Celebration!

Available December 23, 2017 in paperback on Amazon.com!  Kindle version to follow soon!

Tango

            Cozy scenes of my new kitten lit up my imagination:  Tango sleeping on my lap, enjoying the fleece blanket nest I created in the end table storage, sitting in the office windowsill spot cleared specially for her.  That was before I brought her home.

            True, Tango does sleep on my lap on occasion, but I never thought about the frustration that could cause me.  She likes to come between me and my Kindle or book.  She wants to share any snack I hope to nibble on as I read.  And she gets especially persistent if I have a glass of milk.  My imagination neglected other typical cat behavior, too:  kitty sneezes and kitty farts in my face, kitty claws contentedly kneading my good blouse or my bare arm, kitty tongue licking the straw of my covered water container. 

            Tango has been mine for three weeks now, and she finally tried out the cozy fleece blanket nest for a few minutes last night.  She prefers sleeping behind the couch, on the hardwood floor, under the dining room table, and on the cupholder fold-down of the living room couch.  Of course, she also loves to nap on my recliner end of the couch.  Often I find her offerings of one or more of her catnip mice in the morning.  Like a good dog, she lies down near my feet when I sit at the dining table or computer desk.  (When I’m eating, she jumps up on the table and I deposit her in the office.)

            Now she happens to be on the office windowsill space gazing out at the front yard.  Good cat.  A few minutes ago she made a deposit in her litter box, which caused me to promptly jump up from this writing to scoop, add scented litter beads, and start the diffuser with the hopes I could keep writing without gagging.  You see, she has the stinkiest poop of any cat I have ever known.  Diet adjustments have done nothing to make a difference. 

            Which brings me to the last thing I never imagined:  my sensitivity to litter dust.  Lightweight clumping litter is out.  I’m using the regular-weight stuff which promises to kill odors.  Hah!  At least it is slightly less dusty.  It didn’t occur to me that sharing my office space with litter box would be a problem.  With the air purifier running at high speed and the diffuser sending out a lavender scent, I may be able to survive the dust and stink.  Uh-oh.  She just got in the box again.

            But Tango does have the softest, silkiest fur imaginable.  She purrs loudly with contentment.  Her meowing voice is very soft.  She allows all petting:  back, head, under the chin, belly, paws, and tail.  She entertains with her mad dashing around the house, expert soccer playing with a bottle cap, and focused hunting of crickets. She’s a keeper for sure.  

Sleeping With Turkeys

            A lovely holiday tradition has sprung up in my family.  It started, I believe, when I lived in faraway Washington State and my son lived in Colorado.  The times one or both of us came to Oklahoma for a November or December visit, we celebrated with a holiday meal and gift-giving at my daughter’s house.

            I seem to have used up my cooking skills, meager as they were, in my children’s early years when everything I made was whole wheat, bean-full, low salt, and taste free.  Long after they left the nest, I became the unlikely chef for my aging mother and bachelor brother.  Those were easier (and tastier) cooking years because I had an unlimited grocery budget and did not read labels.

            When I moved to Oklahoma four years ago and took up living solo in the house across the street from my daughter’s family, I left cooking behind.  That, plus the absence of a large enough dining room table, was enough to maintain the habit of celebrating holidays at my daughter’s house.  For Thanksgiving this year, we numbered seven:  Shawn, Dana, Benjamin, Joelle, Josiah, Joseph, and me.

            Conversation meandered along assorted topics, with Benjamin providing the background celebratory sounds and Joelle acting as emcee.  At some point, we grown-ups talked about how eating a lot of turkey makes one sleepy.  Meanwhile, eight-year-old Benjamin finished his full plate in record time, four-year-old Joelle asked for gravy to drink, and two-year-old Josiah held his spork in his right hand while using his left hand to finger-feed himself the yummy homemade stuffing and heavenly cranberry gelatin salad.  He ignored Dana’s delicious turkey, savory vegetable medley, scrumptious sweet potatoes, and my tasteless roasted green beans with red potatoes. (I forgot to add the minced garlic.)   It should be noted that he later chowed down on Dana’s homemade pumpkin pie with coconut whipped cream.

In the living room after that wonderful feast, my son felt sleepy.  Leaning back into the loveseat recliner, he closed his eyes.  Four-year-old Joelle loudly reported, “Joseph is sleeping with turkeys!”  Dana and I laughed till we cried.

Reflections

                From Monday afternoon until Wednesday evening, I pondered possible analogies concerning Tango, me, and God.

                I thought of how much I have conducted my life out of fear.  I mulled over how I hide from God even while he is patiently waiting on me and wooing me with his presence.  I wondered how grieved he feels when his own adopted children keep themselves isolated from his comfort.

                And then came Wednesday evening when I walked into my office and saw Tango perched on the windowsill.  As always, I spoke softly.  When she looked at me without the usual terror in her eyes, I approached slowly.  When I was halfway across the room, she jumped down to the desk and then to the floor. 

                She seemed a little skittish, so I slowly lowered myself to the floor.  And then a lengthy petting session began.  She was desperate for attention, butting up to my hand, rolling over on her back, and climbing up onto my lap.  I stroked her silky, soft fur and she purred.  It was like the good old days at ARF.  Eventually, my joints required I stand again.  I said good night and left the room.

                Today (Thursday) she is up to her old hiding tricks, but maybe in the cool of the evening, she’ll emerge for more fellowship.

Beginnings

                We are not off to a good start. 

                I adopted Tango, a six-month-old orange tabby, from ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation) Monday afternoon.  Having visited her many times in the preceding month, I assumed she would immediately adapt to her new home—or at least that she would find comfort in me holding her.  Wrong.

                She was unhappy during the twenty-minute drive home, though she voiced her complaints in a rather quiet voice. I brought her into my house and set the carrier on the floor in my office, where I have prepared a feeding area and a litter box as well as a place to look out the window.  But I was not prepared for her speedy escape the second I opened the carrier door.  She zoomed into the small space between desk and filing cabinet, and then slithered her way under the desk drawers.  She would not be beckoned out by a choice salmon kitty treat.  Now she hides under a cabinet. She will not be moved.

                I am unhappy, having imagined an afternoon and evening cuddling my kitten.  I know that I simply need to give her time to adjust to the shock of new surroundings.  Perhaps after I go to bed (and close my door), she will prowl around and discover the amenities of home:  the scratching pole, the cozy sleeping spots I have imagined her napping in, the catnip mice.  Maybe she will even jump up on my dining room table and clear it of the miscellaneous papers scattered on its surface.  Hopefully she will use the litter box, drink her water, and eat some cat food.

                So, after I lie down on the floor one more time to see and talk to her in a reassuring voice, I will make my retreat.  Well, anyway, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last six hours of checking on her (finding her was the hard part).  

Preparations

            This week I am adopting a cat from ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation).  For several months, I’ve been busy preparing.

            For reasons I cannot fully explain, just thinking about getting a cat motivated me to declutter and organize my home.  I guess it’s sort of like preparing for the royal queen’s visit—or an hour with my two-year-old grandson.  Cats are like queens in their regal manner:  it’s said that dogs have masters, but cats have staff.  Felines are also like toddlers who get into everything, the key difference being that height is no barrier.

            I decided early on to let the closets remain disaster areas for the meantime and concentrate on the visible clutter.  I worked my way through living room, kitchen, and bathrooms.  Now I am nearly finished with my office, which has been the general “throw things in there when I don’t know where to put them” room.  Plus, my desk was a study in stacks of papers I intended to throw away or file later. 

            All the efforts I’ve made—including multiple ARF visits to make sure cat fur won’t aggravate my allergies—in order to welcome Her Highness Tango into my home have made me wonder if King Jesus receives the royal welcome He deserves.

 

            Do I make room for Jesus in my daily life?  Do I declutter my soul through repentance and forgiveness?  Is He welcome in every room of my being—including the closets?  Do I allow His love to sweep away sin’s debris?  Do I live like He is both honored guest and royal head of my home?  Do I delight in the spontaneous joy He brings?

            I hope so.

            

Travel Scenes

            Boarding Southwest’s 6:30 am flight from Tulsa to Denver, I look for any open seat near the front of the plane because my layover in Denver will be a mere forty minutes.  To my left sits an older woman in the second-row aisle seat.  I feel bad for her labored effort to stand when I ask to take the window seat.  I am also beyond excited to be making this trip which I had planned for last summer but cancelled due to my breast cancer diagnosis.

            My arm feels itchy in my new compression sleeve with matching gauntlet.  I rub my upper arm, hoping the discomfort eases soon and thankful that I only need wear the sleeve and gauntlet when flying or traveling in the mountains as a lymphedema preventative.  My new seatmate and I start a conversation with the usual pleasantries of where we are traveling.

            When she says she is headed to Arizona for a few weeks and from there back to her missionary work in China, I ask where even though I know next to nothing about China’s geography.  “Shenyang,” she replies.  Startled that she has named the city where three fellow members from a church I attended in the 1990s are long-time missionaries, I ask the next obvious question.  Her answer is a delighted “Yes!”  She has worked alongside them for years.

            What follows is a long and meandering conversation that blesses both of us.  We exchange contact information, I ask her to extend my greetings, and when we part in Denver, we share a hug as if long-time friends. 

            A few hours later, my brother greets me at SeaTac.  Our first destination is Pike Place Market, where we catch a quick lunch and wend our way through the crowds.  We through part of downtown Seattle, and my legs tire quickly with the steep hills.  Then we head toward home, take the Mukilteo-Clinton ferry, and end up at John’s house mid-afternoon.  

After a little rest, we drive back down the island to enjoy the view at Double Bluff Beach before going on to enjoy pizza on the waterfront at Langley.  And then it is time for me to head farther up island, where I will be staying with friends Bethany and Don.  Their home on the West Beach Road bluff looks out over the Strait of Juan de Fuca. 

            On this Thursday morning, Bethany and I drive over to Oak Harbor to do an errand and take a walk by the waterfront.  I ask her if we can stop by Whidbey Presbyterian Church because I want to meet the administrative assistant, who shares my daughter’s first name, and of whom Bethany has said so many good things.  Last year, Dana had early stage breast cancer, which was successfully treated without chemotherapy.

            It is a delight to talk with Dana, and Bethany suggests we wander over to the sanctuary where the music director is practicing.  Teri was perhaps a year into that position when I moved away four years ago, and it is so good to see her again.  During our conversation, she mentions that Vic, who headed up our woodwind ensemble but goes to church elsewhere now, will be at a theater practice that evening.  Thus, I decide to drive back up to Oak Harbor to see him after dinner in Freeland at China City with John and our friend Debra.  God sure seems to be orchestrating the details of my vacation!

            On Friday, John and I take a road trip into the Cascade mountains to a favorite location:  Deception Falls.  We have been there many times before with various family members and friends.  One thing is different this time, though:  in addition to the easy-access trail, I do the longer hike with him.  In times past, I would stay behind with Mom while the others took that winding trail.  It is fun to see new views of the falls, and it is encouraging to have the stamina for that mile.  I remember when we went to the falls in July 2007 with our older sister, who was almost a year out from her ovarian cancer surgery and some months out of chemotherapy.  I think about what this particular hike must have meant to Anne.  Sadly, her cancer, despite cutting-edge chemotherapy, kept recurring and she died in 2009.  But today, August 18, 2017, I rejoice in the mountain air and breathtaking scenery.  John and I end the day with an ice cream sundae at Costco followed by dinner and dessert at Bethany and Don’s.

 Saturday morning finds Bethany and me at the Coupeville Farmer’s Market followed by a walk on the beach at Ebey’s Landing.  I’m thinking of “crashing” the annual high tea at church this afternoon. It would be fun to surprise the ladies there, especially my friend Nancy, who is hostess for the event.  But my afternoon plans suddenly change.

            That morning, my brother posts a picture of me during our hike and a Lussmyer cousin of ours whom I have never met sees it.  Though she lives in eastern Washington, she has been out on the peninsula for a couple weeks helping one of her sisters after surgery.  A flurry of Facebook messages follow, and Addie drives an hour to reach the Keystone Ferry to come to the island so she can meet me and, incidentally, hang out with my brother, whom she calls The Most Interesting Man in the World.  We have a great afternoon on his property, looking at the latest projects, which include a “truckport” for his two Ford F250 trucks, one of which he converted to all-electric; checking out his 4,000 square foot shop and the larger space behind it which he has recently logged off in preparation to build a covered shelter for his larger vehicles (lift truck, bulldozer, road grader, etc.); and watching his cougar, Talina, nap outside in her caged area around his house.

            The delights of vacation time do not end on Sunday.  I attend church with Bethany and Don, enjoying beautiful worship and great fellowship.  I get to see many of the people I knew during the five years I lived on the island and worshipped at Whidbey Presbyterian.  I wish I could stop time and stay longer, but I need to head down to Coupeville and meet my brother for our road trip to Oregon.

            When John and I planned this summer’s trip to Whidbey Island, neither one of us realized the dates chosen included the great solar eclipse of August 21, 2017.  Once the light dawned on him, he put together a travel plan.  We spend Sunday afternoon driving down the shoreline route and stop in Seaside, Oregon for the night.  After a scrumptious seafood dinner, we walk through town before turning in early.  Six-thirty Monday morning sees us grab a breakfast sandwich at McDonalds and drive south on 101.  But because of the fog on shore, we decide to head inland, and hours later end up in an open field in Rickreall, Oregon (west of Salem) where we find clear skies and an unobstructed view of the sun.  I wish that I were an artist so I could paint the image etched into my memory: a black sun surrounded with a leafy white corona.  Instead, all I have are pictures of the field.

            Soon after the totality, we hear traffic picking up on the nearby divided highway.  We join the traffic through town as I periodically gaze through my eclipse glasses and give updates as to how much bigger the crescent is.  Even though we are traveling back roads, traffic is heavy for about two hours.  Finally, we cross the Columbia River and head further east along its shoreline.  All afternoon and into the evening, we follow winding two-land roads through the mountains, enjoying spectacular scenery, including the beauty of sunlight sprayed down through dense forest.  At one point, we pull off the road for a scenic vista of Mt. St. Helen’s.  The driving day is endless, the company excellent, and the scenery exceptional.  I drop John off at his house at 10:30 pm and am “home” at Don and Bethany’s by eleven.

            What I need my last day on the island is time alone to do a few of my favorite things from the years I lived here.  The whole wheat cinnamon roll at Whidbey Coffee will have to wait till my next visit, but I do purchase a bag of ground coffee and take an iced coffee to go.  In Coupeville, I wander through the shops for over an hour, hoping to find perfect gifts for my grandchildren.  Though nothing that I like fits my budget, I thoroughly enjoy the search and the view.

Ellen and I meet for lunch at Knead and Feed, I finish my Coupeville wandering, and then I head south via my favorite scenic route, taking me past Fort Casey and the Keystone ferry.  Looking out at Admiralty Inlet and the distant Olympic mountains always fills my soul with awe at God’s grand creation.

            Though John and I went out to Double Bluff Beach the first day of my visit, I want to go back and walk the tidal flats.  Cars line the street leading to the beach, but I drive on to the small parking lot, and there is a single spot open for me.  Predictably, there are many people on the beach this afternoon, but the surprise is the heat.  I did not dress right for a beach walk in the sun, so my walk is brief.  “Next time,” I tell myself, “I will take a long walk, barefoot along the shore during low tide.”

            A stop at Payless Foods in Freeland to pick up a few things for tomorrow’s travel, and I am ready to head the ten miles to Greenbank, where my brother lives.  He calls our friend Debra, and this time we eat at Freeland Café.  The Alaska cod is scrumptious.  I am sure to head back up the island to Bethany and Don’s house before dark since I discovered earlier in the week how very bad my night driving is.

            Wednesday starts early and ends late.  I say my good-byes to Bethany and Don, help John with the drop-off of the rented car, and ride with him in his electric truck back to Greenbank, where I catch the 10:45 am Whidbey-SeaTac shuttle.  I take my last pictures on the Clinton-Mukilteo ferry.  By noon, I am in an endless baggage-check line, and from there breeze through security with my TSA pre-pass.  I enjoy a mocha iced coffee and a yogurt parfait and walk the crowded terminal down to my gate.  The flights home always seem longer since I gain two hours in transit, and I am bone-weary when I reach Tulsa and catch the shuttle for the economy parking lot around 11 pm.  But there is still one more blessing to receive:  the shuttle driver insists on stopping directly behind my parked car (he even backs up when I notice my car too late) and putting my heavy suitcase in the hatchback for me.

            An hour later I am home, exhausted from and joyful for all I have experienced in this amazing week.  A year ago, when I was so sick from chemotherapy, I could barely walk a block.  To be alive, well, and have hair are gifts beyond comprehension.  Tomorrow I will see my grandchildren and tell my stories to daughter and son-in-law.  I’ll thank God for central air conditioning in this Oklahoma heat and embrace my life as a cancer survivor.