Announcements

            I used to cry during announcements, but that was years ago when I was struggling through the loneliness of single parenting.  There was something about the peaceful sanctuary and one-hour haven of worship that allowed free flow of tears.  Sometimes the tears started with the announcements; sometimes they waited until a hymn or the sermon.

            Those were the days when my grim answer to the foyer pleasantries—“How are you, today, Janis?”—left the inquirers nonplussed and ready to quickly move on.  “Surviving,” I would truthfully say, wishing that sometime someone would stop that second and really listen.   One did.  Her name was Jan Faidley.  That first day, her husband Don stood aside, aghast at her intense stream of personal questions.  None of them felt intrusive to me:  I was thrilled that someone wanted to know the details of my daily existence.  She became a treasured friend.

            A silent desperation overtook me occasionally.  Once, maybe twice a year, I called in sick to work, completely unable to face anyone or anything.  A day at home while my children were at school gave me space to cry, call a friend, write in my journal, sleep.  It was lonelier than hell, but at least I had a brief respite from responsibilities and the chance to collect myself.

            I remember clinging to the Psalms, which expressed my own inner turmoil so well.  I remember sometimes wishing I could escape in drugs or drinking, but there were my children and church and small-town reputation to think of.  So I got lost in books instead:  hours on the couch devouring novels, entering an alternate reality for a break from my own.  The best part about books was that I could make my escape while the kids were home.  Reading was much more desirable than doing housework, and it maintained my sanity.

            It is untrue to paint a totally bleak picture, for there were many good things and many blessings in my life.  My children.  A secure job I enjoyed most of the time.  Help from family and friends far away and support of a few friends close by.  A church I loved.

            That same Jan Faidley predicted an unlikely future for me.  One day as we visited in her home, she told me that God had spoken to her heart, telling her that He had a plan for a big blessing in my life, a future I could not begin to imagine.  Naturally, she had no details, but knowing that she regularly prayed for me and my kids and had such confidence that He desired to bring joy to my life meant a great deal.

            So the last Sunday of 2012 I find myself making announcements and leading worship at Whidbey Presbyterian Church.  Joy surges through my soul as I look out at the congregation that has proven to be such a big part of God’s blessing.  My move to Whidbey Island, intended to help my mother and brother while removing me far away from a second failed marriage, has turned out to be the blessing God promised:  music and writing and ministry and friends in a beautiful place.  Someday, when Jan and I are reunited in heaven (she died in 2002), I’ll be able to tell her that I stopped crying during the announcements.

           

           

Tidings: News, Information, or Intelligence

Now there were in the same country shepherds living out in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And, behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were greatly afraid.  Then the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.  For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.  And this will be the sign to you:  You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.  (Luke 2:8-12, NKJV)

Dictionary.com did not quote from Luke, but did provide the word of the day for December 25th:  tidings.  That word and its threefold definition got me to wondering how the tidings reported in Luke might be handled today. . .

 Newsbreak:  Reported from the fields near Bethlehem this evening, an alien brighter than the sun.  Homeless men camping near a flock of sheep claim the alien told them not to be scared and further said that a newborn baby had been placed in an animal feeding trough somewhere in Bethlehem.  More details at eleven.

Information:    The term “savior” commonly refers to a particular person of Jewish descent born over two thousand years ago in the city we know as Bethlehem.  According to the ancient legend, a heavenly being (see angel) appeared out of nowhere in a field outside of the city and spoke to the shepherds.  This legend has become a centerpiece of popular Christian culture (see Christian, church).

Intelligence:    Shepherd informants report seeing an unidentified messenger, a baby, and a manger.  Top analysts are working around the clock to investigate the cryptic claim, which could herald a dangerous insurgency of unknown proportions.

All modern speculation aside, the birth of Jesus is Good News for people of all times and all places.  As the angel said, “I’m here to announce a great and joyful event that is meant for everybody, worldwide:  A Savior has just been born in David’s town, a Savior who is Messiah and Master.” (The Message)

           

Day Three

Differentiated Diagnosis, Positive Prognosis

            To my utter surprise, I turned down mini eclairs and homemade Christmas cookies last night with nary a problem.  Evidently, “wheat-free” provides an inner strength that “diet” doesn’t.  However, I am not out of the woods yet (as evidenced by the scenery out my window).

            Right here with me, though, is my alter ego, Dr. Jan, who loves to pretend she is a bona fide physician even though her last science class was general biology for non-science majors at Grinnell College.  (The fortuitous—that spelling took only two trips to the dictionary—liberal curriculum of the 1970s allowed me to navigate around science and mathematics, which preserved my grade point average.)

            However, a lack of science does not a lack of medical interest make.  And my life has provided plenty of medical interest.  I research everything remotely related to medical conditions of self, family, and friends:  thus, my self-appointed moniker of Dr. Jan.

            With my science background in mind, then, you are encouraged to take everything I say with a healthy dose of salt—or Mrs. Dash if you are on a salt-free diet. 

            Here it is only day three of my wheat-free existence, and I have already come up with a subjective yet detailed differential diagnosis of pain.  (I’m sounding like a hypochondriac even to myself, though I will point out that both subtle and overt possibilities of humor drive me into excessive detail.)  The first two pain factors currently coexist . . . oops, I miscounted, but that does not mean you should discount me . . . there is actually just one pain factor plus a fatigue factor.  

            Through my own careful analysis plus the help of my friendly calico cat, I recognize that first pain as originating from fibromyalgia trigger points.  The stabbing jabs between my shoulders as I sit and type are the chief symptom.  Melody (my cat) tests most trigger points on a daily basis with her kneading.  I did not fully realize her accuracy until the other day when she unexpectedly chose a trigger-free spot:  until that soothing moment, I believed she had paws of steel.

            The fatigue factor (which I mistakenly counted a paragraph ago as a pain factor) still shows up after I eat starchy vegetables.  The dip isn’t nearly as deep as it was until just three days ago, which leads me to believe I am entering the plains of stable blood sugar. 

            Now, before you get too tired of my endless alliteration and droning details, l will abruptly move to the third factor and my conclusion:  evidently, wheat was causing much of my digestive distress and general malaise.  So even though I am not pain-free, I am more pain-free than I have been since stopping NSAIDs.  All of this is to say that I have a positive prognosis as long as I can refuse wheat.  I’ll just say no.

Day One

            December 17 was the first day.  Today, December 18, I already feel better.  Especially now that my Internet connection is back.

            Our power was out most of yesterday, and my Internet connection was gone, too.  Thankfully, my brother keeps us partly powered up with a generator.  Being able to run water and flush the toilet are big deals.  So are lights and computer.  A day off laundry wasn’t bad, but I did sorely miss the microwave. 

            All the troubleshooting in the world would not solve the Internet problem, though, until John noticed my router cable was unplugged.  Oops.  Now that I’ve checked my email, read my comics, looked at the forecast for snow, and sent my columns in for the church newsletter, I’m ready to talk about day one:  yesterday was my first wheat-free day.  Perhaps because of the internal rhyme, I like the sound of “wheat-free” better than “gluten-free.”  And if rhyming helps, I’m all for it.

            It is, very likely, too early to tell if this dietary experiment is going to work long-term, but the truth is that I woke up this morning without the usual aches and pains.  I’ve been more than a little discouraged the last six months as pain and fatigue have revisited with a vengeance.  Without the Celebrex to fall back on (Group Health took it off the formulary), it’s been an achy autumn. 

            A long time ago I saw the title Wheat Belly and put my name on the library hold list.  If I remember correctly, over a hundred people had beat me to it, but a week or so ago the book became available.  I devoured it (not literally, of course).  The author’s explanation of the problems with modern-day wheat due to decades of hybridizing made sense to me.  So, driven by desperation, I decided to give up wheat for a month, a big deal for this muffin/cookies/crackers/cake/bread-eating wheat lover.

            Now, along with wheat, the author believes one should also give up sugar, starch, and complex carbohydrates as well as limit fruits in order to stabilize blood sugar levels.  By evening I realized that it was enough for now to give up the wheat.  To succeed with wheat deprivation, I needed a bowl of hot brown rice cereal with two teaspoonfuls of raw cane sugar.  So, yes, I cheated.  (Well, to be thoroughly honest, there was that mid-morning banana and the dinnertime potato.)

            I’m in the process of reading labels and cleaning out my cupboards.  I’ve also purchased such essential ingredients as almond meal, ground flaxseed, and walnut oil.  Grocery shopping has been simultaneously simplified and complicated:  you’ll see me filling my cart with produce, dairy, and lean meats.  (Now is not the time for me to go vegan.) 

I am told that my soul-level craving for carbs will eventually disappear.  Hopefully I’ll pass the test (i.e., the treats) at the church board meeting tonight.  Better pack those raw cashews and unsweetened coconut flakes before I forget.   But now it’s time for lunch:  avocado, alfalfa sprouts, and baby spinach leaves with natural mayo in a flaxseed wrap for me, leftover spaghetti and meatballs for my brother.

A Christmas Dinner

            Dressed in black for the eight p.m. White Christmas performance, I sign in at Home Place for the five p.m. Christmas dinner.  Punching in the familiar code to unlock the door to the Woodlands neighborhood, I feel the usual bit of fear twisting in my gut.  As I push the door open, I take in a festive scene:  the common room filled with people, the hum of conversation, soft holiday music, and Christmas light displays from the big screen TV.

            Mom is easy to spot, sitting at one of the tables for four, her Time magazine spread out before her.  As I walk up, the moment of recognition is undeniable:  an intake of breath; a wide, surprised smile; and a whispered shout—“Jan!”  I bend down to hug her, and she kisses me on the cheek.  Why am I always so nervous about visiting her?  Maybe it is because I am steeling myself for the day she will not know me.

            As usual, I have brought more magazines, so we take those and the Time into her room where I also deposit my purse.  On her desk is a cardboard placard with a note reminding her of the Christmas treats she purchased at the bake sale to give to John and me:  a mini-loaf of some sweet bread and a single-serving red velvet cake from which, it appears, several candy decorations have been removed—and, I’m sure, thoroughly enjoyed.

            We make our way back to the table, where I meet Joyce and Peter.  Joyce explains that her husband sometimes comes to Home Place for respite care.  He smiles and nods.   At each place setting is a parchment-colored paper with picture of an angel statue under the title, “A Christmas Dinner Prayer.”  The text follows, printed in a large boldface font.  I notice that Mom has several other printed sheets at her place:  even larger boldface print on white paper.  Every minute or two she inquires about them.  (Sarah, the activities director, asked her to read them to the gathering:  first a brief welcome, and then the prayer.) 

            Finally, the big moment arrives:  Sarah and Mom walk over to the front by the kitchenette counter.  It is pretty impossible to get everyone’s attention, so Joyce helps by tapping a spoon against her glass.  Some voices continue, undeterred, and Mom rises to her best public-speaking self, saying in a clear, loud voice, “May I have your attention, please.”  She begins to read.

            I am pretty amazed she can see at all to read, for this afternoon John took her to her eye appointment, the one where her eyes are dilated and she receives a shot in the left eye to slow the macular degeneration.  Just a few hesitations and stumbles mark her reading, which she finishes with a flourish.  Then, with Sarah at her side, she asks us to join her in reading the Christmas prayer:

God of all gifts, we thank you for the many ways you have blessed us this day.  We are grateful for each of those who are gathered around this table.  We ask you to bless us and our food and to bless those we love who are not with us today.  In our gratitude and love, we remember your humble birth into our lives and pray for those who are without enough to eat.  We remember the stable in which you were born and pray for those who have no place to live.  We remember your challenging message of caring and giving and we pray for peace in families and nations throughout the world.  We bless you and give you thanks in your Spirit who brings our hearts to life this Christmas Day and forever.  Amen.

There is a round of applause, and Mom returns to the table.  My heart swells with pride.

“Did I do all right?” she asks me. 

“Yes, you did a beautiful job,” I reply.  

And then dinner is served.  First delivered is a dinner roll and a festive red and green lettuce salad sprinkled with slivered almonds, dried cranberries, and a sweet vinaigrette.  The main course follows:   breaded, stuffed chicken; fancy whipped potatoes; fresh green beans cooked to perfection; and a garnish of bright red apple slices.  Dessert is a slice of layered marble cake with both white and chocolate frosting. 

Joyce is patience and love personified as she helps Peter with his food and drink.  His tremor shakes the whole table, and she rescues him just in time from eating his cloth napkin.  I look over at Mom, thankful she can still feed herself, though she doesn’t eat much tonight.  The salad gives her problems with her dentures, which she takes out and puts back in several times.  Eventually, she butters her roll and eats a bite of chicken, a few more bites of potatoes, and half of her green beans, all the while sadly wondering why she isn’t hungry.  (The answer is in her room:  a mostly-empty plate of sugar cookies.)  But she does manage to make a good dent in her dessert.

            Joyce and I enjoy conversation here and there and discover we have a mutual friend, Barbara.  Peter is silent and pleasant.  I get to tell Mom a good five times about playing in White Christmas and about Bob and Robin’s visit next week.  She asks several times where I live, and when I say, “In your house on John’s property,” she looks puzzled, saying she can’t quite picture it. 

            As the meal ends, Leanne, the executive director, brings a big Santa box over to Mom and says, “Merry Christmas.  This is from Santa!”  I wish I could capture the astonished look on Mom’s face.

 “Jan, do you know anything about this?” 

“No, I don’t, Mom.” 

She asks me to help her.  I peel off the tape, and she lifts the lid off the box, revealing a fleece leopard-print bathrobe.  How perfect!  It will be so nice and comfy over her leopard-print flannel pajamas.

            When Leanne stops by our table again, I ask about Santa’s gifts.  She tells me that this gift exchange is a staff tradition:  each staff member draws a name, so each resident has a special Santa gift to open.   Mom is relieved that every person gets a gift, and I am moved by how much the staff care for the residents.                   

            It is getting close to 6:30 p.m., time for me to head on up to Anacortes and the musical.  As Mom and I go into her room so I can gather my things, one of the residents follows.  Sweet soul that she is, Dorma has entered a period of confusion about her surroundings:  “I am so cold and I don’t have a room to stay in,” she says in a piteous voice.  “Can I stay here with you?”

            Mom is gentle but firm as she leads Dorma out of her room.  “Now, come with me, and we will find someone to help.”  I just stand there, purse and prayer and bakery treats in hand, surprised again by my own mother.  And proud.  So very proud.

            Mom escorts me to the door that, as she says, “leads to the long hallway.”  I punch in the code to unlock the door.  She squeezes my arm and kisses my cheek, leaning into the door and holding it open to watch me walk down the hall. 

            “I’ll see you in a few days!” I say in my best cheery voice, fear’s grip loosened by a lovely hour and another memory to cherish.            

Wide-Eyed

            I’m glad my brother warned me.

            When he did, I made a mental note NOT to wander over by Craiger’s cage in the near future.  I rarely do, anyway, so I wasn’t too worried.  (Craiger, in case you do not know, is the wildest of my brother’s cougars.  Raised in captivity by someone who planned to release him into the wild, he was never socialized—nor was he de-clawed.  The result?  A ferocious mountain lion unable to survive on his own.)

            Because John warned me several days ago, I was not wholly unprepared for what greeted me as I entered his basement.  I always do a visual sweep before I start the laundry,  just to be sure that Merlin the bobcat is where he is supposed to be:  in his cage.  What was slightly unnerving this morning was the doe head in the clear plastic bag by the sink.

            Sorry to any Bambi fans out there.  I love deer, too—preferably alive and not crossing the highway.  This one met her fate in the road and the driver of the deer-mangled car took his revenge by butchering her for choice cuts.  To John he gave the head, which has been sitting in the freezer ever since.

            She looked as alive as any disembodied head can, eyes wide open.  I felt a little sorry for her and made note of two very important things to remember:  1. do not look over at the cougar cages when John tosses the head to Craiger tonight, and 2. NEVER scrounge around in the basement freezer.