Floaters and Staying Afloat

As I have grown older, I have discovered some things I would never have discovered had I not embraced the aging process. I use the word "embraced" broadly.

For instance, while eating breakfast outside one morning and watching the sky,  I noticed a bird flying at an extraordinarily high altitude. ... And, then, I realized it was a "floater" instead of a bird. If you're not following me, you're too young to read this.



Step 1

Step 2

I understand that an almost 70 year old grandmother on a pair of skis behind a speed boat is not necessarily inspiring.

...I will get a confused look from my grandchildren if I use the words, "smorgasbord" or "crème rinse." The word "thong" when used in reference to the shoes I used to wear throws my children into a panic.


Recently, a grandson asked if I had had surgery on my elbow. Someday, he'll understand what the aging process does to one's skin.

Last week, I had an MRI for a spot on my kidney.* If I was 30 years old, I would be WORRIED. At my age, I'm thinking it is just another errant spot, and I'm not losing any sleep over it. Afterall, I have them all over my skin. Why wouldn't they be inside me, too?
 

In Anne Lamott's "Hallelujah ANYWAY," she writes, "Mother Nature is the main problem. She runs on the principal that we all just get killed." (Gotta love her humor!)... Sometimes, it causes me to wince; sometimes it causes me to giggle; sometimes, I stare at the clouds and believe there is something big going on out there that I will be a part of someday.

Good things happen. Praise God! Bad things happen. Get down on your knees. I have discovered that the not-so-good things, the things that take me to my knees, the things that I've wondered about are also the "things" that are a part of my destiny. God works it all out somehow.

Hang in there.
Keep afloat.
Pray without ceasing...

*The spot on my kidney was a harmless cyst.

Forever Friends: A Lesson From Piglet and Pooh

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you.”


Do you have a forever friend?
Piglet and Poo more than likely consider each others forever-friends.... What is a forever friend....

“When we honestly ask ourselves

which person in our lives means the most to us,
we often find that it is those who,
instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures,
have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds
with a warm and tender hand.
The friend who can be silent with us
 in a moment of despair or confusion,
who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement,
who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing
and face with us the reality of our powerlessness,
that is a friend who cares.”   Nouwen

 

Plus, a forever friend lasts a lifetime.

There is someone else who wants to be your forever friend....
JESUS...a forever friend...with an eye on eternity.

 

Repeating Nouwen's words from "Out of Solitude"... it is those who...have chosen to share our pain and touch our wounds.... The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement.... and face with us the reality of our powerlessness... that is a friend who cares."  That is Jesus.

No longer do I call you servants,for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends,

for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you. John 15:15

Let's give thanks today for our earthly forever friends and for a Loving God who will never forsake us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking In His Shoes: Remembering Dad on Father's Day



I went to visit my father a few years ago. Mom had recently passed, and he was doing well in an assistive living environment. In his 90’s, he was mentally active, interested in what was going on in the world, wanted up-dates on the grandchildren, enjoyed sharing farm memories, and was always comfortable talking about his faith in our Almighty God. We often would settle him in a car and take him for the ten mile ride to the family farm. He would check out the fields, enjoy the clouds, and remember.

The days of his wandering in a meandering, but purposeful journey from corncrib to barn to hog lot to machine shed were over. However, his footprints were all over the farm. He had left his mark in the toolshed, in the fields swaying with corn and beans, in the yard where my brothers, Dad, and I played softball every day after summer lunch. His tracks were in the grove surrounding the farmhouse, under the apple trees, and down the quarter-mile lane and back.

He often wore heavy boots to protect his feet from the messy areas of the farm or possible injury when getting on and off heavy equipment. But since his move into town, he chose black leather shoes with two Velcro straps. Easy to take on and off.  I had not paid much attention to them, except on that particular day, when we sat side by side for our visit, I noticed them. They were exactly like mine.

I had to laugh. Although I think I’m “with it” as far as fashion is concerned in my corner of the world, there it was. I had shoes on just like my 90+ year old father: comfortable, worthy shoes.

I’ll never know what it was really like to walk in my dad’s shoes: fighting in WW II, raising six children on an average sized farm, serving on various boards, and, then, helping my mother in her final stages of cancer. Dad is no longer with us, but if I could have a measure of his love for God, of his spirituality; if I could but walk in shoes similar to his, just for this, I would be thankful.

Mommy Molly

I watched as she swung her two children--one in a regular child's swing, one in a bucket-type swing for toddlers.  "Want an under-dog?" she asked cheerfully.

 

Sitting on a deck over-looking Lake Pemushe in northern Minnesota, I read quietly soon to be interrupted by playground chatter below.

"You can do it," Mommy encouraged as the little girl attempted the rock wall.

A few hours passed, and again I rested on my perch-like deck with a hot cup of tea and a slice of zucchini bread overlooking the happenings below. On the gravel road in front of the lodge, Mommy pushed the little boy in a stroller with one hand and pulled the little girl on a training-wheels bicycle with the other.  I wondered where her husband might be. Maybe, he was fishing.

The following day we pulled our fishing boat up to the dock late one morning to see children splashing at the shoreline. Mommy was there--paying careful attention to both. I admired her and the personal sacrifices she was making to be a mom--a good mom.  I sent up a prayer for her.

Following breakfast the next day in our small apartment, I laced my tennis shoes and took off for a walk. In spite of a few early morning mosquitoes, I enjoyed God's beautiful morning: the sunlight drifted between the pines, a cool breeze brushed my skin, the smell of the lake and earth, the sound of a Loon.Walking back up the hill to our dwelling, I saw her. Mommy. Pushing the stroller and holding the other by her hand.

Psalm 143: 8 - 10    

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,

for I have put my trust in you. 

Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul . . . 

Teach me to do your will, for you are my God . . .

"Good morning," I ventured and smiled.

"Hi," she answered with only a hint of a smile.

"Can I ask your name?" I hoped I wasn't being out of line.

"Sure. It's Molly."

"Molly.  Nice to meet you. I'm Kathy."

She waited.

"I've been watching you. We're in the apartment above the lodge. Watching you swing your children, helping with the rock wall, and hearing your words of encouragement. That's wonderful." 

Her facial expression brightened, but her eyes filled with tears.

Remembering what it was like to be a mom with little ones, I said, "There must be days when you tell yourself I can't do this any more."

She nodded in agreement.

"It's all worth it. Some day they'll grow up and be some of your best friends."
She murmured a simple thank you, and we parted.


Many of us think no one cares, no one notices, but someone always does.

Some of my most encouraging moments have come from strangers. A note in the mail, an uplifting email, a simple thank you for a job well-done. All too often, we say nothing.  We all need support and validation. Encourage someone today.  If you put it off until tomorrow, your good words will be lost....

We are one in the Spirit. 

We are one in the Lord. 

Let us love one another. 

Pearls, Pigs, and Perceptions

6:33 a.m. I sit at a small table on the twelfth floor of a hotel in Honolulu—a place previously only imagined. From my expansive window, I watch the sea rush to shore--a coastline full of towering condos, office buildings, and elegant shops knowing the ocean is more powerful than all this luxury and extravagance. I want to open the deck door and inhale the surroundings, but another struggles to stay asleep not wanting to experience life as I do—to drink it in, breathe it all in, in its fullness, face to face.

As a two-cupper gurgles on my mini countertop, as I apply eyeliner and lip gloss, as I slip on my most Hawaiian shirt, and as I picture a day in the sunlight with God’s almighty ocean teasing the shorelines; someone else, someone-in-reach, will soon tug at my heart.

I slip outside softly, take the elevator down to the lobby, take the escalator down to street level, and begin my morning walk. I see her in my peripheral vision but don’t want to stare. So I walk up one block and then turn back to her side of the street to get a better look. As I draw close, my eyes start to water; the stench is that of a pigsty. I determine to buy her a sandwich, maybe some fruit. I can’t help but gawk as she scratches and picks at her hair and, then, studies her fingertips. She sits cross-legged, her enormous belly covering most of her legs.  There are several sandwiches and snack items beside her. With one hand, she scratches body parts; with the other she shoos the pigeons as they greedily peck at her hoarded items.

How does it happen in our time when rockets penetrate space, giant submarines examine the complexities of the sea, and satellites send messages from the heavens that homeless persons are abandoned without care?

Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him? But you have insulted the poor…. James 2: 5,6

Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.  Matthew 7:6

Should I talk to her? What would I say? The words, “crazy, mentally ill,” stumble through my mind. I feared her; and I was ashamed that I did.

Late afternoon, hubby and I wait for a cab outside the hotel lobby to attend a luau. Thunder crashes; rain drenches the streets.  Slick limos, bright umbrellas with walkers hidden beneath, and soaked bicyclists speed by.  In between traffic and splashes, I spot her—lying on the green grass, her hefty behind uncovered, asleep in the rain.  Her food lies sodden beside her—the birds no longer attentive.

The next morning, as the coffee pot gurgles on the countertop, I study the infinite waters: the vastness, the smell, the immense power, the mystery. Drinking it all in; breathing in life and seeking it face-to-face is both glorious and difficult. I cannot forget her.

How Do You Tell Someone That You Love Them?

You look at him with adoration. You listen to him. You talk to him. Yes, you communicate often. You read his love notes. You return love notes. You dwell on these love notes. You daydream about this person and your time with him. You wonder what the future will bring with him in your life. And, when the relationship becomes difficult, you remain committed because you love him and believe he loves you.

Change the “him” to her if you like.

Or, capitalize the “him” and what do you get? GOD

Read each sentence above again. It all fits, doesn’t it?

If you believe in the God of Creation and his power and might, you will adore him. When we pray, we talk to him. Listening is a part of prayer. Be still and know that I am God. Love notes? Had your Bible out lately? It’s all in there. The love He has for His people. How He brought the Israelites out of captivity into the Promised Land so that one day a Savior would be born from this line of people--His Son, who would pay the ultimate price so that all could have eternal life with the One who loves them. Oh, what a future that will be! And, while we’re waiting for this life-everlasting in a heavenly kingdom, there will be difficulties. It’s a life-on-earth thing. However, we remain faithful, trusting, committed, confident in the love He has for us. Yes, sometimes, it comes down to total commitment.

 

How do you tell someone that you love them? Start with God. It gets pretty easy after that-- to love even an earthling.

 

Mother's Vanity: Remembering Mom on Mother's Day

Marjorie June, my mother, grew up during the depression moving from farm to farm and living sometimes with extended family. She enjoyed the occasional dogs and cats that wandered unto their place and dreamed of getting married, having a family, and living on a farm of her own.

Her father was a seed-corn dealer, and as a young woman, it was common for her to help out in the field as needed.


Vanity? I'm not sure she had time for such thoughts, stylish clothes, or even a mirror to consider all this.

Marjorie June (HS graduation)

  



Mr. and Mrs.

She met my father at a church gathering and fell in love before he left to serve in World War II. Letters were written and a relationship made more precious by the country's circumstances was formed. Mom made a wedding dress out of white wool and waited. Dad returned home with a silver medal and a gold star--perhaps a somewhat changed man. Vows were exchanged in a simple ceremony.

After a brief honeymoon, they moved to Dad's family farmstead. Used furniture filled the house; however, a new bedroom set which included a chest of drawers, a bed with head and end boards, and a vanity with a mirror were purchased.

She must have felt like a princess--

married to a veteran,

living in the country

with her own dog,

and a new bedroom set

with a vanity to boot

in the old farm house.

A hand mirror with matching

brush and comb were

all placed on a doily

which covered the

always shining surface.

And, nothing else.

The front drawers held personal items--
a bundle of letters from my dad written
while he was over-seas, nightgowns, and socks.

I imagine her checking her reflection in the large mirror on Sunday mornings. Was the vertical line on her hosiery straight? Was her slip showing? And, her hat, was it at the right angle; should she pull the netting over her face or shift it back over the hat?

As a soon-to-be-mom, I picture her in the early morning--
after her husband went out to do chores--
looking in the vanity mirror and studying
the changes in her young body as her pregnancy progressed.

Months later,

I visualize her sitting on the bed

holding a new born

and staring at this

new image of herself.

A mother with a miracle.

A two year old and a three year old.

A year, then another, and yet another slips by. A nicely framed picture of the family children settles in one spot on her vanity along with products from the Watkins man, socks needing darning, and a pattern or two. A cluttered surface that no longer needs dusting.

My brother and I with a new brother!

The surface items evolve as one year lapses into another to include a stack of diapers neatly folded, Sunday School lessons, and an updated picture or two of what is happening in the family.

When Mom was busy with the cleaning, baking, and meal preparation in the kitchen, the important papers were often shuffled into the bedroom and unto the vanity. I wonder if she ever took time to ponder her image and wonder what she had gotten herself into as the years tumbled one onto another.

And, then, there were four... surrounding Grandpa Harry.

The clutter on the vanity disappeared when Aunt Gladys visited from California. Within an hour of her arrival, her suitcase would be plopped on the bed in my parent's bedroom with her seated on one side and me on the other and the question, "Want to see my shoes?"

I'd slip on her shoes, drape her colorful outfits across my shoulders and dream of growing up and owning fancy outfits of my own. I remember studying our reflections in Mom's vanity mirror as we shared the suitcase contents.

A Sunday morning picture, another brother, and a new baby.

The vanity stayed cluttered, but the contents continued to change over the years. The Watkins man stopped coming to our house; the Avon lady took his place. Tubes of hand lotion (buy one/get one free), miscellaneous birthday and anniversary cards, pages torn from magazines with articles worth keeping blanketed the matching brush, comb, and mirror set along with a smattering of the boys' school pictures and a stack of cloth diapers--always neatly folded.




One year folded into another.
The family picture changed.

My parents moved off the farm and into town.
The furniture went with them--
including the bedroom set they bought as
newlyweds.







The most recent family picture was moved to a new spot--a bookshelf in the living room--along with numerous pictures of grandchildren.

The vanity surface now supported a box of tissues, miscellaneous items bought on sale from the local dollar stores, new books ordered through the mail, and a prescription or two.

The yearly Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings passed--along with a houseful of conversation, food, and energy that small children bring.  One year flipped into another. The family grew. Folding chairs were brought out of the closet and some of us sat on the floor amongst the grandchildren's blocks and books. The only quiet place was Mom and Dad's room with the visiting coats stacked high on their bed.

Mom was diagnosed with a rare cancer in her eighties.

Who did she see now when she looked in her vanity mirror?

What did she remember?

What were her thoughts?
Did she even take the time to look?

She said little.

I came to stay for a week before her death.

Her appearance no longer mattered.

Daily, she wore the same clothes and shoes
and shrugged her shoulders when asked
a question.

After helping her into bed one night,
I scanned the bedroom. As usual,
my mom was a "stacker," and clutter reigned
--except for the top of the vanity.

One picture remained--
my college graduation picture.

Although filled with furniture, her wedding dishes and silverware, her many books and magazines, the house felt empty after her death. Months later, Dad decided to try assistive living and told us to take what we wanted. Although there were a few antiques of value, I wanted only the vanity with the large mirror that had witnessed so much of life.


 
 
 
 
 
Now taking residence in my home, my mom's vanity holds my pajamas, my socks, and my favorite CD's. The surface displays a picture of my husband and me and a picture of her: my mom.

I am often reminded of her perseverance in all things and her unconditional love. I thank God she was my mom.