Coffee Hour

            God knows I left the coffee fellowship hour in Heritage Hall feeling a little bereft.  You see, during my drive to church this morning, I asked God to direct me to newcomers or anyone standing alone.  The only two people I saw standing alone, even momentarily  (well, except for the poor woman I accidentally backed into and practically knocked over) were the church office manager and the pastor, both of whom I talked with briefly.  It seemed everyone else was engaged in a group, and I was the one standing alone.

            Driving away from the church, I talked my feelings over with God, telling him I was sorry that, despite my good intentions, opportunities to be welcoming had simply not materialized.  I reminded myself that the point was to share Jesus’ love.    

I decided to enjoy a nice cuppa and a sweet potato tart at Whidbey Coffee.  Kindle in purse, I was ready for a reading break.  Oops, no sweet potato tarts today, so I chose a healthy alternative for a change:  vegan breakfast cookie.  But even before I made my selection, I spotted someone lounging in one of the comfy chairs in the back.  Immediately, I knew that this was the opportunity God had in mind for me.

            Before I could talk myself out of greeting a virtual stranger and before I could worry too much about how I might be misinterpreted, I forged ahead, coffee and cookie in hand.  “Didn’t I see you at choir practice?” I ventured.

            And thus began a pleasant conversation with Ron, an older man who had showed up at choir rehearsal last Wednesday.  I never got around to my Kindle reading.          

Leaving Whidbey Coffee, I no longer felt bereft because God had answered my prayer in a way I had not imagined, giving me the opportunity to extend welcome to someone who was sitting, not standing, alone. 

Saturday, December 3, 2011

            This evening Mom asked, “What did Anne die of?”

            I do not know what spurred the question.  Perhaps it was her own comment, made in jest a little earlier—“I don’t want to play favorites with my kids”--as she got ready to walk across the yard to John’s house to watch TV with him. 

            Answering her question was a sad relief for me because Mom has rarely mentioned my big sister in the two years since her death.  Actually, as I write this, I realize it has been two years and two months to the day:  Anne died on Saturday, October 3, 2009.  Many times I wish to reminisce about Anne but refrain because I’m not sure whether or not Mom remembers that she died.  I’d hate to cause Mom fresh grief if she has forgotten.

            Of course, the first question led to others, and I briefly recounted Anne’s three-year battle with cancer and that I went to be with her during her last hospitalization.  Mom asked where that was, and I reminded her of Anne’s home in Saxapahaw and her career at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

            In just two weeks, my brother Bob and his 13-year-old daughter will be here for a visit.  It still feels strange that I am now the oldest sibling.  When Bob, John, and I are together, I miss Anne more.  I don’t think that I’ve turned her into a saint in my memory—it would be especially hard to do that for my sister whom I feared as a child and loved as an adult.  Loud, irreverent, brassy . . . angry, loyal, and brilliant . . . witty, afraid, and determined:  I need far more than nine adjectives to describe her complexity of character and her impact as a person.

            I’m glad that Mom remembered Anne and I got to answer her questions.  It helps to revisit my grief and shed a few tears here at my computer.   But I do hope that Mom does not ask again tonight, anyway.

November Gray Day

   November 22, 2011        

             Barometric pressure shifts, high wind gusts, rain, overcast skies:  all contribute to the almost-flu feeling of fibromyalgia.

            My cells must be stretching and dumping old toxins.  It’s a drawing-down achiness head to toe.  Brain is in the fog zone.  Legs demand movement.  Lower back moans its lament.  Low-grade fever spreads its warmth.  (Actually, I probably don’t have a fever; I just feel like I do.)

            I should do something productive like write.  What comes to mind is word play:  Weather or naught, whether or not, wither or knot.  I sit at my computer rattling my knees as I listen to the dryer spin and the dishwasher wash.  I look out my French doors and note a breeze that shakes the leaves and billows the canvas tent of the portable garage.   Earlier I released a low-buzzing, dopey hornet on the glass pane to the great outdoors.

            We’re getting closer to lunchtime.  I’ve already planned supper, which will require a trip to the store for brown rice and tomato puree.  That’s okay; Mom loves our drives to Freeland.  When we land at Payless, she will push the shopping cart and comment on high prices.  She will stop and peer at store displays as she reminds me how she used to know where everything was. 

            On our drive home, we will ooh and ah over the tree colors, the sky, the clouds, the pine trees.  She will tell me the story of her mother’s dislike for Lombardi poplars and say she misses Michigan autumn colors.  When we pull up in front of our house, she may ask—as she did once last week—if we live here.  I’ll say yes, we will unload the groceries, and by then perhaps the old almost-flu feeling will have played itself out.

Unadulterated Adoration

           My cat adores me.

            I know it first thing in the morning when she meows and taps my shoulder, ready for me to get up.  I know it when I sit down in my recliner and she leaps up to come between me and my laptop.  I know it at bedtime when she parks herself between me and my book and starts licking my chin with her sandpaper tongue.  And I know it in the middle of the night when I turn over and she clambers back on my side, purring loudly.

            Melody purrs in anticipation of being petted.  She purrs for attention.  She throws herself at me whenever I pick up her grooming brush and purrs some more.  She regards me with those yellow-green, adoring eyes.

            Sometimes all that unsought attention drives me crazy.  Sometimes I love it.  The rest of the time I make liberal use of the lint roller to swipe away the remnants of her attention (fur, fur, and more fur).

            Back in September at the animal shelter, Melody chose me to be her human.  I am her chief of staff.  I attend to her needs for food, water, grooming, playtime, and attention.  She is careful to make sure I never forget her for a moment.

            I guess that is the price for unadulterated adoration.

Grandma Bragging Rights

            Last week I saw firsthand that in the two months since my end-of-August visit, Benjamin has learned new and exciting things:

     When Dana signs and asks him, “Do you want to eat?” he touches his finger to his mouth, the sign to eat.

     He gets onto all fours and sometimes moves one knee forward before splatting on the ground.  Or he hangs out in the push-up position, balancing on hands and toes.

     Last Friday, he explored the kitchen for the first time.  I have video to prove it. 

     He is much more intentional with his toys, for instance, operating his Leap Frog music tables in a favored sequence.  Once at the “ABC” song, he looks to me with his hand out, ready for me to start clapping my hands in rhythm with the beat.

     One evening holding him on her lap, Dana says “clapping” as she taps out a beat with her hands.  For the first time, Benjamin claps his hands independently.

            As expected of any two-year-old, Benjamin does have a few less endearing habits as well:

     He grabs the wet wipe straight out of my hand as I attempt to change his diaper.

     He incessantly grinds his teeth. 

     When I pick him up, he tucks his head into my shoulder and chomps down with those razor-sharp teeth.  It’s like a reflex, no harm intended.  But he drew blood once, and I have the scar to prove it.

           

Conversation History

            Looking at the local newspaper, Mom says, “Whidbey Island.  Did we ever live on Whidbey Island?”

            “Yes.  We live there now,” I reply in a cheery voice.

            “Oh.  I had totally forgotten about that.”

            For two days she has talked about the “stitch” in her left side, so I make a doctor’s appointment for her.  That afternoon, as we head out the door and I explain we are going to see the doctor, she asks why. 

“Because your side hurts,” I say.

“It’s not bothering me now,” she tells me.

            The dialogue repeats itself during the ten-minute drive to Freeland and our brief wait at the doctor’s office.  When Dr. O’Neill comes in and asks Mom how she is doing, Mom redirects the question to me:  “How am I doing?”

            Immediately following the uncomfortable poking and prodding of the examination, Mom is sitting on the exam table.  Pressing her left side with her left hand, she helpfully announces to the doctor:  “Maybe you should check out my left side.  It’s bothering me.”

            I forget the topic, but at lunchtime she comments, “My proclivities tend to run in another direction,” while I wonder how this mother of mine who can accurately use “proclivities” in conversation has just asked me if it is July.