Moving Targets

            Beginning archery lessons in a grade school YMCA summer day camp:  I seem to have a vague memory of bow in hand and wobbly arrow shot.  I was better at hitting tin can targets with a BB gun.

            I’d like to think I actually hit a bullseye once in a while, but that could well be in the wishful thinking department, right along with my mistaken belief that because I had read about horseback riding in Trixie Belden books that meant I could actually do it.  Anyway, targets are hard to hit when you are a beginner.  With time and practice, though, you can improve.  But what happens if they start to move erratically?  Unless you’re a sharpshooter, you’re sunk.

            Despite close to twenty years of aiming at fibromyalgia’s moving targets, my aim to eliminate pain is still wobbly.  Just when I think I know where the target is, it moves and morphs into something new.  The pain changes locations.  It even changes its essence:  aching to stabbing to burning to lightning bolt.  Muscle to bone to joint to skin.  One evening this week my left leg was cramping badly.  Thinking to ease the pain, I got out the muscle rub gel.  The second I touched my leg, I had a nasty surprise:  not only was the muscle cramping, but the skin was suddenly excruciatingly sensitive to touch.  Aargh.

            Of course, pain is not the only moving target.  There is the foggy brain target, the tired target, the skin rash target, the gastrointestinal target, the clumsy target, and other body system targets I cannot remember right now.  You take aim at the targets with any weapon at your disposal:  prescription medications, alternative medicine, diet, supplements, gentle exercise.  And just when you think you have hit the bullseye, the target moves or changes.  Sometimes it disappears altogether and you think that all your target practice has paid off . . . until days, months, or years later that particular target reappears, usually with some new target-friends in tow.

            Even though my aim is still not so good, I have learned that there is much more to life than target practice.  In fact, sometimes the best thing to do is to just take a break and aim my sights elsewhere.  Let the targets be.  But don’t deny they still exist like I did a few minutes ago, wrestling with a leaf bag and the “easy-to-use” cardboard leaf chute.  Ten minutes of awkward struggle in the garage (I did not want the neighbors to see my clownish clumsiness) left me too tired to tackle last fall’s pile of leaves against the fence.  And all that work only succeeded in ripping open the side of the bag and reminding me of the pain targets in hands and arms and shoulder and neck. 

            On the bright side, at least I know where today’s targets are.

           

            

The Seal

            “Mom, why was there a seal on Jesus’ tomb?”

            Immediately, I understood what my young son meant.  “Oh, honey,” I answered, “the Bible doesn’t mean the animal kind of seal.  It means that the opening to the tomb was covered up by a big stone so nobody could go in—or get out.”

            Now, those may have not been my exact words, but you get the idea.   And if you read Matthew 27: 65-66, my son’s literal interpretation becomes clearer.  When the chief priests and Pharisees brought their concerns to Pilate that the disciples might steal Jesus’ body to deceive the people into thinking Jesus had actually risen from the dead, Pilate took immediate action:

“Take a guard,” Pilate answered.  “Go, make the tomb as secure as you know how.”  So they went and made the tomb secure by putting a seal on the stone and posting the guard.

            To be honest, I enjoy picturing a real, live seal sitting atop the stone.  Its flippers clapping together and its honking kind of bark would signal that something extra special was going to take place.  People would gather to see this unique sight.  The guards would have to hold the crowds back as well as slip a fresh fish or two to the seal. 

            Of course, it did not happen that way.  But imagining the scene of live seal on real tomb helps me understand the puzzlement my son Joseph must have felt when he asked me that question 20+ years ago. 

            Maybe, as adults, we should puzzle over the gospels more.  We should study out our questions to discover the pertinent answers the Bible has to give.  Seemingly silly questions deserve serious thought.  Leaving no stone unturned (and, perhaps, no seal unexamined), as we dig into serious study we will uncover the ultimate answer to our questions in a Person: Jesus the Christ.  He is the baby born in a manger, the former carpenter teaching the crowds and healing the sick, the suffering servant hanging on the cross, and the Son of God risen from the dead.

           

Pure Joy

            We walk across the street, his hand clasped in mine.  Happiness incarnate, Benjamin walks eagerly with his distinctive slapdash steps, crooning his delight.  Once we reach my driveway, he breaks free, hurrying to the prize called Grandma’s house.

            I open the front door and he bolts in to play the piano.  Smash ups of notes travel up the scale followed by single low tones.  He throws his head back, singing “ahhh” and moving with the pure celebration of sound.  Then he is off to the toy room.  I hear the familiar strains of “The Farmer in the Dell” before I see him cross-legged on the floor playing with the See ‘N Say. 

            Retreating to the kitchen to peel cucumbers, I soon hear Benjamin’s familiar footsteps down the hall.  “Dih, Dih, Dih, Dih,” he says as he enters the kitchen and plops down on the floor.  Smiling ear to ear and continuing to vocalize, now adding in sweeps of musical “oohs,” he looks up at the hood over my stovetop as if he is greeting his best friend.  I can’t help but wonder if I have a resident angel there.

            Benjamin continues his rounds through my house.  Back to the piano, he does more of his boogie-woogie note smash and then stands by the bench expectantly signing “please” and looking my way.  “Oh, do you want me to play ‘The Wheels on the Bus’?” I ask.  His answer is signs for “yes” and “please.”  So I plunk out the tune and sing his favorite song.  He bounces to the beat and hits a final palm-width of the low keys just as I play the last note. 

And then he is off again. A walk-through of my bedroom is essential, as is a stroll into the bathroom.  Hearing the top lid drop, I hurry in.  Ever hopeful, I ask, “Do you want to go potty?”  Smiling up at me, he does his “The Wheels on the Bus” sign.  Oh, well.  I sing and do the motions to the song, and he is satisfied. 

            Benjamin comes back into the kitchen with his smiling request for my best monkey sounds, handing me the stuffed monkey.  I wiggle it while saying, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, aah, aah, aah, muah” always ending with a monkey kiss on his cheeks. 

            And then he is done.  He stands by my front door, waiting for me to unlock and open it.  We walk back across the street.  Six-year-old Benjamin has done it again:  though he does not yet speak, he eloquently teaches me joy.  

Snapshots Spanning Fifty Years

No introduction, no conclusion.  Perhaps someday I will think of how to frame these word pictures.

            April 1962:  Excited to share the big news in first grade Show and Tell, I started to explain that my grandma had died over the weekend.  No one was more shocked than I was when I burst into tears and could not stop crying.  My teacher sent for my eight-year-old sister to comfort me.

            November 1962:  Six months later, Grandpa died.  We kids were not allowed to attend the funeral, but we were at the funeral dinner held afterwards in his big house in the country.  Happy to see so many of our relatives, I thought to myself, “It would be a perfect day if Grandpa were here.”  But I also knew that Grandpa and Grandma were together in heaven.  Sometimes I talked to Grandpa about how much I missed him.

            December 1974:  Cousin Dee died in a car wreck her senior year in high school, my sophomore year in college.  Just a week before her death, she had given her life to Christ at a youth crusade.       

June 1975:  The next summer, my father died.  It felt strange to think of him gone for good since he had been gone from our lives for so many years.  His life had been one big train wreck, but I still hoped that he came to Jesus at the very end.

            October 2009:  I knew my sister was going to die soon.  After all, I had been with her for the past two months since the surgery that revealed inoperable cancer.  Though there had already been many tears, I howled with grief the day after.  My solace had come the day she died, when I sensed her passing by, her young self again, flying off to heaven.

            May 2013:  Mom went quietly in the night, less than a week after hospice care had started for her in the memory care facility where she lived.  Still, I was unprepared for the hollowed-out grief that occupied my very soul.  Why had I not realized just how much I loved her before she was gone?

Post-Christmas Parody (I think Cathie would have laughed at this.)

The other day before I left for church, I started a bean soup blend in the crockpot.  With cumin as the main spice, the smell was heavenly when I returned some hours later.  It has been awhile since I’ve written a lyric parody of a familiar tune, but when the first line came to me, I just had to do the whole first verse:

It’s beginning to smell a lot like bean soup

All throughout the house;

Take a sniff in the bath and den or kitchen once again

With crockpot steam of cooking beans below.

It’s beginning to smell a lot like bean soup

Navy, black, and more

But the loveliest smell of all is the cornbread rising tall

Behind th’oven door.

            However, I must admit that there was no cornbread.

Remembering Cathie

            Ah, Cathie, how I miss you already.  Not having you in the world is hard even though we talked on the phone only occasionally and saw each other even less.  Numerous times this fall I thought of calling you but didn’t, and the times I tried I couldn’t reach you.  Most of those attempts were in December, when I felt such an urgency to touch base with you.   The call from Ellen late Sunday afternoon confirmed the urgency I had felt.  You died on Saturday, January 2.

            For the past few days, all I can think of is you.  I replay scenes from our friendship.  Us sitting at your dining room table drinking tea or coffee and talking.  Helping you go through stacks of mail.  Setting off in your van to go to church or do errands or pick up my brother John for a day outing.  He would take over the driver’s helm and we would head out on some adventure.  I particularly remember our day trip last June—out to Deception Falls.  Your right arm was still recovering from a recent surgery, so you could not operate your electric chair.  So you used your manual chair and he pushed you through the lovely wooded trails and onto the bridge where we were entranced by the falls.  On our way home, upon my request, we ate in Iver’s Restaurant on the Mukilteo landing.  John treated us to a gourmet feast, starting with first-class drinks:  your martini, my Sangria, and his sweet mixed drink.  Your steak, my salmon, and John’s seafood platter were all heavenly.  Then, even though we could barely handle a bite more, John ordered the fresh strawberry shortcake for us to share.

            The three of us enjoyed dinners together in your home when I came to the island on a visit and stayed with you.  We got along so seamlessly and splendidly, a perfect company of three.  I remember our attempts to stop you from standing up to reach the cupboards or pull a heavy pan from the oven.  “Sit down, Cathie!” I would say.  “Let me get the plates out.”  John would take the oven mitt from you as he said, “I’ll take care of that.”  It was so hard for you to stand, what with the diabetic neuropathy in your legs and feet and the rheumatoid arthritis.  So often you pushed yourself beyond your endurance.  We just wanted to give you a break.

            Perhaps I should go back in time and recall how you and I first met.  It was February of 2011, I believe, and I was going to lead a small group study for Lent.  Nancy signed up for it and also signed you up, even though you were a member of a different church.  With your consent, she suggested we meet at your house to make it easier for you—after all, you loved hosting groups in your home.  And if we met there, you did not have to worry about and arrange for a driver. What a gracious hostess you were for our group, which continued on in various configurations for several years after the initial six-week commitment. 

            Then in the early part of 2013, you were without a caregiver and going through a hard time.  My heart went out to you, so I started coming over to help you with your paperwork.  As we worked together and talked even more, we found the treasure of a deep friendship.  And then my mother died, and I decided to move to Oklahoma to be with my daughter and her family. 

            In the next two years, I visited the island three times and stayed with you.  We got along so well and you so graciously let me use your van.  Sometimes I would go out by myself for a good part of the day to see friends, walk the beach, run a few errands.  Other times we did those things (well, not beach walks) together.  There was an ease to staying with you—it was like coming home.

            To think that I never knew you during your active, healthier years.  You raised your children, worked, somehow carried on after the early death of your husband.  You raised one granddaughter and, when she had a daughter, doted on your great-granddaughter.  You endured much heartbreak, physical suffering, and increasing limitations.  The diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis conspired to put you in a wheelchair and rob you of most of your eyesight.  But you bravely soldiered on.

            Yesterday, when I was greeting families bringing their babes and young children to my church’s child care, I started thinking about how you would excel in this ministry.  I envisioned you maneuvering your electric chair to a good spot in the hallway.  I could see your big smile and hear your voice greet everyone with such vivacity and warmth.  From there I imagined you zipping around heaven in your wheelchair and joyously greeting your Savior and your loved ones.  But then, with a jolt of surprise, I realized that you don’t need your wheelchair anymore.  Your legs are strong, your vision clear, and your hearing perfect.  Immersed in Christ’s love, you are joyously worshipping the King of Kings and celebrating with all the saints.

            And now my tears fall, both in gratitude and in sorrow.  I miss you so much, Cathie, yet I am so happy for you.  And I look forward to our future reunion in heaven.

Socks and Shoes

            Two-and-a-half-year-old Joelle was not ready to end our family Christmas celebration.  Still hopeful there might be more presents somewhere, she pulled out the now-empty Christmas stockings, sat down, and put them on her feet.  Delighted with our laughter, she walked about the living room holding them up like hip waders.

            This is not the first time we have celebrated Christmas early to accommodate travel schedules.  Nor will it be the last.  And I do not mind at all.  In fact, there are definite benefits to celebrating early.  Just at the time when most people are frantically shopping, decorating, and baking for the holidays, I am peacefully done.  I get to soak up the wonder of the Advent season without the rush and hurry. 

            There is much to anticipate even after all the presents have been opened.  Advent is the season of joyful expectation as we remember the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and look forward to His return.  I still remember the first time I heard about the Second Coming of Christ.  (Maybe I had not been paying attention at church as a child and as a young teen, or maybe it was simply not talked about.)  I was surprised and thought to myself, “Wow!  He’s coming back!”

            No matter your particular beliefs about how the time leading up to Christ’s return will play out, contemplating the certainty of that Second Coming should spur you on with joy.  No matter the trials and tribulations ahead, we know the outcome:  God wins.  What better reason to celebrate, to share the gospel freely, to give generously, to serve wholeheartedly.  We probably won’t put on Christmas stockings like Joelle, but we can take Paul’s words to heart:  “Put on your shoes so that you are ready to spread the Good News that gives peace”  (Ephesians 6:15, God’s Word Translation).