

I burst into tears and hugged him tight. 

He hugged me back. "I love you, Sis,"  he said in my ear.

We were almost ready to go on the weekend two days later, when Dad appeared with the guitar. Flushed with embarrassed pride, he showed it to us. He had glued the crack, held it closed in a vice while the glue dried, and bolted a metal plate in place on both sides to keep the head from slipping in case the glue didn't do the trick. My brother took it from him, ran his fingers over the strings, tuned them, (it sounded wonderful!) and handed the guitar to me. 

It has been in my possession ever since, a constant reminder of the Grace of God - and the power of true forgiveness. 

I have cradled it often in my arms - it has brought me solace and joy, started conversations and cemented friendships. I named it ... Baby.

Change is Good

Over the last few days - as I've found the time and as I've been able to stay focused - the face of "Get Unwrapped!" has been changing. Maybe you've noticed - maybe not.

You might have remarked that I use fewer photos - and that those I include are actually mine!

As I've come to understand the potentially expensive rules surrounding blogging and in particular, copyright laws, I'm revamping all my archived older posts to limit or eliminate the use of images obtained from the Internet, especially from such places as flickr and Google Images, and some of these will eventually be replaced with my own photos ... or diagrams ... or with nothing at all. Many of my "page hits" have been from people looking for photos of this or that - so I'm trying to let my traffic be more about "content" than about window dressing. 

Of course the dog had to get in on this shot. ;)

Accordingly, I've been monitoring my page hits since I started eliminating borrowed (i.e., stolen [ouch]) images - just to confirm that this is why people have been stopping by - and it appears to be so. 

It's all good. I'm okay with that. Numbers never really mattered to me anyway, and I'd rather have people be attracted to WHAT I'm saying rather than the bells and whistles I put out there. Plus, I don't want to break any laws!!

I'm constantly learning. After blogging for over 2.5 years, I feel like I'm only just starting to come into my own.  I've built a network of blogger friends, and the consistent writing has been a way for me to continue to grow as a person. 

I want to thank you, my faithful readers, for continuing to read, to "like" or "Plus One" - and to make comments here (which is what I prefer of course) or on Facebook or on Google Plus. If you haven't already done so, I encourage to make your "following" official.  

Following is easy! If you want to follow my blog ...

1. Hover your mouse over the right margin of this page, and some gray tabs will pop out - 
2. Slide your mouse pointer over the one that looks like three dots over an island (that's people) ... and a tab will pop out that says "Followers" - and
3. Click on the word "Followers" on that tab, and you'll see where you can become a follower - just click on the "Join this Site" button, and fill in the blanks. 

It's that simple. 

The preceding has been a shameless plug for this blog. (hee hee)

Seriously though, as I've been going through my archives, it's been surprising how much I write about change - about growth, about healing, about honesty and vulnerability, about letting go, and about moving on - and I guess there is a "sameness" to my writing in that regard. I revisit the same topics from different angles, over and over again. I write about these things because I need to write about them... they're part of who I am, what I'm about. And I hope that in doing so, I might have spurred a little thought about what they mean to you as well. 

Finally, my readers, I want to wish you the happiest, holiest, huggy-est and most honest Christmas ever. I can't promise I won't write again before Christmas Day - but just in case I don't - this is me wishing you all the best memories you can possibly make with all those who are dearest to you.

Always.

Taking Time

I've been spending some time lately looking after myself, and one important fact has dawned on me about self-care. To others it might seem to be a no-brainer but to me, it explains (in part) why I never did much of it before, and why I always felt guilty when I did do it.

It takes time. 

I would make time for my husband, for my family, for my friends, for church obligations, for my boss ... and after all that was done, there just wasn't any time for me. I'd drop exhausted into bed at night and the whole thing would start all over again the next day. The only time I seemed to take for me (and even then under protest) was when I'd get so run down that I'd get sick. Even my body was telling me to take some time for me. I wasn't listening. 

When I started therapy in early 2009, one of the first questions asked of me was this: "When was the last time you did anything for yourself, that you wanted to do just because you liked it?" 

I couldn't remember when it was or what I did. Wracking my brain, I did come up with something in 1991: I had taken equitation lessons - English riding, you know, with the helmet and the jumping over fences, that kind of thing. Wait a sec - did I say 1991? That had been 18 years previous! Yikes!

I was a lot skinnier then. A LOT. Almost a hundred pounds skinnier.

Yes, this is a photo from that day in 2003.

I remembered going on a trail ride when my kids were 14 and 11, that would have been 2003. I was much heavier than in 1991. I remembered the poor male attendant and then his assistant joining him in shoving at my hind end to help me mount up; nothing worked, and the saddle started to slip toward my side of the animal. (Shudder.) But I was there for my kids to have the fun of riding, dang-it-all!!. So I looked around and saw a platform with steps up to it. "Take the horse over there, and let me get on from that platform," I told them. It worked, and I did enjoy being on a horse again, but the experience was marred by the lead-up and the snickers of the extremely tall and skinny trail ride staff. It was NOT a happy time for me. To soothe my bruised ego and to finish on a positive note, I took the kids for a milkshake at a nearby diner afterward. They loved it. They wanted to go riding again sometime. I don't remember ever going back, at least not to that particular spot.

I have photos of that day ... somewhere. Fortunately for me, I was the one with the camera, so there are no blackmail photos. (Thank God.)

Back in 2009, in therapy, I recall reliving these experiences and realizing that Judy had taken a back seat ever since, and not out of love but out of shame, out of a feeling of not being worthy, not being adequate. Voices from my past had been all too quick to confirm my opinion of myself. I remember feeling trapped by my physical limitations, and I wanted so badly for things to be different: for me (for one thing) to not be nearly a hundred pounds heavier than in 1991. Every time I'd tried to lose weight, I had gained it back and more beside. My therapist stopped me when I said that. "Someday Judy, when you are healed on the inside, the outside will take care of itself without you even realizing it." And I cried at his faith in me. I didn't even have that much faith in me; how could a stranger know what I was?

I did a lot of crying over the next few weeks and months as I realized how I'd put myself in a corner and let others take the center stage in my life while I wore the "fat, stupid and lazy" dunce cap, self-imposed at that. I began to understand how deep that shame was, how horribly I'd treated myself, how that had spilled out into my relationships with others.

Jack Canfield, the author of the "Chicken Soup for the Soul" series, said once that in order to change something in your life, in order to keep going and press forward instead of giving up, you need to flood your mind with statements and images that remind you of your goal. 

I learned that repetition is so very important. The self-destructive messages I picked up as a child were huge in my life. I had to lovingly parent that damaged inner child and tell her things she should have been told so many years ago: that she was important, that she was worthy, that she was smart, that she was loveable. One of the reasons I said those things to her was because part of me knew that it was true - the logical part of me. Yet the emotional part of me, where she resided, hid from this truth and pooh-poohed it - even sabotaged it. Repetition was the key. It had taken many years of others repeating the wrong message for it to get so entrenched into my psyche. It was not going to change overnight, especially because those same people were shouting those lies to me every day of my adult life as well. So, I set my sights on filling my mind with those statements, to remind myself daily, sometimes several times a day, of what I knew I should have been told and reminded of daily ... decades ago. 

From "A Letter to my Shy Girl"

It took months for that little girl to stop hiding her face behind her hands. It took even longer for her to venture a weak smile, and longer still for her to reach out to my extended hand. I got help - all the help I could use or ever want - from people who believed in me, from inspirational readings like "The Language of Letting Go" by Melody Beatty, and from Psalm 139.  Many, many readings of Psalm 139. I learned to trust my emotions to let me know what was going on inside of me, and not to deny them expression in safe ways. And, as hard as it was for me to go through - I did my homework, every day. I learned what I had to learn, examined what God placed in front of me to look at, even when I didn't want to look. I took responsibility for looking after myself and for restoring relationships I had ruined by behaving selfishly. I learned to forgive - to let go. I learned ... how to live life. 

The lessons I learned then hold me in good stead now. I still have to remind myself of what's important. I still have to talk gently to that little girl, because even though she isn't cringing anymore, she still needs to be parented, reminded that she is precious, valuable, cherished. She has gone from about 5 or 6 years old to being about 10 or 11, but she is still too young to be on her own ... yet. ;)  

However, there is progress. 

The one thing all of this has taught me is that it does take time to heal; that it does take time to do the things I need to do for my own benefit. And it's taught me that it doesn't happen in a moment. I need to TAKE the time that it takes to invest in my own growth. I can't let life happen to me anymore. I need to live intentionally, to immerse myself in gratitude-builders, to work on accepting myself so that I can accept others around me and have enough emotional energy to be able to overflow into others' lives ... in a good way.

Caught unawares

It was 2:40 p.m.  I'd spent the day doing housework, listening to music, watching TV... nothing spectacular.  It was a day like every other day before it and like many days after it would be as well.  

I heard the roar of the school bus going up the road.  "Won't be long now," I murmured to myself, a slow smile on my lips.  

Five minutes later, the storm door slammed.  I heard a thump as her kitbag hit the floor, a couple of flubbling sounds as the winter boots came off and rolled a bit - and, wait for it - everything drowned out in a sound that was so common now that I didn't jump anymore.

"YYYYIPPEEEEEEEEE!" she whooped at the top of her lungs.  

I smiled.  She'd held herself in all day at school and it just HAD to come out.  

She's what a lot of parents might call a "difficult" child. I'd say rather that in comparison to other children, she's always been "more." More perceptive, more intuitive, more intense, more sensitive, more adventurous. I can't say that nurturing her hasn't been a challenge when she and I are so different in personality, but I CAN say that she has brought a never-ending source of variety and spice to my life.  Her positive attitude, her faith, her humour have brightened my days and inspired me, even given me strength to face some of the hardest times in our lives. There have been times that I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't been there to say that everything was going to be okay.  

And it was.

I don't know quite how or when it happened.  I think it might have been while I was dealing with finding myself after decades of being wrapped up in other people (and not in a good way), but she just ... grew up.  All of a sudden I looked around and I was ten years older - and - so was she.  It caught me unawares.

Got this photo at THIS SITE

And now she's talking about leaving.  Not just to get her own apartment in the city, but to go half a continent away into another country.  Never mind the travel cost, the price of health care, or the rules and regulations surrounding visitors to that country and how long they can stay, or whether they can work there (I've heard the job market is fiercely competitive!) 

No, never mind all that. I will miss her presence... that indomitable, relentless, boundless optimism.  And the funny things she says and does - she's had me laughing so many times - so hard the tears stream down my face and my stomach muscles ache.  I will miss knowing about her day, her friends, her hopes and fears. I will miss watching her care for her friends, witnessing her tenacity and her loyalty first-hand.  In my mommy-heart, I still hear her coming home, shouting at the top of her lungs from the sheer joy of living, of being home.  And I wonder where that little girl went, and at what point she said goodbye.  Part of me - the part that wasted so many years - wonders what I could have done or said differently.

I hope she knows that she is loved, so very much!  I trust that she knows that her father and I believe in her, want the best for her, and will always stand our ground if we need to defend her.  I hope she understands that she can always come to us - that our door is open.  I hope that she will always WANT to come to us.  

To come home.

Forgetting it

"Do you remember when..." can be the start of something beautiful, the shared memory of a wonderful time spent together.  Or it could produce just the opposite (such as sharing where we were when a horrible atrocity happened, be it the assassination of a president, the advent of a hurricane, or the crumbling of twin towers and the loss of some three thousand lives). Or it can be the start of a pathway to resolving a long-standing feud or grudge. Or starting one.

Memory is God-given.  It is a tool to remind us of better times and to help us learn from the worst times, to use to help others who are struggling with the same issues we once faced (or still face).  It might not always be pleasant. It might even hurt.  But it's better than the alternative.

Great article on Alzheimer's safety here

When a person starts to lose his or her memory for whatever reason, it can be a frightening, even confusing and distressing thing for the person or for his or her loved ones.  Ask anyone with any kind of dementia (whether Alzheimer's or permanent brain damage from decades of alcoholism!) The reasons are immaterial. Whether someone "can't help it" or "brought this on themselves" by a lifestyle or an addiction ... matters not: once the memory starts to go, it's too late to go back and fix it, so judging serves no purpose.  Forgetting where something is: from car keys to cell phones to where you parked the car to even where a particular store is located - can cause panic and stress.  Forgetting where someone lives when you've been there dozens of times before is frustrating.  Forgetting where you were going when you're half-way there is confusing.  Sitting in a parking lot trying desperately to remember why you came to this store (or how to get home) ... is horrible.  

And it's horrible to watch someone you love going through this memory loss process.  The short-term memory goes first.  Living in denial that there's anything wrong, the sufferers often blame those around them for hiding things, keeping secrets. Or they forget small things that inconvenience others, and then berate themselves when the truth comes to light.  

As the memory loss expands, the baser fears start to come out - and show their true character, which they may have been able to conceal from some people until that point.  And then the long-term memories start to go. Gaps develop in the memory that are small at first - then whole incidents, certain types of behaviors which they deny they ever did or said.  They accuse their loved ones of lying about the past, making things up, contradicting them.  They remember incidents differently than the way they actually happened.  The result is a lot of upset for them and for those who are closest to them.  Eventually they may not even recognize the people who've known them all their lives, a tragic state of affairs.  Some even revert to a child-like state and live in that pre-traumatic era for the rest of their lives, relying on others to meet their every daily need because they are incapable of doing it themselves. 

Witnessing the permanent effects of memory loss on someone's life has made me rethink expressions like "forgive and forget" and "wish I could forget that whole year..." and "forgetting those things which are behind..." all of which refer more to an intentional forgetting - a choice (though the incidents are remembered and can't be forgotten) to not let those unpleasant events define who I am in the now, even though they are a part of my history and I can draw upon them to help someone out of a rut they might be in today.  

I've come to realize that the memories I have, the experiences I have had, can be (as they say in the recycling world) "repurposed." I'd like to think that (whether the memories I have are pleasant or painful) I have lived the life I have lived so that someone, someday, would be able to look at the beautiful things that God has done in my life in spite of the pitfalls, and say to themselves, "She has something special.  I'd like to know what it is."

That would be something to remember.
 

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.   

Sea of Tranquility

I nudge my scrawny, 10-year-old body between two spruce trees, avoiding the prickles and dead twigs protruding from the bottom, and I pause.  I see a carpet of green grass, ringed completely by evergreens so thick that it is difficult to see past, and tricky to navigate on foot.  I allow the safety of this place, its beauty and quietness, to seep into my tired spirit.

My brother had shown this place to me a few years previous.  He called it the "Sea of Tranquility" - named after the same place on the moon - a flat place which was ringed in, protected.  I had visited here several times since.  

I pad silently into the circle.  The summer breeze plays 'in and out the window' between my bare, scabbed knees, war scars from learning to ride a bike.  There is just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away.  The sun soaks heat and restoration into my skin.  Here, the only sounds are the distant chirping of a cricket, the buzz of a couple of grasshoppers singing to each other, and the occasional bird chirping from one of the trees.  So peaceful.  So different.  

I lie down on my back, and lift my thoughts above.  The clouds are playing slow-motion tag, and I watch the birds swooping to catch flies on the fly, above me. My tense muscles start to unclench.  My soul drinks Creation in, like a desert traveler coming upon a natural spring.  Yet in the back of my mind I tell myself, "Mustn't stay here long.  She'll wonder ... and then I'll be in for it."  

The uncut grass blades tickle the backs of my legs.  I rub my calves together to take the prickling feeling away.  Slowly, the miracle of Nature soothes my thoughts, salves my troubles, and gives me just a little more strength.  The mental straitjacket loosens enough for me to catch a breath of the divine.  I allow myself to feel the caress of comfort.  I am not aware that I have begun to smile until a few minutes later, when I catch myself doing it. I close my eyes.

I hear a dog bark; it jolts me from my reverie.  I don't know how long I've been here, but my stomach lurches suddenly in panic.  Not because of the dog; I know all the dogs and they like me.  Not like her.  

I roll over onto one elbow and tuck my knees under me, rocking back onto my feet again.  I take one last look around and fill my lungs with freedom, enough to last me until the next time.  As I breathe out, my spirit says "Thank You," and my heart is resigned to what awaits me.  I tighten the straps around my heart once again, and squeeze past the trees, heading back the way I came.

Bumpity-bump

I have a vivid memory from when I was six years old.  It's a happy memory.  

My grandfather lived down a long mud lane.  He drove a twelve-year-old Chevy truck built in the early 1950s with those bouncy-jouncy shocks that allowed passage over a dirt road but were pretty hard on the occupants.  He smelled like pipe tobacco and all the outdoors.  I loved him with everything I knew how to love with.  He never spoke a harsh word to me.  He was a short man - spry - and generous.  

This memory I have is brief.  It was of a day when my mother and I had been visiting him and Grammie at their house for the morning. I'd spent the morning exploring the property, going down to the edge of the lake, heading back up to the barn, visiting with the cows, hearing the grunts from the pigsty, trying to spy the kittens in the loft. And of course, sitting in Grammie's kitchen listening to her talk about the memories she had of my dad growing up, of adventures he had.  

Grampa offered to drive us back home after lunch, well over a mile if we were to walk, and the footing would have been difficult on that lane.  

We accepted.  

And here starts that memory so vivid I can almost smell the dust off the dashboard, mixed with the other smells I'll describe here. It's one of my earliest memories, so it's full of images, feelings.  Very potent.

Source (via Google Images):
http://www.classic-car-history.com/1947-1955-chevy-truck.htm

He got behind the wheel, and I sat in the middle between him and my mother.  

I loved riding in his truck.  It was so much fun!  Up and down, over the ruts and rills we would go, dangerously close to the edge on both sides of the lane. The ditch went down about fifteen feet on a sharp grade on both sides, so it was important to stay away from the edge.  Yet strangely, I was never afraid of him straying too close to the edge.  I only knew I was with Grampa, and he was driving us home, and that's where we'd end up. I felt safe when I was with him. It wasn't something I was consciously aware of, it just WAS.

Bounce, bounce, bounce...  He navigated the quarter-mile-long lane with calmness and aplomb, confidence and quietness.  I was enjoying the ride, being jounced around almost like a rag doll as we headed toward the main road.  And then I said what I always said, "Here we go again, bumpity-bump in Grampa's truck!"  And he laughed - but not in a shaming way.  His laughter said, "I'm enjoying my granddaughter SO much!"  He knew how to make me feel so important.  He knew neat things like that.  He knew lots of things my other relatives didn't seem to care about.  Like how to feed cows and pigs. That was cool.   


I don't remember getting back home, I just remember that little snippet of bouncing and enjoying the ride over that mud lane with all its ruts and rocks.

A little over a year later, Grampa would die in hospital of internal injuries, after his tractor wheel slipped off the edge of that narrow lane and rolled over and over on its way to the bottom of the ditch.  It truly was a dangerous passageway.  At seven years old, dragged to the scene in a panic by my mother after she received a phone call, I struggled to understand how come the ambulance was there, what had happened to Grampa, why they wouldn't let us near, how come he wasn't climbing up the side of the ditch by himself.  It all seemed so surreal, and totally disconnected from that care-free memory from over a year previous.  

I found myself just recently thinking about that ride with Grampa in his truck, how safe and protected I felt - and pondering in my adult mind how that at any moment we could all have plummeted to injury or death down into that same ditch.  

I guess it's because I'm covering some pretty rough territory lately and it feels rather scary.  And I suppose that it's God's way of telling me, "Trust Me.  I've got the wheel and I know the way.  It's going to be bumpy, too. But that's okay, I'm here.  And I'll NEVER leave you.  I will get you safely home."