85 going on 83

            At 8:30 a.m. I called Home Place.  “Hi, this is Janis Lussmyer.  I’m calling to let you know I will be taking my mother, Priscilla, out for lunch today.”

            On the other end, Amanda said, “Oh, good.  I was about to call you.  Priscilla was very upset that no one was doing anything for her birthday today.”

            I will not feel guilty.  I will not feel guilty.  We told Mom on Saturday that I’d be taking her out for her birthday.  But maybe I need to communicate a little sooner with the staff about visits and outings.

            It was a Kodak moment when Mom spotted me.  I came in through the courtyard since one of the wheelchair-bound residents encamps at the other door, ready to make her escape.  The activities director and various residents were in the commons area.  Mom—intently working on a simple crossword puzzle--sat across from a woman at a table piled high with neatly folded towels.  When I walked over to her and said, “Hi, Mom!  Happy Birthday!” she turned and her face lit up with a huge smile. 

            We went on in to her room so I could put down my bag and box and umbrella.  “The box is from Bob,” I said, and she eagerly pulled out the Ghiardelli tower:  blue and silver boxes full of her favorite food group (chocolate).  She exclaimed over it, clearly delighted, and immediately decided that her approach would be to open one box at a time.  But not yet.

            I reached into the Walmart bag and handed her my birthday card.  When she drew it out of the envelope, she was confused at first, but then I showed her what was right side up and she exclaimed over the bright red and blue parrot preening its feathers.  Inside the card I had written, “Go ahead and preen . . . It’s your birthday!”  Then I pulled out my gift to her:  an 8 x 10 framed print of Dana, Shawn, and Benjamin.  Oh, she loved it and immediately decided it would go nicely on her wall beside the other family pictures. 

            No sense hanging around . . . Mom was itching to head out, so we did.  We took a rather roundabout way to Applebee’s (which is down the block from Home Place) past the post office so I could mail a letter and on up Midway Blvd. by Whidbey Presbyterian.  I thought she would enjoy seeing the blossoming fruit trees along the way, and she did.  We turned at Highway 20 to admire more trees and head back toward the restaurant.

            When I read off the lunch specials to her, she said the grilled chicken Caesar salad sounded good.  To my delight, she ate about six strips of the savory meat along with a few bites of greens and slivered almonds . . . and a few of my French fries.  Her first comment about the chicken being tough came midway through the meal.  She gave me a piece, which was both tender and delicious.  She accepted my appraisal and then, once she had forgotten it, started on a new refrain:  “That’s right.  I remember now that this is the place that always has tough chicken.  What restaurant is this?”  Next time I will remember that finger foods are best since she prefers her fingers to silverware.

            Even though she was stuffed, she did manage to spoon up about half of the small hot fudge sundae we shared.    Our server was a gregarious young man whom she told, emotion catching her voice, “Today’s my birthday!  I’m 83.  That’s a prime number, only divisible by itself and the number one.”  (Earlier, on our ride to the restaurant, I reminded her she is 85 today, a bothersome fact that does not suit her, but she did the math in her head—“Let’s see . . . 1927 . . .”—assisted by my volunteering the information that this is 2012.)

            We drove around a little while after lunch.  It had stopped raining by the time we got to Home Place.  We chatted awhile, covering the same ground we had been working on since my arrival at eleven:  John working in Seattle today;  me going to Oklahoma tomorrow; her birthday; the gift boxes of chocolate from Bob; the picture of Dana, Shawn, and Benjamin.  A few more hugs, and it was time for her nap and time for me to go.

            I would like to think that the picture and the card will remind her throughout the day that I was there, so she won’t feel neglected.  But I know better than that.  I drove home thankful for the gracious staff at Home Place and happy that this two-hour birthday visit went so well, even though I am the only one who remembers it.

The Eyewitness Proclamation

            Two points from today’s sermon stick with me and move me profoundly.

            The first provides encouragement and comfort because I am no debater.  Put me in a debate, and I am sure to lose.  My brain freezes; plus, it seems like there are always good arguments on the other side.   Perhaps it is ironic that I enjoy the field of apologetics so much.  It’s important to know what we believe and why we believe it.  Just don’t ask me to debate it.  Instead, let me proclaim it.  Proclaiming versus explaining was the first point in the sermon.  Forgive my sacrilege, but the rhyme that comes to mind is from an old Alka-Seltzer commercial:  “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz; oh, what a relief it is!” 

            The second point produces even more relief.  Frankly, the fact that the gospels give variants of the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ has always bothered me.  How do I reconcile the different accounts?  Do the differences diminish the sacred text, making it questionable?  No.  Eyewitness accounts, as Dave explained, are different than expert testimony.  Experts use their specialized training to interpret the facts.  Eyewitnesses tell what they personally saw and heard.  Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John may vary on some details—making their accounts even more humanly believable--but they agree on the central fact:  Jesus rose from the dead. 

            What a joyous message!  As a 21^st century eyewitness to the risen Christ, I am in a much better position to proclaim than to explain.  Rather than try to convince you that I know what I’m talking about, I can simply tell you what I’ve seen and heard.  The words of the gospel song by Bill and Gloria Gaither come to mind:

God sent His son, they called Him Jesus
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

How sweet to hold a newborn baby,
And feel the pride and joy he gives.
But greater still the calm assurance,
This child can face uncertain days because He lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

And then one day I'll cross the river,
I'll fight life's final war with pain.
And then as death gives way to victory,
I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know He lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone!
Because I know He holds the future
And life is worth the living just because He lives!

            The message is simple:  Jesus lives!  But it will take me a lifetime to tell you about my personal experience of new life in Him.

A Quiet Life

            “Jan?” the familiar, tentative voice asks.

            I turn, speaking gently:  “What do you need, Mom?”  And then I wake up.

            I’m supposed to miss her more.  Instead, I wake each day to a palpable relief.  Only occasionally do lonely moments catch up with me in the serenity of my newly arranged space.

            Weeks slip by in this new life.  Mornings, I wake up with coffee and the day’s Internet fix.  Sometimes I write, and always I practice one or both flutes.  On the days my brother John commutes into Seattle, I walk down a short stretch of driveway to the perimeter fencing and slide open the gate between cougar cages.  Then, over in my brother’s basement, I set the stainless steel feeding dishes to soak and start a load of laundry.  Those tasks will be picked up again mid-afternoon.

            After my sacrosanct daily nap, afternoons fill up with errands or writing, interspersed with household tasks and keeping my cat company.  Sometimes I have a friend over—it’s a real delight to show off my spacious living/office/kitchen area and the view of the woods from the back windows.

            I cook for two instead of three now, though the amounts are the same since Mom’s tiny stomach only allowed her the smallest of portions.  John arrives promptly at six, and we sit down to a simply, healthy meal.  He’s out the door to feed his big cats by 6:15.

            If I am not at flute choir or chancel choir, I am home, watching the last bit of the news and spending the rest of the evening reading or writing or transcribing the almost-century-old letters exchanged between my grandparents during their unofficial, lengthy engagement.  Sometimes I’m on the phone with my son.  (Phone conversations with my daughter come earlier in the day.)  Always the evening slips by quickly.  I end the day with Bible and cat in lap.

            It is a very simple, very quiet life interspersed with church activities, music, and occasional beach walks.  It is when I sit down at the piano to play a few elementary notes that the poignant moments arrive and I miss Mom—who she is now in mid-stage dementia and who she used to be when she was fully herself.

            I try not to picture her walking around the commons area of her new living space and wondering when her son and daughter will ever visit.  (Each time we do is a first time for her.)  Tuesday, April 24 will be her 85^th birthday.  I’ll be there at Home Place for lunch and spend an hour in her eternal present, recycling simple conversation every few minutes.  Once I leave, she will not know I’ve been there, but at least I will.

Melody

            In all the months my cat has sat on my lap while I work on the computer, last night was the first time she showed any interest in the screen.  As I played the “Pink Panther” clip from our flute concert, Melody came to attention.  I believe it was the movement of the flutes that first caught her eye.  We both were engrossed in watching the video clip.  At one point she went behind the screen to see what she might find.

            This morning she discovered the cursor.  It was hard to peer around her as she followed my Internet trail.  Typing, though, is even more interesting.  She follows the line of moving type but never can seem to catch it.  Right now she is perched right in front of the screen, her tail thumping the cabinet. 

            Melody is an interesting creature.  No matter how relaxed she is, her tail tells a different story.  It has a wildly active life of its own.  In addition, she is quite the communicator.  Purring is her all-purpose accompaniment to many activities:  being brushed, eating, playing, and now computer gazing.  She has carefully trained me to recognize that when she lies on her back with legs splayed it is not an invitation to be petted, but a request to play with her catnip mouse on a shoelace.  She paws on closet doors when she is desperate to be let in—thank goodness she is declawed!  Otherwise, the woodwork would be doomed. 

            But she saves her most elaborate communication for early morning.  Her inner clock is set for seven.  She has several methods for waking me:  persistently tapping my shoulder, walking across my chest, purring loudly in my ear.  If those efforts fail to get me up and out of bed, she pulls out the big guns and bats small items off my bedside table.  And why does she do all this?  Despite the food in her kitty dish, she believes she must see and hear a sprinkle of fresh food before she can settle down to breakfast.  After a few bites, she wanders away—unless, of course, I go back to bed, in which case she dedicates herself to getting me up again.

A Night at the Movies

            We had a blast, and I think the audience did, too.  I’m talking about the Enchanted Flute Choir’s spring concert, “A Night at the Movies.”  It may be impossible to re-create a concert in words, but I’m gonna try.

            First, what a wonderful audience!  Our director, Kim Breilein, welcomed our guests into the fun by quizzing them about starring actors in Raiders of the Lost Ark, and they (our guests, not the raiders) continued their lively participation throughout the concert.  Maybe they applauded so heartily because they anticipated the free popcorn and soda afterwards, but I choose to believe they were simply having as grand a time as we performers were.

            Who would think that a dozen flutes could capture the intensity of the “Raiders March”?  The three alto flutes punched out the opening rhythm, building in intensity to the grand appearance of the melody.  The overall effect was exciting, though the individual alto parts were mainly made up of a single note--E^b—and, in the middle of the piece, about eighteen consecutive measures of staccato quarter notes.  But, hey, somebody has to provide the percussion.

            With Raiders’ adrenaline flowing, we abruptly switched styles to the lighthearted “Chim Chim Cher-ee” from Mary Poppins.  Quickly, audience members identified Julie Andrews and Dick VanDyke in the starring roles, and then, a lone voice rang out with “Angela Lansbury.” (Oh, yes, that was the much younger incarnation before her murder mystery series.)  I think we managed to play the familiar tune according to the score instructions:  “Lightly, with Gusto.”

            After a smaller ensemble played “Believe” from Polar Express, the whole flute choir moved—literally, as we did for each number to our different positions—to the heavy, driving beat of “Eye of the Tiger” from Rocky III.  Where does one find a good flute arrangement of a Rocky song?  One doesn’t.  Our talented director created arrangements, specifically for our flute choir, of this and four of the other numbers we performed.  Peggy and I were back on our altos for this number, again providing the percussive momentum along with the 4^th flutes, though Peggy was the only one with the sixteenth notes.  (Well, I had them, too, but at the “Moderate Rock” tempo of 120, my tongue was too tangled up with double-tonguing, so I played eighth notes instead.)

            For the next piece, “Whistle While You Work,” I only had to change flutes, not stands.  The audience successfully named some of the dwarfs.  Too bad we didn’t have hats and beards.  I pictured the original Snow White animation, dwarfs lined up in a row to receive her kiss.  That helped me play “Brightly,” as the music indicated.

            And then it was back to alto flutes for a trio, “Through the Eyes of Love” from Ice Castles.  Why our transition to three stands, especially since I got to keep my old one, was so complicated for us, I do not know, but Kim took the opportunity to say something about “Three Stooges” as we fumbled into place.  I never did look up the words to this particular song:  the flow of the music was enough to show that it required a romantic and somewhat schmaltzy interpretation, which Vic, Peggy, and I rendered to the best of our capabilities.

            The trio set the mood for the love theme from Titanic, “My Heart Will Go On,” which the high school girls in our group especially loved.  Somehow that is a movie I never saw in its entirety, but the music is incredibly moving, and I could picture Kate Winslow and Leonardo DiCaprio on board.

            Since the ship sank, we went “Under the Sea” for our next number.  When we play this piece from The Little Mermaid, I always picture Sebastian the crab belting it out in all his animated glory.  Is it possible to swing to a calypso beat?  I did.

            No night at the movies is complete without “Over the Rainbow” from The Wizard of Oz.  The quintet made the music sing and my heart soar.  Ah, Dorothy!  (I feel a special kinship with her, having been unexpectedly transported from Kansas to the wonders of Whidbey Island where my dreams have come true.)

            A significant part of those dreams has been rediscovering the musician within, so I was thrilled to have one of the solos in “The Pink Panther.”  I grooved to the beat with flutter tonguing and glissandos, all the while envisioning the cartoon image of the pink panther doing his on-screen moves before the movie.

            And then, the end:  “Circle of Life” from The Lion King rounded out the evening with its African beat.  Thunderous applause, bowing flutists . . . and there was plenty of popcorn for all.