Retreat

            In just a few days I fly to Tulsa to spend a week with my daughter, son-in-law, and grandson.  In them I recognize Jesus.

            Dana and I will undoubtedly have many heart-to-heart talks as we move through her daily routines at home with Benjamin.  When Shawn comes home from work each evening, there will be more talk and time for prayer together—and plenty of laughter.  They are gracious hosts, and I will feel at home in their home.  As I do every time I visit, I will be silently praising God for His grace in their lives and for the depth of their commitment to Christ, to each other, and to their son. 

            Benjamin and I will play together.  I’ll find some special little thing to share with him, a grandma game we can enjoy like the way he solemnly places his hand between mine as I clap to his music.  I’ll sit on the floor with him and play my flute or roll a ball or simply enjoy the presence of my sweet bespectacled twenty-month-old grandson.  Maybe I’ll even have the privilege of holding his sippy cup for him to drink at mealtimes.  And it’s a sure thing that his parents will happily hand him over for diaper duty, which I will pretend to dread. 

            With Benjamin in my arms, my heart will be full.  He is a living lesson of God’s grand love and purpose for each and every person, whether they have that special extra chromosome or not.

Intense Sense

            A couple days ago, I was thinking of my sister Anne and the 66 days I shared with her at the end of her life.   A few scenes presented themselves to me:  the vivid green changing to yellow of the trees against the North Carolina blue sky outside the skilled nursing facility where she was dying.  (She never got to see the beauty of the wooded area across the street nor the gaggle of migrating geese out on the lawn.)  I remembered driving on the busy divided highway between The Marilyn House and Kindred Hospital—not the driving so much as the pre-grieving and the isolation of living alone, out of a suitcase, in an unfamiliar city.  I also remember the well-shaded street that wound around First Presbyterian Church just a few blocks from downtown Greensboro.

            And so I came up with this untitled poem, cherishing memories of my older sister and trying to capture that time in a few lines.

Intense sense:

Loss hotter than the sun,

Lush greens yield

To yellow explosions of tree color

Lit by Carolina sky,

Muffled by afternoon thunder,

Darkened on the day she died.

Stains

            I was not a happy camper when the pitcher of iced coffee flew out of the refrigerator.

            It had been moved from the top shelf to the shelf below the cheese drawer.  If that detail had registered, I wouldn’t have pulled the drawer open.  You see, the open pitcher can slide onto the shelf, but the drawer catches on it.  

            Not a single curse word flew from my mouth as my right foot was drenched in cold coffee and the floor became a puddle.  Surprisingly, none flew through my mind, either.  I was focused on the unpleasant sensation and big mess.  

            Instead of words, a cold stream of frustration rushed through me as I mopped up the coffee puddle.  My patience threatened to break a little later as I ate lunch with a still-wet foot and answered the same question for the third time in three minutes.

            As soon as we were done eating, I beat a hasty retreat to my room, choosing a nap as my means of escape.

            The irony of the situation does not escape me.  Just before lunch, I had finished writing my response to the Lectio Divinia exercise covered in this week’s DVD of the Spirituality and Ministry January session from the online Certificate in Lay Ministry program I’m taking through Whitworth University.  I had spoken of my gratitude for the simple, quiet life I have at present.  Now, less than an hour later, I was impatient and angry with my mother for things beyond her control.

            Just now, she peeked her head into my room to ask me the same repeated question from lunchtime.  I answered as graciously as I could, rather chastened by the contrast between my lingering frustration and supposed spirituality.

            At least my foot has dried off, and the coffee stain will wash out of my sock and jeans.  It's the stain in my soul that is the bigger concern.

Dream Cruise

            I hate it when I wake up before the cruise.

            We were all getting ready for the big event, and I’m not even sure who all of “we” were.  A number of things had to happen before we set off.

            The first requirement was a sleepless night at a slumber party of sorts.  There was some concern that one person at the party felt sick.  I was sitting on a couch packed with people, next to my son, who was maybe 8 or 10 years old.  He wanted to eat some of the yogurt.  The person sitting next to him pulled out the rest of the provisions nestled in the couch cushions.  There was an impressive array of single-serving yogurt brands and flavors to choose from, but not the flavor that Joseph wanted.

            Everyone joined in some sort of party game (line dancing, perhaps?), and things were going very well.

            This time, at least, we didn’t need to prepare the spaceship.

            I believe the cruise was going to be to Hawaii, but I woke up before that matter was settled.  It was kind of disappointing to miss out on my dream cruise.

Sheets and Showers

            We are progressing backwards—or maybe I should say regressing.

            Saturday is sheet-changing day for Mom.  It wasn’t long ago that she would initiate and complete that task from start to finish.  Now it requires some assistance.

            This morning, she checked the day and date on our atomic clock in the kitchen and announced she needed to change her sheets.  She no longer recognizes which ones are hers in the linen closet, so I helped her choose.

            At that point I got in the shower.  I heard her say something and I called out that I would be done soon.  And I was.  She was back in the living room. Her bed was stripped down but not made.  The dirty sheets were bundled up on her desk chair, and the clean sheets were on the floor along with her dirty clothes.  I gathered up the clean ones and laid them out on her bed.  Oh, the joys of having laundry facilities in the house—I put a load of sheets and towels in the washing machine, thus eliminating further confusion between clean and dirty.

            Mom then made her bed with the clean sheets.  I am glad she is still able to do some of the chores she used to do.  It’s hard to say which part of making her bed she will lose next.  Yesterday she commented that she hardly recognized her bedroom.  But she can still make witty remarks even if she doesn’t always follow the line of conversation.

            Tonight I’ll nudge her to the shower, using the clean sheets as my bargaining chip.  I’ve taken to turning on the lights and the exhaust fan and the heater for her.  Though I may listen for the sound of the shower, I’m not yet ready to go in and assist.