Dear Anne

Today I found a letter I wrote on this date in 2014. Because it still speaks my heart, I've updated it for 2020.  

June 19, 2020

Dear Anne,

            I miss you.  Tomorrow would have been your 67^st birthday, and you’ve been gone almost eleven years already.

            I miss your hearty telephone greeting:  “Janis!”  I miss your overbearing personality.  I miss your tender heart carefully hidden beneath a gruff exterior.  I miss your sense of humor and verbal word play.  I miss your hand gripping mine and your piercing gaze.

            I still count those 66 days with you at the end of your life as a cherished yet profoundly difficult time.  I am so grateful that I was able to be your support and advocate.  Those long hours at your bedside taught me the ministry of presence.  So human and so holy, that time bound me to you in your suffering.  I learned the tiniest fraction of Christ’s sacrificial love.

            Anne, far more than I feared you as a child (you really were the older sister from hell!), I love you and miss you.  I’m glad you found the missing true love of your life, Jesus, at the very end. 

Love,

Janis

In a Jam

          “Joseph!” I called. “Can you bring me the screwdriver? I’m stuck in my room!”

          Thankfully, Joseph was awake and heard me.  Thankfully, I remembered where I store the screwdriver and was able to explain it to him.  Thankfully, since having the thick carpeting removed and the red oak floors refinished before I moved into my house seven years ago, I’ve never had the doors and baseboards lowered to be flush with the floor. The chunky screwdriver slid right under the door to me.

          I’m an expert procrastinator when it comes to home repairs. That’s because I’m all thumbs when it comes to fixing anything.  The doorknob had been difficult to turn for a long time, and I had dutifully put off the inevitable replacement.

          Getting it off, though, did not get me out of my room.  The mechanism inside was jammed.  Fortunately, after fruitless attempts using brute force, it occurred to me to have Joseph re-insert the doorknob from his side, which activated the mechanism.  I escaped.

          Later in the day, I bought a doorknob at Lowe’s and hoped I would be able to install it.  Somehow, taking things apart is easier than putting them back together.  But at least I had experience: about 25 years ago, I had replaced the doorknob to the front door of another house.  It only took a few hours, and I only discovered the little mistake I made in the installation when I was locking up the house for the night:  the keyhole was on the inside, and the lock was on the outside.

          Amazingly, the new doorknob to my bedroom fit, and I was able to put it on rather easily.  Well, except for one little mistake: after inserting the inside mechanism and securing the plate, I wanted to make sure it worked before I installed the knobs . . . so I closed the door, locking myself in my bedroom for the second time today.  Joseph again came to the rescue so I could finish the job.

          You might wonder why I didn’t have my son perform this supposedly simple household repair.  The answer is quite simple: I raised him.  He had no opportunity to learn how to do all the things I don’t know how to do. However, he’s a great back up when I get myself in a jam.