Pressure Rising, Spirits Low

I used to joke with my first husband that I was an emotional barometer of our spiritual health.  Now I’m a physical barometer of the weather.

When the barometric pressure lowers or rises, my body complains.  A few more fibro complaints have surfaced with this recent weather system: headache, pain, skin rashes, and general malaise.  

I don’t particularly like being an emotional barometer of my physical health.  I’m trying to remind myself that this, too, shall pass.  It certainly reminds me what a very long string of feeling-good days I’ve had.  It reminds me how body, soul, and spirit are entwined.  And it reminds me to do my part and trust God for the rest.

I think of people who live with much more difficult health issues than my own and am reminded how much of a difference gentleness and graciousness can make, as opposed to judgment and condemnation.  We never know exactly how other people are feeling, so why not give them the benefit of the doubt?  The flip side is that, as Christians, we are called to love no matter how bad we feel.

The day before yesterday, there was a funeral in the small town of Plainville, Kansas.  The church was packed to overflowing with over 600 people in attendance.  A 37-year-old mother of five, Kristin Miller Rathbun, went home to be with Jesus after a long and courageous battle with cancer.  I barely knew Kristin, but from what I’ve heard, she wasted no time in self-pity.  Instead, she went about living her life and loving her family, friends, church, and community in such a way that she will be long remembered for her love and devotion to Christ.  I cannot even begin to comprehend the enormous hole Kristin’s loss makes in her family’s life.  

The only thing I do know is that God loves each and every person in this world, and He calls each one of us to be ambassadors of His love, even when the barometric pressure is rising.

It's All French (or Latin) To Me

Mom may not remember what day of the week or season of the year it is, but she can still conjugate Latin verbs.

The other day I heard her murmur a word as she worked her acrostic puzzle.  Then she said, “I can conjugate that!” and proceeded to do so.  Intrigued, I asked her what the word meant.  She looked a little surprised and said, “Oh, you know, phooey, like when you don’t like something.”  She went on to tell me that back in her school days she used to get a kick out of “conjugating” random English words.  They didn’t even have to be verbs.

Boy, she sure fooled me.  Of course, my Latin background is not as extensive as hers:  I just did one year of high school Latin to her two years.  I didn’t want to take Latin at all; however, I wanted to take French less.  Those were the only options at my small high school, so I had to put off my first language love, German, until I got to college.

My Latin teacher (who also taught French) was from the South and nearing retirement.  On a fairly regular basis, she got confused about which class we were.  I remember her asking us in her unmistakable Southern accent:  “Par—lay—voo—frawn--say?!”  

Thus, I have never been sure of the Latin pronunciation I learned.  What if I spoke Latin with a Southern accent?  It’s a little embarrassing to admit that even as a high school freshman, I was naïve enough to wonder how we could speak a dead language in the first place.  I guess I thought “dead” meant it was unpronounceable.  It doesn’t matter much, anyway, because I only remember two sentences:  “Paulus est puer.  Paula est puella.”  (Translation:  Paul is a boy.  Paula is a girl.)

So now you have the sum of my Latin and French learning.  I leave it to Mom to do the conjugating around here.

Northwest Jumping Pine Cones

      Twice I have seen it today:  a pine cone jumping near the end of our driveway.  I realize that, in fact, the pine cones are falling from the trees, but the visual effect is of them jumping happily about.  They appear out of thin air almost as if the pine tree fairy is tossing them from the top of the tree.  Who knew that pine cones bounce so well?
      I also saw a slug on a diet today.  I’m not sure what slugs eat or how they diet, but this one was downright skinny.  Maybe it was a teenager who has grown too fast and now needs to bulk up.

      When I came back in the house after my walk, the cat was singing.  I expected to see a mouse in his mouth, but I didn’t.  Orie usually sings like that when he has caught something.  Maybe this time he was singing about a memory.

     Now, that reminds me to bring the extra mouse bait I bought yesterday over to John’s house.  I’ll watch for slugs and dodge the fairy-flung pine cones on my way over.

           

Slugabed

It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s---

No, it’s a word: slugabed.

One who stays in bed until a late hour; a sluggard is the definition. I shouldn’t be surprised.

Fortunately, definitions such as these are open to interpretation. What, precisely, is “a late hour”? I know people who feel as if they have wasted the day if they sleep in until seven. I knew college students who defined “early” as anytime before lunch. I prefer to leave exact times open-ended. Setting an alarm clock is a tiresome task; instead, I sleep my full eight (or nine or ten) hours.


Surely I am no sluggard; I need plenty of sleep for health reasons. Getting enough sleep is supposed to help with weight loss as well as stress and pain reduction. Should it matter what time I get up?

I have to admit, though, that I’d rather be called a slugabed than a sluggard. Slugabed makes me think of my lovely memory foam bed with its mattress pad warmer that soothes my aching muscles and helps me relax. It brings up fond associations of midday naps as well as nighttime sleep.

I’m going to steer clear of slugabed’s other, slimier, connotations . . . speaking of which, I have been seeing more of the green slugs than brown slugs lately. But, no matter the color, I’ll never mistake a slug for Superman.

Imagine

Imagine living the life you’ve always wanted. (Is that a title of a book?) I don’t have to imagine it anymore: I’ve been smack dab in the middle of the life I’ve always wanted for over two years now.

Granted, my idea of the near-perfect life may be very different from yours. Mine involves writing every day. (There—I’ve lost most of you already.) I get minutes or hours in front of the computer screen depending on the day and my desire to write. I get to write whatever I want whenever I want. When a word or line or idea strikes, I hurry to record it and see where it leads. I’m learning to not censor myself or force ideas into any particular size or shape. It’s more fun—as well as more instructive—to follow the flow.

What makes life even better is having an audience of readers. (Woo hoo! We’re up to nine Google followers on my blog!) And the best of all is getting to write columns for our church newsletter and sometimes seeing my stuff in the Synod Snaps.

And, as if writing weren’t enough, I also get to spend a lot of time with music. Singing in chancel choir is a treat, and some of the time I even hit the right notes. But my first musical loves are my concert and alto flutes. Daily practice, weekly lessons, Tuesday Enchanted Flute Choir practice, Wednesday Tradewinds practice, and monthly gigs with the Silver Tones senior citizen dance band—clearly, music makes my world go ‘round.

But it keeps getting better. I am surrounded by beautiful Nature. I live in a cabin in the woods. (Well, actually it is a log-home-look modular, but “cabin” sounds more Thoreauish.) I suppose it could sound pretty pitiful when I add that I live with my mother and brother (I know what I used to think about such living arrangements for the over-50 crowd) or when I mention that John is a software engineer (sorry, couldn’t resist) and Mom is descending into the throes of dementia. But we manage to have a good time most days as long as I don’t let her supply of acrostic puzzles, mini cinnamon rolls, ice cream, and popsicles run out. Besides, how many people do you know who not only live in the woods on a scenic island but also get to interact with cougars every day? (With the fence caging safely between us, that is.)

And, finally, the twenty-one-mile drive to Oak Harbor, which I do about four days a week for church and music, is gorgeous: trees, distant mountains, and the Sound. It’s good, very good, to be a part of Whidbey Presbyterian Church.

Telephone conversations with my grown children and quarterly trips to visit my grandson round out my idyllic life. I am blessed beyond measure, living the life I always wanted but never imagined.

Gaga

Twenty-five pictures is all it takes to send my spirit soaring.

The twenty-five pictures that my daughter Dana posted on Facebook from yesterday’s Buddy Walk in Tulsa, Oklahoma are an elixir of joy for me. Seeing my sweet seventeen-month-old grandson with his lovely parents (Shawn and Dana Hemminger) at this annual fundraising event for the Down Syndrome Association—well, who would have thought my heart could swell with such pride?

In my early twenties, I knew a young married couple whose first child had Down Syndrome. He was black, she was white; he was in his twenties, she was nineteen, I think. It seemed to me that they already faced enough challenges—interracial marriages, even in the late 1970s, still seemed pretty unusual in the Midwest. And she was so young. My misinformed faith told me that “the chosen” of the RLDS church should be protected from such tragedies as this. Did they do something wrong?

I don’t like admitting that I used to think that way. How could I see Down Syndrome as a tragedy or as someone’s fault? Clearly, I was ignorant.

Tragedy, fault, and Benjamin don’t even belong in the same sentence. Benjamin is no tragedy and certainly no one’s fault. He is a delightful individual who has an extra chromosome. My Michigan friend Barb says I am “gaga” over him. She is right. I am over the moon in love with Benjamin Lee Hemminger. He is exactly who God made him to be.

There is a message here of the sacred blessing that life is. Everyone’s life. Worth is not based on income or status, on race or gender, on ability or disability. Worth is based on God’s love for us. We love because He first loved us. Benjamin is just as important to God as any Nobel Peace Prize winner.

Yes, this grandma is gaga over her grandson. Isn’t that the way it should be? (Now, let me show you some pictures . . .)

Mom

In and out,
Up and down,
Here and there,
She wanders,
Wonders what to do.

Last night she read
What she read the other night
And reported the same bits to me:
Did I know that maggots are used to clean out dead flesh,
Or that Victorian women fastened iridescent insects to their dresses by thin gold chains?

Is it July?
Is it trash day?
Is it Saturday?
Am I allergic to nettle?
Where is John?

The only question she has not asked yet is
Who are you?

Pumpkin Pie Paradigm

Imagine a pumpkin pie--baked, chilled, and ready to serve. It is cut in eighths, each perfect pie wedge separated by a thin knife slash from its neighbor.

If the pie is a picture of God’s wisdom, then my knowledge is a mere knife slash. That edge of awareness is a delicious delight, and I haven’t even tasted the pie yet.

Hopscotch

Oh, my. I never knew that hopscotch was a verb. I remember hopscotch as a favorite game and the intense pleasure I took in tossing the stone and hopping around. It was even fun to draw the hopscotch board on the sidewalk with white chalk. (It would have been more fun to use different colors but, alas, we didn’t have those.)

But now, according to Dictionary.com, I find that I can use this noun as a verb, too. In fact, I’ve spent my whole life hopscotching. I’ve hopscotched around the country, living in Michigan, Iowa, Ohio, Missouri, Kansas, and Washington. I’ve hopscotched through jobs like maid, antique shop clerk, library aide, dishwasher, home health aide, and typist before I finally settled on my top box for nineteen years: English instructor.

I’ve also hopscotched through denominations and doctrines: United Methodist, Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Wesleyan, and Presbyterian. And I’ve hopscotched my way through an array of syndromes, diseases, and conditions within my family: Sjogren’s Syndrome, fibromyalgia, multiple sclerosis, mental illness, dementia, cancer, and Down Syndrome. Some of those boxes have been more painful than others, but all have helped me find more balance.

I like the imagery of hopscotching with its essential elements of purpose, destination, skill, and chance. In the game, your goal is to make it from the first box to the last box and back again. Whether you succeed depends on your balance, skill, and where the stones fall. You can only stand on one foot for so long before moving on.

I hope that I’m planted on both feet now: on Whidbey Island, retired, Presbyterian, and feeling better than I have in the fourteen years since I stumbled over Sjogren’s Syndrome/fibromyalgia. With my weak ankles, you won’t see me literally hopping around. But I am willing to toss the stone and hop again if and when God calls.

Inferior Beans

Long ago, I knew everything about beans. Just ask my children.

I knew how to soak ‘em, slow-cook ‘em, mash ‘em, and use ‘em in a panoply of recipes. We had lentil soup, lentil burgers, and lentil loaf. I made pork and beans without the pork, and ham and split pea soup without the ham. If it was a cheap dried bean, I bought it: kidney, pinto, navy, lentil, pea, garbanzo, black. I learned that beans plus whole grains equal complete protein, just like potatoes plus dairy do. We had a fiber-rich, healthy diet.

After years of beans, I took a break. (Hah, hah—did you get it?) No, seriously, I got tired of beans and turned to frozen dinners, fast food, sugar, and caffeine. My waistline increased along with my perpetual state of alertness.

In recent years, I’ve turned back to beans. Hummus is a new favorite. But my all-time favorite bean now is the coffee bean. I don’t buy them whole or grind them myself. I go for variety: a different roast, blend, or brand every month. The beans worth drinking, though, are not cheap. I was reminded of that this morning.

Last week, I succumbed to the price tag and purchased an inferior blend, one of those that come in the plastic canisters. I broke it out this morning, and the first cup convinced me that spending more is worth it. There is this lingering bitter taste that feels like it is glued to the roof of my mouth. My stomach isn’t particularly happy, either. I’ll take my losses (five dollars and some odd cents) and go back to the small bags of ground beans, many of them local to the island. No more inferior beans for me.

A Myth Debunked

To be honest, I wondered if it would work.

It did, exploding the myth that mainline denominations are dead.

Kurt Imbach, our adult ministries pastor, led this morning’s service with a twist: most of the sermon time was left open for testimony time.

Yes, we had been prepared for a time of sharing via announcements in the bulletin last week and this morning. (Presbyterians are, nonetheless, orderly.) Still, I wondered if more than a few would share.

They did. Hands shot up throughout the congregation for the microphones. Each one who spoke had a deeply felt personal faith. Some shared their salvation story from long ago. Others related recent experiences. All the statements and stories were heartfelt and infused with gratitude to our loving Savior.

Near the end of the service, a member vulnerably and tearfully asked for prayer for her mother, who attempted suicide last week. Kurt prayed aloud as we prayed along silently for God to show His love to both mother and daughter.

After the heartfelt benediction, our lively postlude music burst forth, streaming joy in amongst the conversations, hugs, and laughter of the people as they departed. “The Lord Reigns”--played by piano, saxophone, and flute--sent this Presbyterian USA congregation into the new week, our hearts alive with praise.

Joy

Sometimes joy seizes me,

Sends my soul soaring,

Springs my heart open,

Dispels all cloud and shadow.

Upgrade

I have been upgraded.

Oops, I mean my computer has been upgraded. I am still the same, which is what poses the problem.

A few weeks ago when I mentioned signing up for an online course that needed particular system requirements, my brother sprang into action. He quickly deduced that he would upgrade his computer and give me his “old” one. Yesterday he brought over the tower thingy, a large flat screen monitor, a new wireless mouse, and a sound system. I already had the keyboard.

In no time flat, John had everything plugged in ready to go. Tomorrow I get a lesson in file transfers from the HP laptop I was using. Today is dedicated to organizing my computer desk—which had become the repository for everything from bug spray to photos to greeting cards—and getting acquainted with Microsoft 7.

This morning I managed the high-tech endeavor of adjusting the height of my monitor by stacking it on the subwoofer of the sound system. It’s a little high, but I suppose that is better than a little low.

Already I have some questions having to do with John’s enhanced security system, which disallows most of the things I want to do on the Internet. The computer tells me I need Java Script enabled, but that box is selected already. I imagine that I will need further help to be able to sign into the course I’ll be taking, which starts today, and start to learn the intricacies of Blackboard.

Oh, yes, this Certificate in Lay Ministry course is offered by Whitworth University in Spokane. I honestly don’t know why I am taking it, other than the gut level “Yes!” I felt when I saw its availability online. I’ll learn more about Bible study, church history, reformed theology, and the inner workings of the Presbyterian Church USA. It’s all fascinating stuff to me, and I’m sure God will teach and bless me through it.

And while I’m struggling with my new computer upgrade, I have this sneaking suspicion that the certificate course will be God’s upgrade to prepare me for service yet unknown. At least then my computer and I will have something in common.

Remembering October 3, 2009

    I know what I was doing the first Saturday in October last year:  attending my sister’s death
.
    By noon she was unconscious.  I held her hand, quietly sang some hymns, prayed, and cried.  I took a hurried lunch break while the nurse stayed with her and then resumed my watch until her boyfriend, Michael, got there around 3 p.m.  I left for another break to give him time alone with her.

    My need for caffeine drove me to the Starbucks in the Barnes & Noble bookstore.  I was writing an email to friends, having just finished a cup of coffee and slice of pumpkin cheesecake, when my cell phone rang.  “She’s gone,”  Michael said.  “Don’t let them take her away,” I replied.  “I’m on my way.”

    I remember the hollow grief, the frantic desire to be at her bedside as I headed for the hospital.  I forgot to put on the gown and gloves at the door to her room and rushed in.  I saw her newly jaundiced skin (the yellow cast of a failed liver) and her head in her usual sleeping position, turned slightly to the right.  Weeping, I took her hand, still warm, still limp.  A nurse slid in to give me the forgotten gown, but I never got around to the gloves.  I wanted to feel Anne’s hand in mine without the barrier of vinyl.

    I couldn’t seem to let go of her hand as I drank in the last view of my sister.  I kept expecting her to take a breath or flutter open her eyes.  Finally, following Michael’s lead, I kissed her forehead, turned, and left.

    Immediately, an unexpected, horrible decision had to be made.  The horror was not being able to carry out her desire to donate her body for medical research despite her old donor card:  besides being too heavy for the state guidelines, she was disqualified because of having had hepatitis back in the early 1970s.  I felt so guilty that I could not honor her wishes, but I was sure her second choice would have been direct cremation. 

    And so Michael and I muddled through the details of contacting a funeral home, and I signed various
forms, crying all the while, and we left:  he to return to Anne’s home in Saxapahaw, me to the Marilyn House in Greensboro.  In the morning I would meet with the funeral home director before the dismal drive back to Anne’s house.  Thank God my brother Bob would get there Sunday evening.

    I spent Saturday night alone, making the necessary phone calls to family and friends and crying endless tears, wailing when I was off the phone.  In a determined haze, I packed my suitcases and cleaned up the house.  The next morning, I headed out for the funeral home and on down the highway.  Within hours of my arrival at Anne’s house, Michael suddenly announced his departure, saying he was leaving for the week to pull himself together.  When my brother arrived, it was time to stop wailing and start the sad business of all the practical details.  Mercifully, for me, Bob was there to take charge.