December 4, 2014

Old Faithful

She sleeps at my feet, her paws splayed in front of her greying nose. Her breathing is labored, yet comforting and familiar as she always has been. She came into our lives over fourteen years ago, a friendly one year old puppy on her way to the pound. Her owners couldn’t keep her any more. The look on her sweet face captured my son’s heart, leading to the look on his then ten year old face that pleaded, “Mom, we have to keep her!”

So we did. She joined our already topsy turvy household of four children including a toddler that chased poor Cindy Lou around the family room couch. Dear Cindy spent many hours being chased. I remember one birthday party where she took humor in the chase. We had hidden a clue to the scavenger hunt in her signature red collar. She knew she had something important and played along in the game, not letting anyone get her. She smiled and teased that sunny afternoon, taunting, “You can’t catch me!” In the end, she gave up the clue with a roll over on her back and a rub on the tummy.

Unlike the rest of us in the house, Cindy is very scheduled. She knows when it’s time for our walk. We logged many miles together on our walks, comfortable in each other’s silent presence and an occasional chase after a squirrel. I miss those walks with her now. It is all she can do to get up on her paws and waddle down the driveway, doing her thing along the way, then turning around to waddle back. She still remains scheduled, as I hear her pad into my room at 4 am every morning to let me know its time to go out. I see it now as my nightly star gazing ritual. I take her out at look into the sky to find the few constellations I know I or look at the moon. When its time to go in I clap my hands loudly. She can’t hear me call her name anymore. She turns her head and wags her tail and waddles back in, waits for her scratch on the head, and we both settle in for a few hours before another day begins.

“Suddenly there was a great burst of light through the Darkness. The light spread out and where it touched the Darkness the Darkness disappeared. The light spread until the patch of Dark Thing had vanished, and there was only a gentle shining, and through the shining came the stars, clear and pure.”
― Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time

Why is there so much clarity in those silent places with our most loyal friend. Freedom in the quiet. Calm in mere presence. And an exchange of mutual love even in the wee hours of the night.

Yesterday I rub her back as we sit in the veterinarians’ office when suddenly all those years of her faithful companionship overwhelm me. I break into tears out of nowhere. Maybe it’s menopause. Maybe it’s the truth that all around me everyone is aging. My dog. My mom. My children. My friends.

That same morning my friend and I simultaneously laughed about and anguished over wrinkles and age spots. What do we do about it? Do we give in and fix them or age gracefully, wrinkles and all.

Why is it so hard to accept the wrinkles of aging, those folds in life that reflect the pain and the worries of our journey. We want to smooth them out, but it is those wrinkles that define us and reflect the strength we have carried and the grace we have sustained to endure the bumps along the way.

This week those bumps loom even larger as I face daily the effects of time. Time that ticks away for my mom as she progresses slowly in the middle stages of Alzheimer’s, yet robs my dear friend’s father so quickly. Time that ticks away for my children that now, one by one leave the nest, leaving me alone, with more time to discover or uncover nuggets of truths that have been nestled under all the busyness of caring for others.

And today in the vet’s office this truth hits hard: in all these moments Old Faithful has been there beside me. One who knows me better than I know myself. One who senses my moods, who knows when I need comfort. Who looks at me and through me with loyal eyes and complete acceptance. One who is with me when I walk under sun kissed skies and in the middle of the darkest night.

She is tired. She has age spots. She has trouble breathing. But her tail still wags when she sees me. She still smiles through clouded eyes.

I am grateful for what this companion has taught me about unconditional love. And she continues to teach me, as all of us age, there is much power in a good back rub, in being present in silences, that wrinkles and grey hair are outshone by loving eyes, and that an occasional groan is okay. And at times it’s hard to get up, but sometimes you just do, move forward, and get a treat. And companionship, the kind that has worn a hole in the pavement beside you, rain or shine, is the best treat of all.

November 17, 2014

standing the test of time

It is a perfect autumn day. The late afternoon sun casts a golden glow on the southern plantation bathed in fall colors. A single giant oak stands as the altar for the young couple that will be joined in marriage on this day. The gathering of family and friends stand as the beautiful young bride crosses the field on the arm of her father towards the young man that will become her husband. The afternoon sunbeams reflect her smile as she approaches her groom beneath the towering oak that has stood the test of time.

It is fitting that this couple should be joined together under this oak, for as the first Psalm promises, their promises to each other today are based on their own delight in each other and in the law of The Lord. And His blessing on this day permeates the entire ceremony and celebration that follows. For who cannot help but celebrate this love that exudes promise and hope, completeness and joy.

Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the path of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scornful; But His delight is the law of The Lord, and in His law he meditates day and night. He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season, whose leaf also shall not wither; And whatever he does shall prosper.
Psalm 1:1-3

My firstborn son stands at the altar beside the groom and his brothers. They have been best friends since they were two years old. And yes both young men have had life and limb shaken up at times in their 23 years of life together. They have buried awkward moments, and now branch out to begin careers that travel in different directions. But their steadfastness of friendship and faith stand as firm as the oak they stand under as this young man makes the biggest commitment of his life.

Earlier that morning my son jokes about hitting his first home run off the groom on the pitcher’s mound in Little League. Now he laughs at how the nervous young groom paces back and forth, taking deep breaths moments before the ceremony. Later my son turns to me with a smile, saying he has never seen his friend so happy.

These shared moments of laughter and commitment branch out into this gathering of friends surrounding this family. For during the time that these two young men built a friendship over legos and big wheels so did their mothers forge a lasting friendship over playdates and Happy Meals. The circle of families that bond on this first of many upcoming wedding days span 23 years of friendship, compile 135 years of marriage, and fifteen children. We have stood shoulder to shoulder in the delivery room of our babies and at the gravesite of our loved ones. We have clapped at preschool programs and applauded college acceptance letters. We have consulted about high school dating and about the best ways to care for aging parents. We have cheered at little league games and dance recitals. We have logged late nights of tragedies and tears and episodes of Downton Abbey. We have brought each other casseroles and chocolate at just the right time. We have studied God’s Word together.

My prayer for this young couple is that they too will have friendships that stand firm in times of fruitfulness and abundance and as well of times of withering and loss when all we want to do is shrivel up and shrink away.

In coming years I hope in times of celebration our kids will continue to shout out and jump together for joy as they have on the dance floor this evening. When times are darker and colder than this freezing southern night I hope they warm and comfort each other with words of encouragement.

At the end of the celebration the young couple run into the darkness under an arch of sparklers. Friends and brothers hoop and holler out as they venture into their new life together as man and wife. As they huddle together on this night of promise may this group of lifelong companions be the next generation of light and love in a world that yearns for more….

Go out into the world uncorrupted, a breath of fresh air in this squalid and polluted society. Provide people with a glimpse of good living and of the living God. Carry the light-giving message into the night……
Philippians 2:16, the Message

October 28, 2014

Missing You

Mom rides in the car beside me, on the way home from daycare. This is part of our weekly routine. Routine is essential in caring for someone with Alzheimer’s. There is not much to say, only, did you have a good day?

“Yes,” she always says, “what else can you do?”

Sometimes this same answer frustrates me when I pick her up.

But today, when the weather has finally cooled, and the afternoon sun catches her cheek on the drive home

and we drive by the brand new memory care center I think of admitting her to every time we pass by

it doesn’t bother me as much.

I know the ladies at the day care center have had a wonderful day with her. One showed me a picture on the phone. She played the piano today at the center. Of all the things she couldn’t remember, that she did recall, sitting at the piano.

Today they also played the African drums I got for them at the music festival last week. I convinced the man from Senegal to give me these beautiful handmade drums at a good price so I could donate them to the center. The day care ladies raved how the group loved beating out rhythms on the drums today. How it brought smiles to their faces.

But mom doesn’t remember the drums either. As I ask her the more questions about her day, halfway home she blurts out, “I think I need to go home to daddy. I need to check on him and see how he is doing.”

I pause. “Mom,” I tell her, “he’s already gone.” Beneath her little grey head and small pale eyes a look of shock registers

“He is? How long has he been gone.”

“Sixteen years. Since Lauren was a baby. You have been living with me for seven years.”

Her face, empty of any recognition, falls. “How come I don’t remember.”

I say nothing.

We make the turn at the corner, past the cemetery blocks from my home.

“Who is at home with Daddy?” she asks.

I repeat the same answer I gave a few minutes earlier.

I get the same empty look, a sense of grasping for recollection.

She hadn’t missed him.

Then this morning I see this video of Glen Campbell. I remember watching him on the Ed Sullivan show in the living room where my parents lived for 40 years. I remember the album cover by my dad’s old stereo.

And now, I grasp the meaning of his song, “I’m not Gonna Miss You”.

For the beauty of Alzheimer’s in a soul like my mother’s is that there is no pain. Only recollections she holds onto momentarily like tears or raindrops that melt away.

And once she lets go of the tear it is gone. Wiped away.

The only pain is mine.

But if that tear can grace her cheek then melt into oblivion then I must let my own do the same.

I already miss her. The her that would ask about my day, or chat over coffee with me.

But she doesn’t miss me. Her eyes still light up when me or my kids walk into the room. She still reaches and argues for a kiss “that I can feel” in the evening when I say goodnight.

And when I struggle over what is the right thing to do I remember. She feels no pain. She only lives in the moment. So her momentary tears and frustrations are easily dissolved and forgotten

while mine linger in my heart and burn a hole in my soul,
especially as I hear the words that Glen Campbell sings in that familiar voice:

I won’t be missing you
I don’t know the pain you feel
Or the things you do and say each day
I only know you are the last one I say good bye to
And I’m not going to miss you

October 1, 2014

Rhythms of Grace

Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. (The Message)

I sit in a room full of grace.

People of grace. For they are caregivers, ones whose daily rhythms include tending to the needs of their loved ones who are terminally ill or struggling with dementia. These rhythms are forced into routine, the routine of medications, of bathing, of dressing, of feeding, of exercising, of resting, then starting over again.

These daily rhythms become wearing and confining. But in the midst of these routines they have gathered for a caregivers retreat, to find respite for a couple of days from caring for a spouse, a parent, an aunt, a grandparent.

In this room, in this circle, a drum in front of each seat, in a session that promises “Rhythm for Relief”, they have assembled, these caregivers of every age, shape and size, with unknown, but similar stories being the common ground.

It is common ground that makes a circle of drums so powerful. For even in remote areas of Africa, in Ghana, where these drums are made, the routines of daily life are communicated through the rhythm of drums. This primal beat, a sound that reflects the first sound we ever hear, the heartbeat of our mother in the womb, is a beat that reflects life before we even have awareness. Because these beats are the core of our being, there are messages sent through the rhythms of the drum that transcend words. Jason, our instructor from “Drum Magic”, has observed it in the bush of Africa. He has observed it as he holds seminars in corporate groups of America. And he has witnessed it in the classroom and in senior centers.

Here, in this circle, he begins. He tells us about the drums, each handmade with wood and goat skin by craftsmen in a tribe in Ghana. He shares from his own experience that there is nothing like the energy shared by a group united through the beating of the drums.

We sit in a large circle, all of us. We are not aware of one another’s name, yet we find a common thread as we gather in this drum circle. As it is in Africa, where villages communicate to each other the messages of daily life, we follow Jason’s lead and begin a simple beat with our fingers and palm on the hand pulled goatskins of these drums, a Welcome rhythm that he sings in a native tongue:

We are together.
Give thanks.
Kick your boots.
Dance
look look look
Let’s all get together and dance

The beat of the drums increase, the rhythms begin to vary. We follow. We turn and smile at each other. He begins to beat faster, changing up the rhythms. We begin to laugh and smile as we try to keep up with him. Some even begin to get up and dance.

He tells us this:

Tell your story on the rhythm of the drum.
Make up something that describes your day today. Tell about it on the drum.

When your make up a rhythm, you put yourself out there with out worrying about the words that your use. Just play out a thought, you feel free enough to do this on a drum.

A caregiver is normally guarded and private. But here in this circle that wall of protection is briefly broken as each caregiver expresses himself on a drum. Those who spend months and years caring for the needs of another are momentarily set free expressing themselves through an unspoken story: a drumbeat.

The group beats a steady background rhythm as each one in the circle shares, some by gentle tapping, some by pounding and banging and slapping. It is magical how this happens, for each one is somehow understood.

The cry to be understood, to be heard, is an echo of the heart. Every caregiver longs to be heard. To find community. To know they are not alone in their weariness, frustration, or grief. Even momentarily, burdens are lifted. Because somehow, through the message of a drumbeat, we experience the unforced rhythms of grace.

So we return to our homes, our rhythms, our routines of caregiving. And I hope we continue to find those unforced rhythms of grace in our days. In those days we are breathless, may we become aware of the rise and fall of our breath. In those days when tears flow, may we find comfort in the patter of the rain on the roof. In those days when we feel we cannot take another step, may we find strength in the cadence of our footsteps along the beach. And as we listen to the rhythm of the waves beating against the shore, may the rhythm of our own heartbeat bear us up to continue to care for the heart of another.

August 27, 2014

Fresh Start

His race has been called.
The swimmer approaches the blocks
Steps onto the platform, anticipating the start.
He is called to mark, fingers reach then curl around the edge of the platform
Get set….muscles fire, from toes to calves to hamstring, shoulders arms, anticipating, anticipating….

The buzzer sounds, simultaneously the machine that is the body springs forward, fingers, toes reaching reaching for aqua liquid
and once entering the channel propels forward, every muscle, ligament, tendon, breath pushing the skeleton toward the wall 50 meters ahead.

It is the start that initiates the motion.

Before this start, there is much anticipation.
There is much waiting…

in the tent, on the pool deck, waiting for the race to be called, for the heat to be called.
Before the waiting there is the warm up hours before the race.
Before the warm up there are the hours of practice
called when Morningstar still hovers
finishing as light breaks the sky
called again mid afternoon until dusk

and always repetitions
of stroke, of yards put in
building stamina and strength…

all of this
before the start.

My son’s last race was one month ago
one month before this fresh start.

and as I watched that last start,
forgetting to turn on the video camera,
waves of emotion overcome….
of sadness watching one last race
of pride for all he has accomplished in this sport
of all he has learned about discipline, perseverance, pushing self past limits to the end
to the last touch of the wall.

Now a fresh start
another highly anticipated moment.
This one preceded, with hours of preparation
not only with test scores and hours logged studying,
of honors and awards and diploma,
but also with the weeding out
the choosing, of what he will take and what he will leave behind.

The things left behind, the tokens, the trophies, the T-shirts that label his past years
litter the floor, the dresser in the now empty room.

and the things chosen to go with him
boxes, bags one by one filling the car–the books, the photos, the new college T-shirts
the new sheets and towels and containers and journals
that will now fill his college dorm

will drive away in the car with him and his dad
on the journey 1000 miles to Texas.

I asked him to humor me one last time, during that last hour of anticipation
for although he had his things organized and ready to go for weeks
his dad did not.

So as dad scrambled around that last hour
he took a selfie with the dog, and scratched the cat behind the ears just how he likes it
and sat on the steps with me to browse through the album I made for graduation,
the one hastily thrown together to cover 18 years
from the first hospital photo to the senior portrait only taken months ago.

There is a page with cowboy boots, hints of the land he will travel to now.
It was his Toy Story party when he was five.
I ask him, “Do you remember Toy Story 3, when you laughed at me bawling in my 3D glasses, crying, ‘Is this how it’s going to end!’ as Andy drives off to college!”

He nods and laughs along with me. I jump up, suddenly remembering something found the other day. I bring back to him two small plastic figurines, one of Woody, one of Buzz Light Year. As a joke I write Michael’s name on Woody’s boot. “Keep them in your car,” I kid, thinking they too will be left behind. I promised him last night I would let him go with not too many tears. I will let go. He is a grown man now.

He smiles and stuffs them in his bag.

We stand for one last hug. “Be the agent for change,” I tell him. “Your gift is helping others. Be the one that changes things for the better.”

One more squeeze and we walk out the door.

And the highly anticipated moment for the past weeks, months, happens.

No call to the platform, no call to set, no buzzer.

He waves goodbye, climbs into the overstuffed Civic with his dad,
backs out the driveway that once launched scooters and rollerblades
and drives away.

June 2, 2014

lessons from a crab

A beach chair, a sunrise, and waves lapping on the shore. All the ingredients for a peaceful morning. I was watching an egret dart in and out of the waves to catch its morning meal, when out of the corner of my eye I sensed movement by my feet.

There he was, his little black beady eyes fixed on me. A little sand crab, frozen halfway out of his burrow.

I turned slightly and seemed to catch his eye. He paused for a moment, then darted back into the hole. I turned my gaze back to the lovely sunrise, the slow waves uncurling on the sand. Moments later he appeared again…..

Our lifelong nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off,to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation. CS Lewis

Little crab, I see you.

I see you emerging, peeking out at me contemplating, as I often do.

Do I stay here on the edge?

Do I retreat back into my hole?

or stay out in the light?

You fix your steely little eyes upon me assessing the situation.

Retreat calls, and you fall back into your hole.

I wait, watching, counting moments until you materialize again, and throw a clawful of dirt out at me.

I laugh, relating to the frequent moments I have felt the same.

The times I feel alone, when no one understands.

Out of spite I throw out dirt, waiting to receive a response.

And when there is none, or it is not as expected, I retreat as you do back into abyss.

Yet light beckons

drawing out once more.

You emerge again, and scurry a little farther,

a little longer in this early morning light where everything is fresh

where daylight makes things new

where sunrise shimmers on gentle ocean waves

dissolving nocturne shadow.

On the edge beyond the safety of retreat

there is the expanse the vast ocean surf

coaxing you beyond calling you to tumble into its gentle waves

to bring you to a new place full of life.

Look beyond you little crab into the boundless sea teeming with possibilities

just past the hole you crawl into

your place of safety.

Don’t throw your dirt at me and expect me not to laugh.

I too want to crawl in that hole to bury myself in that place

where darkness stills and encloses

a place of safety

a haven from harm

a place to dig out the unwanted and throw it out

only to scuttle back in

and dig a deeper and deeper hole

until I realize I want out.

I too will sit on the precipice of that hole and decide

do I crawl back in or rise to the surface?

Once a hint of oceans glory is glimpsed

I will scuttle out to shore

where waves curl onto the sand

and after one tentative step

I will let those waves carry me out to sea.

For if you would enter into all that I have for you, you must walk by faith upon the waters. You must forever relinquish your doubts; and your thoughts of self-preservation you must forever cast aside. For I will carry you, and I will sustain you by My power in the ways that I have chosen and prepared for you…. Frances J. Roberts

May 12, 2014

mom’s gift

Rites of passage. This weekend was full of them.

My third son off to his senior prom.

My baby, my daughter gets her driver’s license.

My second son skypes for a while to take a break from studying for finals at college.

And my oldest gives me this gift, a gift that makes every heartache, every tear, every sleepless night worth the cost of being a mom.

This gift, this video that records moments of motherhood, is meant to honor my mother, his grandmother.

But this gift honors every mom I know…every mom who wonders if her little acts of love are noticed. They are.

Please enjoy this gift, moms, and remember every little act of love are treasures not only to us, but to our children, even when they are grown.

http://vimeo.com/m/94843369

April 25, 2014

Things made new

Birth days.

Days to celebrate life.

Life that gives hope and promise and new beginnings.

Life born out of pain and received in joy and love

Three birth days celebrated in past weeks– my daughter’s sixteenth, my joy, my heart,

born sixteen years ago out of intense labor pain

the same pain my mother bore for me.

My mother’s 90th birthday celebrated days later

and a few days after that,

the most joyous of days to celebrate new birth born out of pain… Easter.

On Easter morning we sing this song ,a song that embraces the beauty born out of pain:

All this pain

I wonder if I’ll ever find my way

I wonder if my life could really change at all

All this earth

Could all that is lost ever be found

Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of the dust

You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of us

–-Beautiful Things by Gungor

Life

In its hard barren things that we come across

buried under daily happenings

grief, sorrow, isolation, loneliness,

somehow out of these broken things

in this dust a garden arises

strength

hope

gratefulness

perspective

joy

Out of chaos life is being found in you….

After a week of creative chaos

celebratory chaos–

Two milestone birthdays and Easter–

all reasons to celebrate life…

life at the beach celebrating sixteen year old wonders… life around balloons and birthday cake celebrating the wonder of turning 90… life around the table celebrating the wonder of eternal life on resurrection Sunday

… the chain of worry, of planning, controlling, perfecting is broken by the cross on Easter.

The joy of life replaces darkness.

The light of love shatters all, breaks the hold that daily worries and fears have over me. Symbols of new life were placed around the house–

flowers

balloons

bread broken on Holy Thursday

thorns

a cross from Jerusalem

a painting of an olive tree in Gethsemane Do these symbols that take a place in my home take place in my heart?

When I share the broken bread with each of my children, I remember the broken places in my heart–

the places that watch my mom diminish from Alzheimer’s

the places of her failing life chipping away at mine

the places that slowly ebb away at my life that could render me drowning in sorrow

until I choose to remember that out of pain comes something new.

Could all that is lost ever be found

Could a garden come up from this ground at all Mom’s memories are becoming lost. At times she struggles to remember our names. She could not comprehend it was her birthday. She did not know she was 90. Yet the things that are lost are replaced with a joy in the moment. In beauty in each moment. In complete and wondrous joy in the bouquet of flowers I brought to her on her birthday. In the the joy of hearing the sentiments of loved ones I read to her from Facebook wishing her a happy birthday. In singing “Happy Birthday to Me” as she blew candles from a cake as her caregivers and family friends gathered around her.

Mom loves gardens. She loves flowers. In her brief walks around the neighborhood she loves to study the different flowers and comment how beautiful they are. Though much is lost, much is found in the beauty in each moment that she chooses to see. In the color of the flowers. In the sound of music played on piano keys. In the faces of her grandchildren. And on Easter, when we sing this song of new life, of things being made new, made beautiful out of dust

its words are a balm to my parched soul, weary of this journey.

For all of us are being made new in these lessons of caregiving of walking daily with someone who lives only in the present and only sees the good, the beautiful in each moment.

Life in the middle–

now the mother of a sixteen year old daughter

and the daughter of a ninety year old mother

in the midst of adolescent giggles and ninety year old stubbornness

there is beauty and things are being made new.

Places we are marked are the places that allow us to touch others. Pain carves deep etchings into our soul places marked by loss, hurt, places we did not expect to be.

I did not expect this this place of mothering my mother at the same time mothering my daughter, this place where I savor the quiet moments of sharing secrets once shared with my own mother

secrets about love, about being loved, about being comfortable in your own skin about loving yourself fully so that you can love others fully

secrets my mother may have never communicated verbally but demonstrated daily.

Hope is springing up from this old ground…

You make me new, You are making me new

You make me new, You are making me new I don’t comprehend all the things I am learning from this journey

Each day I am weary from the length and its constant presence. But along this old ground, this path I’ve trod for years

I look for places where hope springs up…

A sweet smile, a tender hug, a “thank you for taking care of me”…

and I am made new.

April 23, 2014

A Matter of the Heart

My mom is approaching her 90th birthday, a greatly anticipated event. But two weeks short of becoming a nonagenarian, she wakes up weak, disoriented, barely able to walk. The sun rises over the trees as I back out of the driveway to take her to the ER. As I look at the sky it dawns on me that I may have to make some very hard decisions today. Be strong. Be prepared. Over the past seven years of having mom in my home this route to the ER is not unfamiliar. Instinct is now trusted, not questioned, for I drive her directly to the hospital and not to her primary doctor. Here they will be able to do the bloodwork and tests that will probably tell me it is a UTI (urinary tract infection) that is causing her weakness.

This time it is different. This time there are more tests. An EKG, an echocardiogram. More blood tests. An chest X-ray. A CT scan. This time it is her heart.

Her heart.

For 53 years, this woman has been my heart. The center of my world. My cheerleader, encourager. The one who loves me completely. The one who knows my heart. And today they tell me something may be wrong with her heart.

And my heart breaks. Completely and physically. Thankfully my friend is on duty as an ER nurse today. Another nurse witnesses my breakdown and tells her, “You better go see your friend.” She comes to me, and I crumble in her arms sobbing to her, “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do.”

After seven years of caring for mom and learning more about Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, hypertension, I take in loads of information and try to process all the scenarios. Knowing what to do is a priority. In my head I know all these diseases are progressive. Our goal is palliative care and quality of life. But when the actual moment comes when a decision has to be made about the condition of her heart, I am lost. I am undone.

The decision ahead is: do we do a heart catheter to look for blockage. Do we put in a stint. Do we choose relatively simple procedure? Is it worth the risk?

Head spinning, I walk outside. Again I break down in tears, pacing the pavement in front of the ER doors I walked in hours ago, so distraught that the attendant that helped me wheel her in now walks over to me silently with a box of tissues. Driving here I had a feeling I would have to make a hard decision, but not this one: do I make the choice to give her a simple procedure? She has a living will and a DNR, decisions she made herself years ago.

The weight of this decision is to heavy for me, and I gasp for breath in between sobs, taking in air, anything to clear my head to help me think. I can’t think for myself, so I call others to help me think. Information, I need information, so I call trusted physicians, my cousin, my friends who dearly love my mom, to help me confront this dilemma: how do you choose what is right spiritually, medically? How do you choose what is right for mom’s heart?

Mom has been the heart of my family, my extended family, my friends’ families, for as long as I can remember. Even with clouded memory, her heart and spirit shine from her frail body. The chaplain is called to pray with mom, to pray with me as I am completely distraught. He comments on her beautiful spirit. He reminds me her spirit is strong, her spirit is eternal, and any decision we make today will not affect her place in eternity. His prayer moves me to call my dear pastor friend, one I know has walked this hospital floor many times. Although he is far away my friend sings Amazing Grace over the phone to Mom as he has many times for her at the piano in my home. He reminds me that God will make it clear what is the right choice through the people around me. He encourages me to let go of the burden of carrying this decision.

Through God’s amazing grace I look back on the course of the day. On words spoken through those placed around me to remind me of his grace.

…a nurse, the friend I watched pour through textbooks, studying to get her RN now encouraging me, God knows her days, He has them numbered, and it does not look like it will be today. She tells me if I made it here today just to tell you this, then it was worth it.

…a neighbor, a friend who for the past five years walked next to me and with me through the valleys and crags of caring for someone with Alzheimer’s. She reminds me to do what is best for Lola, what would make her the most comfortable….

…a physician, a friend who stood with us during my father’s battle with cancer, reminds me mom’s days are not determined by the decision we make now. Her heart loves God completely and her days are not determined by the physical condition of her heart which may not withstand a procedure…

….and Mom telling me, looking me straight in the eye, telling me, she is ready to go. To go to heaven. Even as she lies in the hospital bed, she reminds me, God is so good to me, He will take care of me.

And He does.

He makes it clear.

Choose Life.

John 10:10 says I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.

For 89 years mom has lived an abundant life. Loving abundantly. Serving abundantly. Giving abundantly. Teaching abundantly.

Her life is abundantly full of people she has loved, touched, changed, believed in. Her life is not determined by a frantic choice in an emergency room. And by God’s grace, I do not have to make the choice. Hours after reviewing all the tests, her cardiologist makes the choice for us. Her body, her kidneys, may not be strong enough to withstand a procedure.

Without intervention, her heart will function. It would be better to let things be, than to try find a blockage and remove it. It would be better to keep things as they are than to try to fix it and possibly cause other complications.

Even after the mild heart attack, the echocardiogram shows her heart is strong, the squeeze of her heart still pumping life strongly through her veins.

At her beside the cardiologist reports despite what has happened her heart is quite strong for a woman of her age. Remarkably strong actually.

I smile and squeeze her hand.

Of course it is.

It always has been. Continue Reading

March 20, 2014

Essence

I took a Chinese painting class last week, a completely new learning experience. Everything about it was new, the types of paints, the brushes, how you hold the brush, the type of paper, how you load the brush with paint. A new way to paint. A new way to look at things.

Many times the teacher said, “In Chinese painting, don’t worry about detail. You want to capture the essence. If you make mistake, let it happen. See where it goes. Don’t try to fix it.”

His Chinese paintings were so beautiful and simple. I asked him to paint a peony for me. In a few brushstrokes, he captured the essence of this flower I love so much. So beautiful, so simple. In such few strokes, such few colors, he created something that moved me to tears.

Why did something so simple move me to tears? With a few strokes of a brush, this artist connected to my soul. He laughed at my tears, saying, “You make more tears, I make more beautiful flower.”

So here it is, a peony by artist Lian Quan Zhen.

Simple strokes, use of pure colors, light touch. Suggestion. Not all details.

Mixed in with painting lessons, life lessons.

Don’t force things. Let them be as they are.

Many things in your life you don’t understand. You do it first, then you understand.

Sometimes you give up things to get things.

After years of raising four children, my mind is not wired to think this way. There are many years of attempted control and order to reverse. Yet in this changing season of letting go, relinquishing control, I see the beauty of giving up things to get things. The peace of not forcing things and letting them happen. The joy of letting my grown children be as they are and blossom in their gifts.

The gift of living with someone with Alzheimer’s also teaches, for she sees things in the present, life in the small things. Through her I learn to see beauty in the shell, in the external that capsules what is hidden inside.

To see the essence, the purity of heart and soul now masked my amalagous plaques tangling the brain rendering captive the expression, the language, the emotions that once captured and endeared this person to the hearts of many.

The essence. Look at the essence.

The true beauty of this being.
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Through my art I hope to see clearly the things I love. The flowers familiar, landscapes and seascapes that heal my soul. Look deeply into them unmasked.

And in turn trust that the things I see are true.

Then, lightly, I will touch the paper with brush and ink, not force what I see, not try to control it.

Instead let it happen,

And capture only essence.

seaglasslife

life, laughter, joy, sorrow all tumbled into one