A Year Later

I wrote this post back in October 2012 but never posted it.  Not sure why....but today it gets its due.

***

Recently we helped a friend prepare for a estate sale.   She and her now deceased husband lived in one of the most amazing homes in my city ~ an old church (circa 1926) converted into a personal residence.  It's called the Chouse and it's simply beautiful.  Yes, its beauty is the architecture, but it's also because these two made it their home.  They loved animals, music and community and opened it regularly for orphaned cats and dogs (lots of them) and house concerts.

Almost exactly a year ago my husband hosted a house concert for my birthday in this place.  He also surprised me with a very special gift.  He played his mandolin and sang a duet with the artist, Carter Sampson.  Only a few dry eyes in the room as we heard Townes Van Zandt's "If I Needed You".

(Photo credit - Trisha Bunce)

Soon this place will be owned by someone else who will make it their home. We hope they too will experience the grace and beauty of this place.

(Photo credit - Trisha Bunce)

The Passage of Time

Firsts...

    - first birthday of hers
    - first phone call
    - first bad weather check-in
    - first July 4th
    - first birthday of mine
    - first birthday of his
    - first anniversary of theirs
    - first Thanksgiving
    - first Christmas Letter
    - first Christmas Day
    - first New Years

    These have passed without them

    These still to come

     - first anniversary of her passing
     - first anniversary of his passing

When Will I...

    - no longer feel like I'm walking in mud with galoshes strapped to my feet
    - no longer have dark moments feeling so sad
    - no longer remember their last days shrouded in pain

And when will I...

    - remember their sweet smiles,
          their encouraging words,
          the sound of their voices,
          the brightness of their laughter

    - memories of good times

    - memories of wise words and life lessons

The truth is all of this happens together, all at the same time, no straight line.  Some sweet days, some hard days, days of laughter, days of sorrow, lots of mixed days.  Days of normalcy or at least a new normal.

Time is a necessary part of the process.  A necessary ingredient.  Passing days allowing time to do its beautiful work.

Time, annual markers, memories, hugs, laughter, encouragement, tears and gratitudes … all part of the healing.

Grief's Seeds

Feeling kinda sad today.  The reality of Dad's death more real every day...more papers to sign, written correspondence with words "Frank J Holliday - Deceased".  I know it's all part of the process.

I'm cherishing these feelings of grief.  Right now they feel pure and bring healing.  The wounds still so tender.

I ran across this card from a dear college friend that made me cry when I first read it.  Today it reminds me of hope.  Thanks sweet friend!!

Piercings

I've been wanting to post something to the blog.  Over the last several weeks I've started three different posts but nothing is coming together.  I'm wanting to share about my experience reading my story in the OKC Listen To Your Mother show and also about Dad's memorial service and what it meant to me.  I'm getting stuck and discouragement is setting in.  So I'm just going to post some things I've written lately in my journal.

~*~

Trying to make sense of the massive tornadoes (if that is even possible) and the immense destruction in my adopted home state of Oklahoma along with the reality of losing my parents over these last three months.  This is like nothing I've experienced before, though I'm coming to realize that sorrow and sadness live beside the normal living.  Intertwining much like a labyrinth.  Two paths sometimes very close and sometimes very far away.  If I were to blog I would write how grief pierces.

It pains...
It hurts...

Sometimes unexpectedly like realizing  Mom and Dad wouldn't be calling on Monday after the tornado to see if we were okay.  No more check-ins with Mom and Dad.

Sorrow pierces deeply...

As the number of days grows since they breathed their last, the grief is stronger and deeper.  Maybe this will change at some point.  I don't know.  I just know that today with all of this destruction in my adopted state with people loosing all their possessions and in some cases their beloveds...the grief pierces.

I feel out of control.  No that is not right.  With Mom and Dad gone and the fragility of life before my eyes, I feel unmoored like a ship at sea maybe even a little bit lost.  The thing is I don't have some of my grounding voices.  I feel vulnerable in a way I've never experienced before.

~ * ~ 

"My heart is big and sore"...  Brad spoke these words to me in the early days of my Dad's death...a Patty Griffin lyric.  It captures my experience.  With tears in my eyes and snot running out my nose, I wonder and feel like I can't do this.  Why did they have to go now?  Why both within three months of each other?  Don't we still need our parents?  Don't we still need to have someone coach us, guide us and let us know we will be okay and that it will be okay?

I miss them a lot today.  I'm going to cherish this missing and embrace it today.  Quite unexpectedly sweet memories came back to me the other night triggered by couples dancing at a benefit concert for the tornado recovery.  I remember their smiles.  Their connection.  Their faces.  How they placed their hands in each others while they danced.  They were so cute.  I remember Dad's feet, his cowboy boots...gracefully sliding across the floor leading and guiding.  Mom's feet following, lightly sliding across the floor with beauty.  Her beautiful frilly orange square dance dress.

My first day back at work two days after Dad's service, I heard his voice of encouragement in my heart...the importance of getting back to a regular routine.  I remembered him and felt like he was with me that first day back to work.

From my Dad's co-workers
(click to see details)

Last Monday when driving home from work after the tornado, I again felt his words of encouragement.  On an unfamiliar road I could hear his voice to keep going.  I knew where I'd traveled from my starting point and although I was on an obscure tiny road, I still knew where I needed to end up.  I knew how to keep track while driving.  When I was a little girl while taking trips I'd ask Dad if we were traveling east, west, south, north, etc.  He prepared me.  He gave me tools.  I knew how to get home from an unfamiliar place.

So today this is my encouragement.  This is an unfamiliar place and scary at times, but I have tools.  I have preparation.

Also, I don't have to do this alone.  I have community around me.  We all do and it is okay to lean on that in these times.  So today in my sorrow and sadness I will remember I can get through this.  Strength sometimes looks like weakness and fear, and sometimes strength comes out of weakness and fear.

And that is OK.  Blessings to my sweet state of Oklahoma. 

"Our Pink Buddies" - Listen To Your Mother - OKC

Here is my piece I read at Listen To Your Mother - Oklahoma City (LTYM-OKC) on Sunday.  I am blessed beyond measure.  This experience has been both a balm and an oasis in my grief for my Mom and now for my Dad.  I'm so, so, so grateful that my friend, Misti, encouraged me to submit a story just a few weeks after Mom died while my grief still raw.  Little did I know my dad would pass away just 12 weeks later during the week between our rehearsal and the show.  My sisters encouraged me to stay in Oklahoma and read my story to honor both my Mom and my Dad.  I couldn't have done it without knowing they were with me in spirit.  As I approached the podium I paused and thought about them being on my right and on my left.  I love you SO much sisters!!!

        

Our Pink Buddies

by Lisa Raley

Things my mom touched, folded, wore; they mean much more to me now knowing her fingers held these things.  My sister recently sent a few small, silly things.  Each item brings tears.  Her beautiful pink fingernail polish, some lipstick, note cards, her favorite blue pens.

The other day I ran across a note from my mom written about a year ago.  I‘d sent her some recent blog posts about our dogs and mentioned I was taking a writing class.  She enclosed an especially meaningful picture of two foxes in a winter scene snuggled up close to one another. Her note said:

Hi Lisa - The enclosed picture from this week's Time magazine reminded me so much of you and your pets.  Somehow it really clicked with me and I wanted you to see it.  I'm so glad you are taking the writing class.  You get and give so much by sharing your thoughts.  

She ended the note "You are much loved, Lisa," signed it "Mom" with a big blue smiley face from one of her blue pens, something she always did when closing letters.

I planned a trip to visit my parents at the end of January.  I flew out on a Thursday morning and while on the shuttle up from the airport, my sister called with news that Mom fell.  We soon learned she broke her hip.

The weekend before my trip I happened to buy several stuffed animals.  I know it sounds silly, but I bought them in one of those moments you can’t really explain.  The previous day I’d had a painful conversation with my father, painful not because of words spoken, but because of words not spoken ~ words I very much wanted to hear.  I felt like I was five again with that unspoken desire "Pick me!"

For the most part I worked through the biggest internal knots, but was still worrying through some smaller ones.  I’d run to the grocery store for a few items and was stopped instantly by a display chockfull of pink Valentine's Day Beanie Babies.  I looked at the display and nearly burst into tears.  Something about those sweet, big beady-eyed creatures sent me a huge "You are loved....so very, very loved," the same message my mom penned in her note.  So two of those little creatures ended up in my basket:  a plump, round guy with a silly grin and a pink gorilla with red hair and the sweetest little face that just said "please take me home."

While at the hospital with my mom I got to spend some time alone with her.  She was a bit unsettled and struggling with questions about the surgery and her broken hip.  I decided earlier that morning to bring the pink guys with me since they’d helped me through a sleepless night.  I pulled them from the backpack and set them on her hospital bed.  She, like me, was instantly taken by them.  She picked them up and smiled.  She caressed them and kissed them just like I had done.  She kept them in the bed with her.  At one point the round, little guy rolled off the bed.  When I got back to her room she pointed at the floor and I knew exactly what she wanted. I also learned another story about Mom and the buddies.  Their pastor and wife came for a visit and Mom had fallen asleep while they prayed with her.  As they quietly turned to leave they noticed her grasping for something and they realized she was reaching for the pink buddies to hold close.

~*~

My mom and I were close at times and we had fond connections, but we also struggled.  Seems at times we affected each other deeply and sometimes not in a good way.

On the day of my mom’s surgery I wrote her an email.  My subject line was, "My dearest Mommy” and I wrote these words:

Mom - So glad I was able to be with you this weekend and sit beside you at the hospital.  It was an honor and joy.  I will see you this morning and after your surgery.  You will be reading this email after your recovery.   

I just wanted to whisper in your ear that you are deeply, deeply loved and so cherished.  By your family for sure (Dad, Marcie, Pam and I) and most importantly I know for a fact by the Lord.  I know that when He thinks about you, He has a smile on His face.  How those little pink buddies came to be your companions at the hospital is a peek into this.  I knew I needed to bring them from Norman, but didn't know why.  It was for you!!! 

You are a delight, Mom, and always remember that you are special, so very special.  When you hear voices otherwise, you remember those pink buddies because they came with me to deliver this message to you.   

Love you so much,
Lisa

My mom never got to read the email.  Although, she made it through surgery, several days later she contracted pneumonia and died soon after.  It was just too much.  In some ways I wasn't completely surprised by her death.

~*~

So the pink buddies are back with me.  I set them together on our bakers rack in the kitchen and I see them everyday.  They make me smile.  I remember my mom holding them and finding comfort in them.  I remember their message that I am loved, but mostly I remember my mom died knowing that I loved her and that she loved me.

P.S.  Check out the all the Listen To Your Mother videos on YouTube especially the ones from our OKC show.  They are all so good!!

Sheltered

I took pictures of my tulips several weeks ago.  This isn't the best photo but I liked it most.  My eyes gravitate toward the bottom.  Covered by a broad tulip leaf is a sweet yellow pansy.

The day after I took this photo a raging hail storm rushed through and the tulips took the brunt (along with our roof).  They looked nothing like they had and the leaves were shredded.  The pansy, though tattered, was still intact.

I feel like that pansy today in the middle of a hail storm.  My dad is really, really struggling.  Readmitted to the hospital a few days ago with a blood infection and at this time not able to do most "activities of daily living" or ADLs.  (I now know a very important marker in the world of health care.)

This morning when I walked into his room my gaze settled on face, his closed eyes, his body under the blankets.  I quietly said good morning.  His eyes opened and he recognized me and my sisters.  I asked how he's doing.  He said he'd had a tough, tough night.  Essentially confessed that the nurses received the brunt of his frustration.  Then his face pinched, his eyes flooded with tears and he said, "I miss your Mom.  I miss your Mom so much.  I miss talking with her.  I miss her presence."  A sacred moment.  Another sacred moment.  Another moment to share in my parents' vulnerability.  This is so not easy.

My dad is not an emotional man.  Very smart, very capable, very methodical, an engineer by profession.  Now 95% of his "ACLs" are done for him.  So grateful for two mercies.  He still holds a fork, a spoon, a pen.  Still uses his stylus to navigate through his iPhone, checking the news, and his calendar.  His mind still sharp as a tack.

When I wrote those seven "P" words about grief I had absolutely no idea what was on the horizon.  This transition and season of grief is like nothing I've experienced.  At one point in my life when pondering the loss of my parents, I wondered if that loss would completely and entirely crush me.  That it would entirely possess me.  Today I'm grateful it hasn't.  Just as the word "potent" scared me when it initially came to mind, "possess" scared me, too.  I've known periods of tormenting fears and being engulfed by its grip.  Being possessed by grief is something I want to avoid.  This I want to avoid:

to bring or cause to fall under the influence, domination, or control of some emotional or intellectual response or reaction (bolding mine). *

I don't want to be dominated by grief, but desire its important work to be accomplished in my life.  This is what I want:

to have as a faculty, quality, or the like:  to possess courage. *

So this gives me pause.  Do I possess the courage to walk this path of grief?  It is bound to come.  We cannot avoid it.  We cannot step out of the way, jump over it or stop it.  I can either accept it or deny it. In less than three weeks I will read my story for Listen to Your Mother Oklahoma City, the rehearsal one week prior on what would have been my Mom's 75th birthday.  To walk this path will require courage and strength from a place I don't know today, but I'm trusting will come.

There are times when stories in the Bible speak to a deep place in my life.  The first chapter of Joshua has been one of those and one that helped me overcome those tormenting fears.  Today with much grief and sorrow I take courage in them once again.

"The Lord spoke to Joshua son of Nun, Moses’ assistant.  

The Lord said, “My servant Moses is dead.  

Now you and all these people go across...

Be strong and brave... 

be strong and brave! ... 

Remember that I commanded you to be strong and brave.  

Don’t be afraid, because the Lord your God will be with you."  

Joshua 1:1, 2, 6, 7, 9 (NIV)

(bolding mine)

* reference - Merriam-Webster:  possess 

Dawning

Yesterday while listening to music I heard this lyric by Gretchen Peters.

...and in five minutes your whole life can change...

The words capture these last few months.  Six weeks ago Mom was in surgery and within a few short days everything changed.  These days memories of my mom come freely.  Thoughts of her frequent. Occasionally, I look up at the sky with my eyes closed and tears happen.  

I've been thinking about those seven words I wrote about grief.  At the time I had no idea that in eleven days Mom would breath her last.  The word "potent" caught my attention today.  The word scared me at first, but today it brings comfort especially this definition:  

achieving or bringing about a particular result: effective

These words bring hope that this process not only will be effective but is effective; effective today. This grief will achieve and bring about a particular result.  It won't leave me hanging.  I trust it will be good.  

Her loss, my loss, still wedged deeply, yes
...but wedged sweetly, too.  

I don't know if I will always feel her loss this way, but today it is ok.    

Sacred Moments

The morning hours are hardest.  The house quiet.  Missing Mom.  Thinking about her smile; about her eyes, blue like the sea.

Pondering two sacred moments.  Recent days in Colorado.  My mom's lumbar hurt terribly after surgery; she rolled on her side her gown gaped open.  I massaged her upper back.  She affirmed yes in quiet pained breath.  I gently caressed her skin; beautiful ivory showing her 74 years of age.  Lower, she said, and I could feel the muscles, holding tight, protecting.  My thumbs pressed into the tension filled places. Still lower she said.  Her entire backside from the top of her bottom to her hip, holding tight.

In that moment with her backside completely laid bare, so vulnerable; it was sacred.  Her bandages soaked with fresh blood from newly sutured skin encasing her replaced hip.  Sacred, yes sacred.

My mother gifted me birth.  In her womb I was fashioned and formed; born in mid October in Mid Autumn; seasons changing.

With dad just eight days later. Grieving my mother's death and our loss at her memorial service. Later at home with him in grief and physical pain; his hands unable to grasp the tiny buttons to shed his dress shirt. He looked so handsome, donned his beloved cowboy boots perhaps one last time.  His voice in tender request to unbutton his sleeves; his shirt. Tender sacred moments.

I hung his suit, returned his boots and tie to his closet; wondered about Mom's clothes.  When is it time to remove, to reduce...what is the word...to simplify...?   The word is not present today.

Together their embrace, the mystery of conception three times; me the last.

My Pink Provisions in Grief

Perhaps I can write some words of explanation about my grief.  I mentioned in my post about our cabin that my father's health has declined quickly over the last 6 months.  His doctor essentially said he was just plain out of ideas and suggested sending Dad to Mayo Clinic.  We heard this week that they accepted his case which is great news.  So why the grief?

My father has always represented stability and strength to me.  Although he's had his share of health issues over the years, this is different.  His grit and sheer determination which has served him well up to this point (for the most part) isn't working anymore and his ability to control his situation is limited.  Several weeks ago while visiting on the phone all of the sudden he said "Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" in a very, very scared voice.  I've never heard him sound like this before.  Within a few seconds he recovered and told me he almost fell over.  He's lost feeling in both legs up to his knees due to peripheral neuropathy so even driving isn't much of an option for him now.  In that moment his fragility hit me like a ton of bricks.

I want to help my father and encourage him through this last season of his life however long this lasts, but today I'm twisted up with frustration, disappointment, and grief from a painful conversation with him on a call yesterday.  It's still got my insides tangled in a few knots even though I've untangled the biggest ones.  

This afternoon I ran to the grocery store for a quick purchase and was stopped instantly by a display chock full of pink Valentine's Day Beanie Babies.  I looked at the display and almost burst into tears.  Something about all these sweet, big beady-eyed creatures staring back at me sent me a huge "You are loved....so very, very loved" message and these two little things ended up coming home with me.  The one on the right reminds me that sometimes we all act like Monsters (he's from the Monstaz collection) but inside we are special and the guy on the left just said, "please take me home."  (I even went back for him after I grabbed everything off my list).

I'm going to visit my parents next week for a few days.  It's an important trip, but it also makes me quite anxious.  I've decided these two little guys are going with me to remind me of my love for my parents and that I do love them (even when they act less than lovely) and that I'm pretty special, too.

 

As I write this post they are now sitting beside my keyboard.  I'm really glad I bought them and brought them home.

Holder of Family Secrets

I've been pondering a lot about this notion of family secrets and how they impact not only the generation most closely affected but also subsequent generations.  It's the moon impacting the tides.  Two seemingly separate things, but intimately bound together.

A dear friend wrote me a personal email after reading my previous post on this topic.  We had a great conversation and she helped me gain the clarity about family secrets and what I wanted to talk about here on this blog.  I mentioned that my frustration revolves around not being able to talk about these secrets within the family and yet they have shaped and still shape some of our interactions.  I feel strongly that healthily incorporating this fact into our story will enable clearer connections.  Although the topics are known, they are only spoken about in hushed tones and only for the minimalist of moments.  One particular family secret is intimately connected with our 80-year old family cabin.

Several years ago I updated my blog template and used a picture of the sky above the cabin as my banner.  I took the picture on a day trip with my dad back in 2006 during one of our visits to Colorado.  I took lots of photos both inside and out and later used them in a video montage Brad and I put together for my parents 50th wedding anniversary.

Sky above the Nash Fork of the Little Laramie River in Wyoming

The cabin was built in 1929 by my great-grandparents on my dad's side.  They along with several families from the community built "summer homes" in a cove off the highway.  Little of the physical structure has changed over the years.  The most "recent" was adding electricity in the 1950s.  Although we have an electric hot plate, most food is cooked in a wood burning stove which keeps the cabin warm along with the fireplace.  We have an enclosed porch with a bed, a fairly good size living / kitchen area (all one room), and a back bedroom with two beds and a back door which incidentally is the way to the outhouse ~ correct no indoor plumbing of any kind.

My dad at the entrance just off the highway.
Our cabin is straight back and to the left just inside the cove of trees.
(circa 2006)

My great-grandparents had four children and the cabin now belongs to their families.  Ownership is governed by a trust put in place by my dad.  The last of the original four died earlier this year and due to my dad's declining health he wanted to understand me and my sisters' wishes regarding our fourth of the cabin.  This summer he talked to each of us individually trying hard not to influence our decision.  If we were not interested in keeping it then he thought it best to release our fourth before he died. 

Our Cabin - circa 2006

The cabin has always been a special place to me and for a long time was my most favorite place on earth.  Only two and a half hours from my childhood home and 45 minutes from both sets of grandparents, we traveled to the cabin multiple times every summer.  We opened it Memorial Day just after the last snow (removing internal posts and external shutters) and closed it in early September before the first snow (putting up post and shutters).  Usually we went up at least one other time during the summer and sometimes just for a noon picnic while visiting our grandparents in Laramie.  Names like Lake Marie, Brooklyn Lake, Little Brooklyn Lake, and Medicine Bow Peak have many attached memories.

My dad tells me that my great-grandmother and great-grandfather often went during the winter and even my oldest sister and brother-in-law honeymooned there after their winter wedding back in the early 1980s.  Snowy Range Road (Highway 130) closes to vehicle traffic several miles east of the cabin during the winter months so snow-shoeing or cross-country skiing a requirement.

Main room with the winter posts still intact.
The wood burning stove is to the right.

Recently while walking the dogs, my husband and I talked about what we (really me) wanted to do about the cabin.  I shared that it seemed "life made sense" at the cabin.  As a little girl I didn't know why my dad's last name differed from his siblings or my beloved grandfather's.  I didn't understand why my sisters and I had a "third grandmother" (actually great-grandmother) with our last name that we regularly visited, but my cousins on my dad's side never did.  These cousins never went to the cabin except when we were there.  They were always guests, a feeling foreign to me in this place.

On reflection I don't remember when I first learned our family's secret.  It seemed I always knew my dad's dad died when he was a small boy just two years old.  Knowledge of the cause by his own hand was told to me a number of years later, but I don't remember the specific conversation.  My family never talked about it openly and rarely if ever did my birth grandfather come up in conversation especially around my grandmother.  Memories and markers always avoided.

I think this is why the cabin has a mythic quality of sorts.  This summer during a family reunion I learned that my dad's dad built the cabin's back bedroom.  His hands touched these walls and his feet walked in this place.  Perhaps this is why the cabin means so much to my father.  In this place is a definite connection to his father, someone he never knew.  This importance he transferred to me and my sisters both consciously and unconsciously.

From the river below

During that walk with my husband he described this place as the "holder" of family memories, the family legacy and the family myth.  I knew he was right when he spoke these words.  They beautifully frame my experience, but until I wrote the previous paragraph I didn't grasp the full truth.  This is the only place on earth where my father walks where his father walked, opens doors he opened, builds fires or eats meals.  This is his place of connection.

I know I've got more to write and more to puzzle through regarding the ongoing impact of this family secret, but for now this is a good place to rest.

Blessings.

Finding My Stories

In my attempts to "Reach Out" more in 2010, I want to share some of my stories. Maybe it's actually getting back my stories. Last week at lunch with my Wednesday lunch friend, I shared about an "untangling" that's happening in my life. A painful, but good untangling.

This is an old, old pain and one with lots of layers and a long cyclical history. Some of the tentacles are from being a "causality of war" in a family confronting its own issues and the resulting family dysfunctions and coping mechanisms that inevitably result.

As we talked something in what I shared evoked a memory in my friend of an NPR story from several years ago. Out of pure giving, a man sat on the Washington DC mall with his typewriter and listened to people's stories. He then typed up a short paragraph on what he heard, in essense giving back their story. Tears welled up in her eyes. I asked why. Her answer was, "I would be so honored to give people back their stories."

I don't know exactly what this means, but it touched a broken place in my heart. Perhaps because in some ways I feel like my family after at least 35 or 40 years of sobriety have never dealt openly with the wreckage of addiction and codependency. In the hidden turmoil, I think I lost my stories or lost those things most precious to me. Maybe this "reaching out" is a way for me to reclaim what's most meaningful to me.

Recently my city was hit by several damaging tornados. Dear friends of our neighbor lost their house. They've returned to the property several times recovering what they can and hoping to find their most precious things. (We recently heard they found a very dear 1929 banjo; a treasured possession of the wife who is an artist and musician.). We all know it's a long painful process for this family. They are grateful to be alive and now they face the destruction; sifting, sorting, remembering ... keeping, tossing ... weeping, expressing gratitude.

They can't just walk away from their house and possessions and yet it feels like my family "walked" away from the wreckage once sobriety came. Few acknowledgements of the dysfunctions that contributed to the addiction or that grew from coping with the confusion.

At lunch my friend also shared a story from the Big Book that so aptly applies. Here is the full text:

The alcoholic is like a tornado roaring his way through the lives of others. Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead. Affections have been uprooted. Selfish and inconsiderate habits have kept the home in turmoil. We feel a man [*or a family member] is unthinking when he says that sobriety is enough. He is like the farmer who came up out of his cyclone cellar to find his home ruined. To his wife, he remarked, "Don't see anything the matter here, Ma. Ain't it grand the wind stopped blowin'?" (pg. 52)

[* comment added by my friend.)

So I take courage from those facing the turmoil and loss from the tornados and I begin sifting through my stories. I hope to find those most precious to me even if they might show water damage, broken glass, or only a partial picture.

I am believing there is beauty even in these.

NOTE: Tornado photo courtesy KOCO.

One, two, Three...the answer is Three.

A funny memory came back to me today. My co-worker has a candy dish on his desk full of Hershey kisses, starbursts, jolly ranchers, and tootsie roll pops. I haven't seen a Tootsie Roll pop in ages. My defenses were down (stress up) and I grabbed one of the suckers. I instantly remembered when I was about 9. My middle sister (11 at the time) decided she would answer the question posed at the end of the famous commercial. She licked and licked and licked and licked...each time keeping track on a pad of paper.

Me on the other hand. One, two, three...crunch.

P.S. Guess what my sister does for a living. She's an accountant. Me...not an accountant. :)

So I'm a 21st century dork

This morning I took the dogs for a walk while B was running errands. About 100 feet from the house, I noticed the car in the driveway. I whipped out my cell phone and called home. When B answered (he knew it was me since we each have a special ring tone on our phone for each other) and I said, "I'm a dork. Guess where I am?" We both laughed and I walked 30 paces home.

Scholastic Book Club Order

Do you remember back in elementary school when our Scholastic Book Club orders would arrive? ...order form neatly wrapped around the books with a thick rubber band...the wonderful smell...the sound of crackling pages...the beautiful book covers.


Yesterday my husband received a book order with some research money. He ordered five books: one hardbound and 4 paperbacks. As he handed me the books I instantly transported back to 3rd grade. I looked at each book, flipped through, and of course smelled the pages. I asked my husband if he remembered Scholastic Books. He said "YES!" With a laugh I said, "this is a scholastic book order on steroids." We both laughed and reminisced. It was a cool moment.


So here's to Scholastic Book Club!! Three cheers!! (Here is a pic of my MOST favorite Scholastic books by Ruth Chew.)

Sisters and Banana Bread

The other day I was talking with my sister on the phone. We talk often, but only see each other about once a year if that. She lives across the country in a different time zone.

I multi-task pretty well, but this is not the case when I’m on the phone or cooking. As my husband can attest, I’ve thrown away a number of wrecked things because we were talking while I was baking. I end up using the measurement for the ingredient listed below. Use baking soda instead of baking power. Or leave out an ingredient altogether.

My sister and I were having a pretty in-depth conversation and she knew I was baking. I was baking banana bread and wanted to double the recipe. I doubled the sugar and oil with ease and mixed it together. Beat my eggs and mashed up my bananas (7 total). No problem.

When I got to the dry ingredients the doubling math took its toll (and I’m pretty good at math). We stopped our conversation literally until I got all the dry ingredients measured and mixed in. I apologized for not being more focused on our conversation. She laughed and said the neatest thing.

“If I were in your kitchen we would do the same thing. We would stop the conversation momentarily and then we’d start right up again.” She’s right.

We sometimes lament the fact that we don’t live closer and can’t cook together, meet for lunch, or have family meals together. Yet this day we cooked bread together and this miracle called the telephone made it seem like she’s just across town. ☺

P.S. Here’s my banana bread recipe.

Banana Bread

½ c cooking oil
1 c sugar
3 eggs, beaten
3 ripe bananas, mashed
2 c flour
1 tsp baking soda
½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
3 Tbsp milk
½ tsp vanilla
½ c nuts (optional)

Preheat oven to 350°. Beat oil and sugar together. Add eggs and bananas. Beat well. Add dry ingredients, milk and vanilla. Mix well. Stir in nuts. Pour in greased pan (9x5x3). Bake 1 hour. (Insert toothpick to check for doneness. Should come out clean.)

Grandma's Wedding Wish

My grandmother wrote these words to me when I got married a number of years ago. In the card she wrote,

"Keep in mind this little wedding wish which was with one of our wedding gifts and has really helped when there have been a few rough times in our 55 years together. I love you, Grandma Marie"

I love you, too, Grandma!

Together in Death

My grandmother and grandfather passed away earlier this year. Grandad died in late December and Grandma died about one month later. My grandfather was in generally good health for a 98 year old up until his last 4-6 months.

Their deaths are sweetly poetic to me. Although Grandma's health deteriorated several years earlier, I believe she clung to life so her beloved could precede her in death. They lived in their house many years beyond what was safe (in my opinion), saying that as long as they had each other they would be okay. It was next to impossible to convince them otherwise, but I guess they knew when the time was right. In their mid 90s they finally agreed they needed more assistance, so they moved from their home of 70 years.

Mom decided to have the interment service this summer when Wyoming weather isn't so bitterly cold. I'm glad she made this decision. It was a sweet moment to celebrate their lives on a warm sparking sunlit day. We remembered their lives together. I'm glad that their earthly remains were committed to the earth together. I loved them both very much.

My Favorite Appliance

I had a weird thought the other day. The question came to mind, "What is my favorite appliance?". I knew the answer immediately. My favorite is our dishwasher. You see, my sweet husband installed it 5-6 years ago. Luckily our kitchen had some extra cupboard space for we had to give up 3 large drawers. Every lost drawer was WORTH IT. It isn't an exaggeration to say every time I punch the on button, I feel grateful. Grateful to my husband and grateful to the person who invented the first dishwasher.

What an amazing appliance. Put the dirty ones in...put in the soap...close the door....punch the button...60 minutes later the dishes are sparkling clean. Simply amazing.

Thanks, doll!!

Equality and Equal Standing

Here is my first installment on church memories, which influenced me for good and calling me to live out Jesus’ commands.

During the Christmas Eve service back in December I noticed that all the acolytes were female. Tears welled up as I remembered the times I, too, served as an acolyte back in the 1970s. My oldest sister was the first female acolyte at my church. I followed in her footsteps several years later along with my middle sister. (For those unfamiliar with the liturgical worship service, acolytes assist the priest as they prepare the sacraments for Holy Communion. Acolytes also light the sanctuary candles, carry the financial offerings from the people to the priest, and present the crucifix during the processional.)

Anyway, as I watched those young ladies during the Christmas Eve service I was gratified to see females continuing to perform this service at the Lord's Table. I am grateful to have been raised in a church that allowed women to serve right beside men. From a relatively young age I saw the verse written by Paul, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” lived out in practice. Galations 3:26-29

I married a man with courage and insight to question cultural teachings passed down through the generations regarding out-of-balance gender roles. I’m grateful for this. His intellect and adept logic keep me on my toes, yet he listens to me and learns from me as I do from him…equality and equal standing.

My mother and father also influenced my thinking regarding gender equality (probably more than they realize) though they would not describe themselves as feminists. Dad and I often discussed politics, economics, and religion. He encouraged me to pursue a career of my choice and erected no barriers based on my gender.

My mom taught me that Jesus was the first women’s liberator. Her comment now makes sense in retrospect as this was in the 70s during the modern feminist movement. Jesus’ respect of women was radical during the first century. He loved his women followers just as he did his male followers. He welcomed women into his midst, called them to follow him, touched them, conversed with them, healed them, ate with them, visited their homes, and received gifts from them. He also trusted a woman to be a reliable witness of his resurrection during a time when women were considered unreliable witnesses and easily deceived.

Doesn’t it seem that Jesus restored women’s dignity? He telegraphed a value statement, i.e. communicated value to them by his actions. He invited them to be at “his table” by eating with them, speaking to them, listening to them.

Respecting the value of both men and women and abolishing barriers that prevent each from fulfilling their life's mission seems a worthy cause and a foundational principle worth choosing.

Advent

Today I read a new blog, Velveteen Rabbi, recommended by RLP. Velveteen Rabbi recently wrote a post prompted by her experience at an Advent service with a friend. She ponders questions about taking pleasure in the rituals of other faiths. A wonderfully thought provoking post.

I loved her description of the Advent candle lighting ritual.

Peter and his congregation lit the first candle in the enormous evergreen wreath that hangs from the vaulted ceiling of their church. Next week, two candles. Then three. Then four. And on Christmas Eve near midnight, they'll light the central candle, the final light, from which flame will be brought down to light the small tapers of everyone in the room.

Leaving aside for the moment the matter of Jesus, who is naturally a problematic figure for most Jews, I love this Advent ritual. It speaks to me. November has been a dark and in many ways difficult month; in my own personal world I feel the need for light, and when I steel myself to listen to the news it's clear the larger world needs some light too. This lighting of candles to celebrate the gradual revelation of spirit is a metaphor made manifest. Last year I was at Peter's church on Christmas Eve, and the experience of watching the light come down from the rafters and fill the room, tiny flame by tiny flame, was powerful. (Velvateen Rabbi)

Oh, how it brings back such sweet memories of Advent past. As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in the Episcopal Church. My church was a relatively small parish of about 100 people. I loved the little church and have many fond memories of the people and community we shared.

Our church sanctuary was beautiful: a large stone altar in the center and a lectern and pulpit to either side. Above the altar hung a large austere silver cross. It descended down from a naturally lit vaulted ceiling.

Anyway, the advent season…the candle lighting service…purple, pink, white…such sweetness…such reverence. I’m transported back to those times I participated in this wonderful ritual. I’m grateful for Velveteen’s beautiful description. Precious, simple, yet profound.