Echoes

    I thought I heard echoes in Dave’s sermon this morning. 

    They were echoes of God’s voice, repeating the grace He freely gives.

    Aren’t we all unlikely recipients of salvation?  We were all strangers and outsiders before Christ made us part of His family.

    Aren’t we all unworthy recipients of God’s love?  And isn’t it just like the Father to love us into worthiness by sending His Son to die for us?

    Haven’t we all sinned?  Who could count the number of times we have wandered away from God or denied His love to the weak, the wounded, the different—anyone with whom we have issues?

    And don’t we try so hard to box God into our comfortable compartments for Him?  But no lines drawn by humans can contain Him.  Even the sound of His voice reverberates beyond our boundaries.

    Sometimes we are blessed enough to hear the echo of His voice . . . thanks be to God.

Don't Count Your Slugs Before You See Them

    My friend Rachel tells me I lead a very interesting life.  I kinda hate to disappoint her with the facts.  Today the most exciting thing I’ve done is walk the 600 steps down the driveway to get the mail and the newspaper and the 500 step alternate route back to John’s house in order to drop off a tool catalog.

    I didn’t count it exciting when I stepped out of our house this morning to deliver a load of dirty laundry to the shop office, where I do all of our laundry now that the gas dryer in John’s basement is broken.  I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I noticed our dog, Radio, gnawing on some strange, curved thin things that I figured out were animal ribs.  In fact, I was totally grossed out, especially when I noted the chicken leg lying next to her.  At least it wasn’t the head. 

    It wasn’t exciting when, scrounging through the refrigerator as I planned ahead for dinner tonight, I found a plastic bag of colorful vegetables.  Turns out they were the vegetable leavings—moldy red, orange, and yellow peppers and slimy onions that I had  discovered earlier in the week and set out for the compost pile.   Evidently, Mom had retrieved them and bagged them up along with the plastic cup of grease and small bag of coffee grounds.

    Admittedly, on my trek down the driveway, I did have an exciting idea on which to build an essay.  This cool, wet weather seems to bring out the slugs, and when I almost immediately saw a fat brown slug on the ground, I decided to count slugs on the way to the mailbox.  Already, I was deep into the mathematics as well as the creative process:  How many slugs would I find?  What would be the ratio of steps per slug?  What might I say about the whole slug-finding experience?   It turned out to be 600 steps per slug.  You figure the ratio.  Where did all the slimy brown, black, olive green, and spotted slugs go when I needed them?

    However, on the 500 steps back to John’s house (that I know the number of steps testifies to the type of exciting days I have), I was glad for my careful but unfruitful search.  If I hadn’t been scanning the ground in front of me, I would have stepped in a pile of dog poop. 
 
    So, Rachel, there is my exciting day so far.  I hope you’re not disappointed.

Dance Band Epoch

    Dictionary.com word of the day:  epoch (the beginning of a distinctive period in history)

    Another personal epoch--the era of the dance band—has begun for me.  Senior citizens swing!

    They also seem to have more endurance than I do.  Just watching them dance for two hours worth of music wore me out. 

    I’m new at jamming but did my bit with the flute.  Eventually, I hope that I will learn to improvise as well.  But for now, I can at least put some feeling and style into the simple tunes.  I try to follow what the other band members are doing and match their style.

    Here’s the line-up:  piano, drums, bass vocalist, two with a variety of saxophones and clarinet, flute, trumpet, baritone, tuba.

    It was just plain fun.  I’m already looking forward to the June dance.

Recipe for Writing

    10 a.m.

    Take a bleak, rainy day.  Mix in some fatigue and fibro fog.  Add a dash of guilt that no inspirational ideas are forthcoming.  Write a few sentences anyway.  Stir well.  Put on back burner for four hours to see if any insights bubble to the surface.

    2 p.m.

    Wake up from your nap.  Read an email from a close friend who affirms your writing efforts.  Walk the 600 steps down the wooded, winding driveway to bring in the mail.  Return with heart rejoicing; check the back burner and capture the newest bubbles at the keyboard. 

    Serve, warmed by the Spirit, and watch the blessings multiply to feed all who are hungry.

Stealth War

    I consider myself an honest and peaceful person.  However, I also find myself engaged in a stealth war with Mom.

    Her war cry is to save everything, waste nothing.  Mine is to throw away the unusable items, which happen to be on her preferred saving list.  (Her low vision and nonexistent sense of smell  are in direct conflict with my germ warfare and sensitive nose.)  My secret actions are meant to save her dignity and preserve my sanity.  Her missing short-term memory provides me a winning edge that, admittedly, I exploit in order not to be pushed over the edge.

    I tried the direct approach this morning with the badly mildewed rags she recovered from the shop yesterday.  I tied the Walmart bag handles tightly to contain the sickening smell and mentioned to her that we should throw the rags out because of the mildew.  She wants to soak them in bleach instead.  My next strategic move will be to sneak them out to the trash can by the curb next week.

    Yesterday I attempted the indirect approach of moving the rusted spatula and ancient splatter screen from the kitchen table to the bucket for recyclables.  I put the blue container with netted hat and empty jar on the floor near the pantry.

    By this morning, all except the hat were washed and in the kitchen drainer.  The container still smells like the tulip bulbs it contained for over a year.  I’ve moved it to my room, which is the usual route to get to the curbside trash eventually.  (However, I draw the room line at mildewed rags.)  The rusted spatula I placed in the drawer below the oven where it sits ready for later disposal.   I left the splatter screen in the dish drainer.
   
    I’m not sure how to tell who is winning the war.  I’d much rather come to a truce, but since that is not possible without some real emotional violence in which Mom would discover that there is a war, I settle for stealth.  It may not be nice to take advantage of her lost short-term memory, but at least she won’t know what’s missing.

Sorting It All Out

    Had Mom not told me about drying the fresh catnip leaves on my bed, I probably would not have noticed the faint minty aroma of my pink quilt.  There are, however, a number of other things I have noticed in my first day home.

    The bathroom vanity drawers were the first giveaway of her organizing spree while I was enjoying the week in Oklahoma with grandson number one and his extra-special parents.  The second drawer is mine and is normally a jumbled mess since I jam three drawers worth of stuff in it.  Now it is neatly arranged, items lined up.  Taking out the hair dryer probably helped.  Adding in the blue denture holder didn’t.  Because I don’t remember everything in the drawer, I may never know what has been moved.

    As I started dinner tonight, I realized that the cutting board was missing.  After opening every drawer and cupboard, I resigned myself to using what was at hand:  the tiny wooden cheese cutting board.  Since the green pepper and the onion I was chopping were bigger than the board, it made for some interesting moments.  Later, though, John pointed out that the cutting board was in the dishwasher, the one place I had not thought to look.

    I notice that Mom put dishes away in interesting places as well.  Maybe that is my sign to go ahead and rearrange the cupboards.  Who knows?  I might find the paring knife and my pink Tupperware thermos.

    John said that earlier in the week he saved some dirty clothes in a box with vegetable leavings, paper, and the mail, I believe.  They were on their way to the brush fire.  Oh, and mysteriously enough, there was no mail to be found Tuesday.

    Today’s rainy, cool weather precluded any outdoor work, so Mom has started cleaning up her area of John’s shop.  She seems to be finding some of the items I moved out of the kitchen and tucked away in the shop some months ago: Today her offerings were two aluminum pie pans, a rusted spatula, an ancient spatter lid, an empty picante sauce bottle, and a blue plastic container.  The mosquito netting hat I do not recognize.  Or maybe it is a beekeeper’s hat.

    Next to my spot on the couch were the usual stack of magazines she finished reading this week, including a Time from 2006.  From the refrigerator I rescued the Pam cooking spray and threw away the evidence of deli take-out meals:  a sandwich box with three aging dill pickles topped with two pieces of bacon, and a deli salad container with the remains of a vinegar-based salad and soggy white toast with grape jelly topped with pieces of cooked rhubarb. 

    I believe Mom had a good week while I was gone.  She loves to sort and organize, and it appears she was pretty busy.  Eventually, I will find or replace essential missing items.  I’m just glad that the toilet bowl brush wasn’t in the kitchen sink this time.

Number One Grandson

A year ago I was afraid.  My first grandchild was critically ill, whisked off to neonatal intensive care immediately after his birth.  My daughter and son-in-law were hurt and stunned by this unexpected turn of events.

Today, Benjamin is the picture of health:  round, robust, wiggly, happy, smiling, curious, and loud.  Dana and Shawn are the proud and loving parents of this lovely one-year-old, whose birthday we celebrate today.  They have been through so much this year with Benjamin's open heart surgery, hernia surgery, seizures, blood sugar monitoring, visits to every type of pediatric specialist I can think of.  Yesterday's appointment with the audiologist for sedated hearing tests uncovered mild hearing loss in Benjamin's right ear and moderate hearing loss in his left ear.  He will be getting hearing aids.

However, the medical issues cannot tell the whole story of Benjamin.  Yes, he has some special hurdles because of his Down Syndrome.  But Benjamin is so much more than that.  He is a sweet and stubborn little boy.  He loves to play on his playmat, grabbing and shaking the hanging toys.  In his bumbo seat, which supports him so he can sit, he delights in shaking and tossing beaded necklaces or curlique ribbons (obviously, these are closely monitored activities).  He is strong and persistent, pulling up the suction cup toy on his highchair tray and throwing it down.  He loves music, pausing all activity whenever we squeeze the Glow Worm.  He smiles a lot.  He has this funny little fake cough that he uses as a little laugh.  He is always experimenting with sound:  bubbles, snorts, squeals, "blah blahs," and shouts of joy.  He has mastered the mad, whining cry that tells us he is at the end of his rope.  He loves to roll over.  He is an expert at taking off his socks.

Because of Benjamin, today we rejoice.

Muscle Tone

Muscle tone is everything.  I found that out when I first picked up Benjamin at the Tulsa airport.  Even though he is a couple pounds heavier than when I last saw him, he felt lighter because he is not so floppy.  He holds himself upright and, in doing that, is somehow more compact.

Twenty-five + pounds is still a big package to tote around, but I really don't mind a bit.  He is so much fun.

Life is Perfect

Benjamin has smiled at me numerous times.  Life is perfect.  We were roommates last night, so I got to watch as he woke up this morning.  He squirms, stretching out those chubby legs straight up in the air and waving his arms wildly.  He tries out his repertoire of sounds:  "ba-ba-ba-ba!"  "aaaaah" and an extended snort that manages to sound sweet even while it sounds like a little pig.  He seemed to be surprised when he spied me looking over at him from the air mattress next to the crib.

And now, he's talked himself into a little morning nap on his play mat after breakfast (nursing Mommy), quiet time (sitting next to Daddy and tapping Daddy's Bible), and play time (swatting at the toys and rolling over and back).

The best part is when we pick him up.  He shouts for joy. 

Love At First Sight

It was love at first sight and, boy, was he a sight. Seven and a half pounds of sweetness lay there in the heated crib, tubes and wires snaking out from him, the ventilator like a stake down his throat. Sedated, he slept, unresponsive to our tentative touches.

Actually, it was love before first sight, love born in the joyful weeping of my daughter’s announcement: “I’m pregnant.” I loved Benjamin before I knew he was Benjamin. I loved him when I visited my daughter, proud with her cute five-month tummy. I loved him when I saw her blooming belly profiles at seven and eight months. I loved him when the scary news came about induced premature labor and caesarean section. I loved him, wishing the holes could be in my heart, not his. And I loved him as I saw the signs of Down Syndrome in his sweet almond eyes and unbroken lifelines across his wide palms.

I held him for the first time when he was about four weeks old as Dana left his NICU bedside for the mommy room to pump milk. (The nurse bent the rules for me.) I held him at Shawn and Dana’s home, the oxygen cord snaking across the room, the heart monitor letting out its scary blips and bleeps. I held him after my sister died in October, savoring the sweet baby weight that soothed and healed. I held him in February, astonished at how big he was. And I will be holding him again soon—tomorrow night or Tuesday morning.

Benjamin doesn’t have to do anything to earn my love. I love him because he is. I love him without knowing exactly who he will be. I delight in his unfolding personality. I’ll love him through good times and bad. He will never have to doubt that I love him.

As we celebrate Benjamin’s first birthday on May 22, I will hold him again and tell him how much Grandma Jan loves him. I’ll promise to love him forever. I’ll fall in love with him all over again. And I’ll think about the enormity of God’s grace and the infinity of His love for each of us.

Audible Joy

Today’s taste of heaven was sweet. It was nourishment to my soul and, quite literally, music to my ears. First were the well-loved praise songs, the chorus of voices lifted to the King. Then my heart sang out in our flute duets—offering a “Praise God” and “Rejoice.” Chancel choir welcomed and concluded worship. In the sweetness of the Spirit, joy became audible today.

Benjamin Beckons Me

Benjamin beckons me.

I hear his happy squeals, his angry yells, his blowing bubbles in the background (or sometimes the foreground) of my phone conversations with Dana. I see recent photos of him smiling and laughing in his baby innocence. I remember the heft of him, the ever-present drool, his coo while he eats.

I am just two days away from Benjamin. Two days from kissing those chubby cheeks. Two days from playing Grandma games and singing Grandma songs with him. Two days from delight.

Night Sounds

(May 13, 2010)
Last night, as I was loading the car for Tradewinds/choir practice (music, concert flute, alto flute, water, purse) Eiger and Homer were yelling. The sound was somewhere between a growl and a scream. They often grumble at each other through their shared fencing, probably would kill each other if they shared an enclosure like Eiger and Tiva do.
Like birds singing or frogs croaking, cougar screeching is an unremarkable sound for me in this Casa Del Gato (House of the Cat) life. Traffic sounds are a distant memory. During my month at the Marilyn House in Greensboro, North Carolina, the highway traffic never stopped. Ambulance sirens, police sirens, semi truck gear shifting, cars zooming by were my bedtime background noise. In my Colby, Kansas apartment, conveniently located downtown and next door to the local bakery, the slamming of the bakery back door would wake me at 4 a.m. each morning if the college-student partiers hadn’t already. In our house on School Avenue, sometimes my slumber would be interrupted by the vacuum cleaner at two a.m. or Jack wandering through the house in his Ambien + Fiornal #3 haze, asking me whose cats those were anyway.
But here, night time is unremarkable save for the occasional dog howling or cougar screaming. Once in awhile I hear cupboard doors rattling, but that is just Mom having her midnight snack—generic Fruit Loops generously doused with half and half. Fortunately, our housecat, Orie, has long given up his habit of bringing screaming baby rabbits in the house through the cat door in my bedroom. I might hear the rumble of John’s diesel truck as he leaves for the bus stop at six a.m. or the roar of his motorcyle on the mornings he rides in at eight.
By 9:45 p.m. last night, when I got home from choir, the cougars were silent. The frogs didn’t even make a peep. The dogs didn’t bother to run up and greet me. I unloaded the car—in a single trip this time—and crept into the house so as not to wake Mom. The only sound was the memory of choir music running through my ears.

Senior Recruitment

I am being recruited to play in the senior citizen band that plays for the monthly dances at the senior center in Oak Harbor.
How, might you ask, did I become a person of interest? By playing in a flute duet in church.
At first I didn’t think I really wanted to play with the old geezers. Then, last night after choir practice, I was given a notebook of thirty tunes for their May 29 dance. I still wasn’t convinced.
But today I decided to play through a few of the pieces, all very simple. Pretty soon I was hooked, somewhere around number six: “Bye Bye Blues.” I kept playing through songs like “Five Foot Two” and “Shine on Harvest Moon.” By the last song (“I’ll See You in My Dreams”), any reservations had fled. I don’t even care if the group sounds horrible. To have a chance to croon (on my flute, that is) and emote the oldies of a previous generation at a dance, no less, just sounds like too much fun.
And, after all, it will be a chance to feel young. Very, very young, indeed.

Cougar Conversations

(March 22, 2010)
Some people talk to themselves. Others talk to their pets. I talk to my brother’s cougars and bobcat and African jungle cat.
“Good morning, Talina! How’s my girl today? Ooh, you look so cute there with your paws crossed. I’d pet you if it were safe.”
“Hey, Tiva, I’ve come to open the gate so you can go in Eiger’s cage. Aren’t you a smart girl? And Eiger! Enjoying the sun this morning?”
“And there’s Homer—or is it Craiger? I’m sure you’d love to have me for breakfast. See you guys later!”
“Merlin! You gonna watch me wash the animal bowls this morning? Oh, you look so soft and cuddly, but I know those bobcat claws could take me out in a moment.”
And upstairs to pick up my computer print-outs, I see Worf, the African jungle cat, on John’s waterbed. Worf is the only wild cat I can pet around here. He’s a big sissy, very old with few teeth. I scratch the top of his head, and he purrs in his funny, rumbly voice that is much deeper than you would expect from a domestic-size cat. “How’s my buddy today?” I ask.
I guess it’s a rather unusual life I live. Standing by Talina’s indoor cage this morning folding the clean cougar towels, I was singing our anthem from Sunday: “Behold the Lamb!” It’s easy to rejoice in the company of cougars—as long as their cage doors are securely fastened.

Slug Guts

What is green and gooey and sticky? You guessed: slug guts. I acquired them on the soles of my good shoes as I walked along the driveway earlier today. The first sign appeared as I went up John’s front porch steps: dried grass sticking out from the right side of my right shoe. “Oh, no. Dog poop,” I thought. But as I turned my foot to see, no stench assaulted my nose. Instead, I saw a pale green strip of slime topped with horns.
So I stopped and scraped my shoe, first against the concrete patio stone. Then I slid my shoe (still on my foot) along a tree root or two, followed by the slippery grass. At Mom’s front porch, I used the end of the second step. By the time I tiptoed into the house, there was just a tiny bit of grass and gunk left, which I dispatched quickly with a Kleenex.
Such is the price I pay when I look up at the trees and sky instead of down at my feet. But, hey, all experience is useful in a writer’s life. Who knows? Today’s goo may be tomorrow’s Pulitzer prize. Well, that is rather dramatic. At least I had the opportunity to gross you out.

March Dinner Conversation

Somehow the conversation turned to meth labs. At once, Mom perked up and said, quite loudly and proudly, “Well, at least you kids didn’t do much drug selling.”
John, Debra, and I burst into laughter. I wondered if the other diners at nearby tables heard her comment.

Emily Dickinson Attempts

There must be Something
I can say
On this windy day.

A Song to sing
Like gale-wind
Sounding in trees.

A Psalm to recite
For glory
Of the Son.

And Moon waiting
For cloud cover
Of starry Night begun.




Oh! Emily!
I try to Emulate
Your unspun verse--
Rehearse--
Dash and dot and line . . .
Capture Nature view
More said in scant words--
But Mystery between lines

Fence Building

May 9, 2010
I helped build fence today.
Immediately, the image that comes to my mind is Robert Frost’s poem, “Mending Wall.” I picture those old New England farmers lifting fallen boulders and cementing them back on miles of rock fence along rolling green hills.
The next image that rises is of fenceposts and post hole diggers: hot, sweaty work in the blazing heat. Actually, I picture sweat-glistening backs of tanned and muscle-bound men . . . time to move on.
Of course, there is also the barbed wire fencing or the electric fencing to keep cattle in and intruders out. From my years on the Plains, I can visualize endless miles slicing the flat horizon of brown-stubbled fields. Someone had to string them.
These are all worthy images of hard labor. However, what I helped with today was something entirely different. My job was to balance the huge roll of deer fencing while John fastened it to the tops of metal stakes that he had driven into the ground years ago for Mom’s garden. Then, I took the long green plastic ties, threading one around each metal stake at about a four foot height. Tomorrow I will start the trickier part of threading ties near the ground around the stakes and through both the deer fencing and the chicken wire.
Somehow, saying I helped build fence today sounds much more impressive than saying I fastened bright green plastic zip ties at my leisure.
Now the deer and dogs and rabbits won’t be able to enter Mom’s garden, as long as we keep the gate closed. Too bad we can’t keep the mosquitoes out.

Mugwump

May 10, 2010
     I am a mugwump. No, for those Narnian fans out there, it is not the same thing as a Marshwiggle. You incredibly gifted vocabularians know what I’m talking about, but I just found out today.
     Mugwumping (you won’t find that in a dictionary) comes naturally for me. Forever on the fence, I balance unsteadily at the point of indecision. Should I be on the left or on the right? Should I be pro-this or anti-that?
     Problem is that I want to be friends with people on both sides of the fence, though I probably relate the best to those fellow fence balancers who periodically fall one way or the other, brush themselves off, and climb right back on to the razor edge of difference.
     Is it always important to know exactly what I think about political issues or world events or controversies that sharply divide people? It’s so hard to decide. As a mugwump, I seem to be genetically predisposed (unless, of course, you believe that nurture outweighs nature) to listen to all sides. Each side—and for mugwumpers like myself there are rarely only two—has its strengths and appeals. Each has its weaknesses. But as I listen, there usually isn’t room for personal evaluation. I get absorbed with what the other is saying and with the body language that is saying something different than what the mouth espouses.
     Yes, I do have some opinions (I think). But I cannot debate them because I might change my mind. There is always another interesting argument to hear, another perspective to ponder, another life experience to consider. So I just keep mugwumping along. Like Robert Frost, I’m not too crazy about fences that divide. Someone has to sit on them.