Under Pressure

Lately I've been experiencing an odd sense of being. That sounds awkward, but I'm not quite sure how to phrase this. I feel a little different than even just a month ago. I'm not sure why or when or how, but something is changed. David died two years and four months ago. That is a long time, but it doesn't really feel that long. On the other hand, he hasn't been in my midst for a long time. I'm not making any sense at all. Let me try again. Last night I had a sort of epiphany. It happened while walking along the ocean with a friend, discussing everything that women will discuss. It occurred to me that, perhaps, I'm finally moving out of what was old and into what is new. Ha. Even more cryptic, right?

When I was married to David, (well, when my husband was living, because much of the time I still "feel" married, but sometimes I don't anymore ...) I was a wife -- a cleaved one. I was also me, but I no longer lived just for myself. Gibran wrote about this in his thoughts "On Marriage."

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.
                                                  - Kahlil Gibran, from The Prophet

I don't agree with everything Gibran wrote, but most of it is beautiful. "Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. ... And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow." Sadly, I think that our lives' circumstances caused me to surely grow in David's shadow, at least from time to time ...

Then I became a mother and my life was hugely changed. Being a wife and a mother sort of requires that you reform. You're the same person, but living with new and exciting priorities and obligations.

Because I was a wife and mother I was always a caregiver, but when David was diagnosed, I became a different kind of caregiver. Throughout the last few years of his life, being a caregiver became pretty much the whole of my existence. And when he died, suddenly that mostly went away. Yeh, dealing with the business of death took the better part of a year and I still handle the business end of his music as well as brain tumor inquiries and requests, but the day to day intensity of his medical, practical and emotional care ended. Along with that, however, waned the adrenalin that had kept me going. I found myself in an unfamiliar state of peace ... and deep grief, then hibernation.

As of this past fall, I discovered that I was almost kind of finished being a caregiver. Sure, my kids still need parenting and will need parenting, but the level of care given is declining, as it should. I am not responsible for getting a kid up and to school, for making lunches, for being on-call, for being home when they're home, for making dinner, doing laundry, meeting with teachers, attending concerts ... I'm on my own with my own schedule. I haven't been in this situation for 26 years. Secretly, it's delightfully liberating. I do love having my children in my midst and am excited for them to come home next week for spring break, but it's gratifying to realize that I'm good with nature's turning of time. Rather than wallowing in a bereft'ness because they're not home, I'm accepting it and rejoicing that they are independent and happy and doing well! I'm not sure how or why I've found myself in this emotional state, but I'm not going to question it. I'm even feeling a little happy! It's sort of like a trophy -- a medal to hang around my neck for a job well-done. Their success is a reflection of all that caregiving.

And now .... I don't want to make my kids shudder, but lately I've been noticing men noticing me. I'm trying to figure out if this has been going on all these years and I was just oblivious to it. You know ... I was very married, so the rebuffing of even the thought of welcoming that visual connection (eye contact) -- that second take -- that spontaneous smile -- was subconscious. Then, when David died, I felt like everyone could envision the metaphorical black veil that covered my face and my spirit, so I wasn't getting a glimpse of anything through all that darkness. But, honestly, now I am noticing men. Do I have a newly-revealed charm -- charisma -- that is emanating from within me? Some days I feel like I do! Some days I feel like I can extract any response that I want. (Today I was given a beach souvenir gratis. I'm serious!) It's a startling revelation, yet one cast with shadows of familiarity. I was married for a long time -- half of my life. I forsook all of this, whatever you call it, a long time ago. But it's no longer necessary to eschew it and, as I feel less and less married, the mentality of singleness is creeping back into my consciousness. You'd think for a scaredy-cat like me, this would all be a little daunting. Instead, I'm finding it to be a little exhilarating. Of course I know myself and I'm not gonna' do anything reckless (darn), but it's fun to hang-out along the outskirts, dangling a toe into the other side here and there.

Something undetermined ... unspecified is bubbling up within me – like lava, dormant, yet simmering, lying just beneath the surface -- beginning to swirl and flow. My chest swells with this wondrous sensation, but I have no outlet for it! I feel like I suddenly possess an undefined passion -- an uncontained, big love -- in need of a path for expression. Sometimes I feel like I can no longer contain it – like I’m going to burst with untamed whatever! It is exciting and frustrating all at once.

pas·sion [pash-uhn] noun: 1. any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate.

Passion for what? How, now, do I love people ... and stuff like music and nature -- life ... my life? It's almost like I have permission to remake it -- to re-form it -- to the extent that I may wish, because I have the freedom to do so for the first time in as long as I can remember ... maybe ever. I've never been in a place where I could just do whatever I wanted to do! I attended my second choice college because of money (but I don't bemoan that at all -- my kids would not exist, as I would never have met and fallen in love with David), then I went straight to work in a job provided for me (for which I was thankful and always will be), then almost immediately into marriage, making decisions about my life in tandem with and in consideration of David. My next job was dictated by economics, as was where I lived. Raising children kept me (happily) grounded at home -- and supporting David in his vocation required it. He travelled so much that I had no choice but to be the "rock" that kept the home fires burning ... and I was [mostly] happy to do so. But now ... you see? If I so choose, I can do whatever I want to do. The rock is becoming molten -- fluid. It's an alien circumstance. It's kind of wonderful.

By nature, I am a careful person. I consider every facet of a situation, especially how others are affected by choices made. I am pragmatic. I am sensible. But deep down ... where that lava is heating up and casting an orange glow on everything, I feel brave. Not the kind of brave that it took to survive 14 years of brain cancer. A different, undaunted kind of brave that is not a requirement, but a freedom.

I'm taking pleasure in the contemplation of all of this newness and will continue to meditate on it -- this unleashed something ... and the myriad of new ways to love -- to express the swelling pool of undefined, unformed passion.

Lyrics from a Mumford and Sons song expresses my feelings rather plainly.

... We will run and scream
You will dance with me
They'll fulfill our dreams
And we'll be free

And we will be who we are
And they'll heal our scars
Sadness will be far away

Do not let my fickle flesh go to waste
As it keeps my heart and soul in its place
And I will love with urgency but not with haste
                                            ~ Not With Haste

 

Prayer ... Help me. Help me. Help me.

I've been asked to write 150-250 words on prayer. When 250 was suggested, I laughed ... so the request was lowered to 150. I laughed because 250 would be difficult ... as a limit!

So ... prayer. What is prayer?

prayer [prair] noun 1. a devout petition to God or an object of worship; 2. a spiritual communion with God or an object of worship, as in supplication, thanksgiving, adoration, or confession; 3. the act or practice of praying to God or an object of worship; 4. a formula or sequence of words used in or appointed for praying.

I have discovered that I am generally in a constant state of prayer. I certainly don't mean this to sound haughty or superior in any way ... it's just that I am in constant conversation with God. I need God. I do love that I have possibly, remotely "risen to the occasion" for the Apostle named Paul ... who suggested that the Thessalonians "pray without ceasing." Somehow, I think this is what he meant: To be in constant communion [communication] with your Creator. That's comforting. Constant communion with my Creator.

But, to quote a dear friend and fellow widow (how's that for a statement full of emotional conflict?), "Help me. Help me. Help me. Help me." That was her prayer throughtout the last months of her husband's illness and probably the first two or three years of her life without him following his death. I remembered! and I pray it, too! Thank you for sharing your simple, humble, powerful prayer, sweet friend.

It reminds me of a Sunday School class led by another dear friend years ago ... a class on Prayer. He was a former Jesuit-turned Presbyterian. Not really such a leap, when you think about it -- critically. Anyway, he talked to us about the rote prayers that he learned throughout his life that continued to put him in a state of prayerfulness -- of reverence. One, of course was the "Our Father." I never knew it by that name ... to me, it was always the Lord's Prayer. I learned the Lord's Prayer at a very early age ... probaby 2 or 3. I remember lying in bed with my little sister in the bed next to me, listening to the murmuring coming from our older sister's room. Our mother was saying prayers with her, but it was sure taking a lot longer for her than it ever did for us to say our little "Now I lay me down to sleep ..." prayer! We were curious and wanted to know what the heck! Our mother told us that she said a different prayer with her. Well, we wanted to learn it! I suppose we didn't want to be left behind ... or simply wanted a little more of our mother's time and attention when we didn't really want to go to sleep yet. Whatever, she relented and taught us the Lord's Prayer.

The second prayer that my friend shared with our adult Presbyterian class was a version of the Kyrie. As you might imagine, if you are hip to the nuances of the Presbyterian mindset versus the Catholic mindset (not the "universal" thing, the denomination thing), some in our class were a little hestitant to open their hearts to this Kyrie, but I loved it immediately. "Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on my soul." Wow. What other prayer could possibly be more pragmatic, powerful, meaningful in any time of need? I have used this prayer IN MY DREAMS when I felt threatened by some form of evil. It comforted me on two levels: First, that I was invoking the name of Jesus. Second, that the first thing I did was to fully rely on my Savior. All the doubt we struggle with -- that I struggle with -- in my academic, intellectual ponderings fell away. The first thing I did was call on Jesus. Yipee!

This is already 650 words :-)

But my assignment was given in terms of certain parameters ... what devotionals did I use to direct my prayer life? Ummm.

Yes, I have devotionals all over the place. David brought many of them home -- from Lucado to Nouwen. Streams in the Desert, by Charles Cowman, a gift way back when my mother died ... Jesus Calling, by Sarah Young, given to me by a dear friend after David died. But my spiritual disciplines have waned a bit in the last few years and I'm not keeping my devotions. I really try to keep asking God for help -- not just for me, but for my kids, my extended family, my friends, my church family ... those who have asked for or who are simply in need of ... prayer. And I'm really working at remembering to follow-up with thanksgiving for answered prayer. Today, my prayer was, "Thank you, God, for helping me get this stinking bathroom cleaned! and with a glad heart!" See? without ceasing.

I'm really awed by those who keep regular times of prayer and devotion -- who daily read their Bibles and pray over the words, asking for understanding and application. These days, I am thankful for Scripture that returns to my consciousness -- mostly Psalms noting that God is my refuge and strength ... a very help in times of trouble ... Be still and know that I am God. The promise that all things work together for good for those who love God ... or the wonderful words of John reminding me that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. I don't have a lot of Scripture memorized, but some of these biggies stay with me. God's word is in my heart, mind and soul -- always. Like a prayer. Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on my soul.

Hospitals: Good or Bad ... Blessing or Bane, Part 1

I haven't stepped foot in a hospital since August of 2010 ... or was it September? I think it might take some real urging to get me into one. I know I can do it ... when the time comes.

My earliest recollection of any hospital was when I was about 3 or 4 years old. My father was hospitalized for diabetes. The only thing I really remember are his awful pajamas. I don't have earlier memories of what he slept in, but I don't think they were pajamas. These were NEW ... for his hospital stay ... and they were UGLY -- some sort of orange paisley on white. I think he kept them for years after that, to be a good steward of the pajamas. Maybe that's how I recall them. Nonetheless, that is my first memory of a hospital. Not long after that I recall waving to my Grandpa from the hospital parking lot and talking to him over an old, blue walkie-talkie. I think that was when I first got a semblance of the gravity of a hospitalization. He wasn't well enough for us to visit with him face to face ... he was up there -- isolated -- and sick. Thankfully, Grandpa lived for many, many years following that heart attack. Somehow we knew that he was on blood thinners and couldn't go home until he "made water." These memories are somewhat amusing now, as an adult ... but we understood the hospital as a daunting place, even as children. At least I did. I was really little.

The next time I found myself in a hospital was after my grandmother had had both aortic and femoral artery transplants. She had come home, but returned to the local hospital with complications of some sort. I don't know how old I was -- maybe junior high or a freshman in high school ... but I knew that it was serious when they rolled her onto her side and her whole back was black from internal bleeding. My beloved grandmother ... so frighteningly ill. She did recover from that ordeal ... to face breast cancer and even then, many more years of loving living. Thus far, my hospital experiences had resolved with recovery -- healing -- living. Many years later, she died in a different hospital -- just a few hours after a sister had finally arrived on emergency leave from Saudi and we had all gone home for the evening. I was carrying my son -- newly pregnant. She died not knowing that I would bear my father's first grandson, something she very much anticipated (she called my daughter "Buster" up until the day she was born -- the seventh girl in a row).

I spent a night in the hospital in college -- winter break, probably. I had my wisdom teeth removed. I had an unfavorable first IV experience and remember flashing my brother-in-law my behind, showing him where I got the shot that made me stoned enough to show him my behind.

Then came the big, white hospital on the hill across the river -- Allegheny General Hospital in Pittsburgh. I still can't look at it if I'm in the city. My mother died there. I was 19 years old -- just finishing my sophomore year of college -- and my mother was undergoing heart surgery to repair a congenital defect and a valve because her heart was enlarging. In truth, she was never expected to live much beyond ten years -- but lived to have a family, be a skier and a hiker -- to have a full life. Her kind surgeon said that her heart was beginning to fail and that this surgery would prolong her amazing life -- a mother of four daughters, 12-24 -- a church music director -- a substitute teacher -- wife, mother and friend to so many. Her fatality risk was just 2%. But I had a funny feeling. For weeks before her surgery, I had daydreams of her death -- and then beat myself up for my faithlessness. The day of her actual surgery I had real dreams -- bad dreams. Dreams where she didn't wake up. And she didn't.

My last memories of my mother were of her birthday -- where we all gathered around her and celebrated her beautiful life -- and then not quite two weeks later of her awkward embarrassment telling us of how they had to shave her entire body to prepare her for surgery -- and how she was yellow from a coating of betadine. She was a little high from her pre-op drugs, so we were all sort of "light," but then the dreams came upon me in the surgical waiting room. It was May, so I had brought notes and books to study for finals, but just slept instead -- until my dreams woke me with dread. And my worst fears were met: her heart would not beat. The last time I saw my mother, she was on a heart-lung machine. Of course we truly believed that she had heard our assurances of love by squeezing our hands, but now, as an adult -- I know that was only in our hopeful minds. She had pretty much already died. The unheard of, tragic death of my mother changed me forever. I was 19 -- on the cusp of young adulthood and being teenaged. "Motherless Daughters," a book by Hope Edelman, explains so succinctly how I suffered from being both. Gone was the carefree girl who made music, created recipes, designed clothes ... replaced by a more serious young woman who worked hard to continue in her own vein. It reminds me of "This little light of mine" ... hidden under a bushel. Somehow I finished college and graduated with honors. My senior year, I fell in love with David. He saved me from grief. He loved me like I had never been loved. Joy returned to my being.

My dad had a stroke my first year out of college. I remember everything about that night -- including distracting him from my sister, whom I was desperately coaxing to call an ambulance, probably scared myself to do it because he was adamantly forbidding it. I remember driving to the hospital that night -- probably in a panic -- but I don't remember anything else about that event. Weird. Just a few weeks later, David and I had a serious car accident in freezing rain. I remember only hearing the activity in the ER as they discussed my condition and cut off my clothes -- and later waking in the ICU to the concerned faces of a sister and my father. I stayed there for a week, suffering from a concussion and fractured pelvis. We were really having some fun!

My next significant hospital experience was the birth of my daughter. It was not an easy delivery -- I endured 26 hours of labor, which failed to progress ... but I was finally rewarded with the most beautiful creature I have ever been blessed to behold -- still, to this day. My own hospital experience was less than stellar. It was a holiday weekend and they pretty much starved me, ignored and betrayed my birth plan, barely gave me any care at all, added insult to injury by surprising me with a measles shot (again, in the behind) and then sent me home, barely able to walk, and with a very fussy baby. Nonethless, I had the prize in my arms (all day and night, it seemed). My son was born 20 months later -- after only 23 hours of labor! and a little bit better experience all-around. I was no longer a new mother, but one who was willing to thumb my nose at the nurses and do what I wanted with my own baby, who was most content just to cozily laze in my arms. That hospital did not allow "rooming in," so I had to figure a way around that ... and I did. Ha. That was my first taste of a rebellious nature, and it was really quite satisfying.

A year and a half later, my father died in yet another Pennsylvania hospital. We had just spent Thanksgiving with him and I knew he was not well. I feared that he was dying. He firmly sent me home. To this day, I believe that he did not want me to be there for what was coming. I believe that he lovingly spared me from another hospital death. Not quite a year later, I was in the ER again -- with my baby boy on my hip listening to a doctor tell me about my husband's brain tumor. I remember feeling a paralysis spread down my lower back and I was unable to move as he described microscopic "tentacles" reaching out from the tumor into the brain tissue. I looked at the CT scan then back at him and said, "You can't remove that." Moments later, I was chasing David's gurney upon which he was strapped, paralyzed and intubated for a helicopter flight to a Northern Virginia hospital for emergency brain surgery. I had predicted this one, too and, again, I couldn't even say good bye.

I Miss My Husband

... of course, every day. But some days, it's more poignant. poign·ant [poin-yuhnt, poi-nuhnt] adj. 1. keenly distressing to the feelings; 2. keen or strong in mental appeal; 3. affecting or moving the emotions.

 Today, it was somewhat distressing, strong in mental appeal -- and affecting of my emotions ...  how I missed my husband.

I'm experiencing one of those ebbs in the grieving process ... but not such a terribly sad one -- just an impacting one. Okay, it's a little sad. It hit me as I brewed coffee yesterday morning. I can't quite explain it. But anyone who's lost their husband -- or any loved one really close to them -- understands. The simplest day to day stuff can throw you down -- throw you back -- drudge-up associations, memories, whatever and leave you standing in your footsteps completely overtaken by emotion.

It's strange because, historically, I didn't really brew the coffee. David brewed the coffee. Actually, I would have brewed the coffee, but I wasn't quick enough! He brewed and brewed and brewed -- numerous pots in a day. I scarcely got a chance to step-in to wash the coffee pot, wipe up the counter, or anything -- especially in the last few years of his life, marked by odd OCD behavior. I would find countless cups of un-drunk coffee around the house, but he would still be brewing. Yeh, it could get old. So the memories and associations that slammed me yesterday were wrought with a variety of feelings: a sense of being bereft, simple sorrow, and, yes, relief -- that the days of spilled coffee and beans all over the floor were over. That, alone, is sad. It makes me feel like I'm a cold and insensitive woman. Thankfully, I know that is not and was not the case ...

So my response was to basically indulge in a sick day. Yesterday (a Friday) I nestled-down in my bed. Thankful for my Roku (Christmas gift from my son), I caught-up on some of my favorite programs -- and became quite involved in a new one -- a "comfort" show -- Downton: Not too much peril to be upsetting -- just enough excitement -- and good, old fashioned love. Wonderful. Comforting. But my productivity was next to nil -- aside from making sure that I had three delightful little meals (on a tray transportable to my bedroom) and a delightful snack of cheddar and crunchmasters. yum. A day of self-indulgent escape. It was good for my soul -- but not so good for my tax deadline. It was supposed to snow, offering even further excuse for my self-centeredness, but it didn't. That was a bummer. But you know what? I didn't wallow in self-pity. I just enjoyed my simple pleasures day. Everybody needs one of those from time to time. It actually probably prevented me from going to the self pity place. So kudos to me!

Besides, this afternoon (yeh, another whole morning plus of the same hibernation ...) I vacuumed my wood floors and did some laundry. I've been keeping up with the dishes, too, and that is saying something!

Some of my most fond memories of David are those lazy afternoons that we spent together when the kids were at school. He would return home from a long weekend away and then really just want and need to spend the next day resting and recuperating. We enjoyed downtime together -- sometimes shopping, sometimes ..., sometimes indulging in videos -- movies or television series that we watched on DVD (Netflix really catered to our ways ...). Lazy days -- spent together in our family room stretched out on the sofa and easy chair -- enjoying some drama or adventure. It was like manna after a long, separated weekend. I miss those lazy days. I miss him. See how I got there?

So this evening, I'm playing some loud music (that I wonder if he would like ...) and doing a little laundry and housework (yay!) but I still haven't shaken those feelings of familiarity ... the delightful lazy days spent together here in our home after a weekend apart. I wonder if I'll ever really forget this feeling -- of liberty with a day and knowledge that I was not alone. I was with my husband -- my chosen companion.

But now he's not here -- so sometimes I just I do it alone -- me and my dog, (who isn't really good company when it comes to discussing the finer details of plot lines or predicting what is going to happen in a favorite storyline). Right now all I can think is "damn."

But tomorrow is a new day ... and he would expect me to plant my feet on the floor and thank God for "One More Day." I don't do that ... and sometimes feel guilty. But I'm the one left behind. I often wonder if he would be so hopeful and positive if the tables had been turned and it was he who found himself facing each day on his own. But he brewed his own coffee, so maybe he would have been okay. I brew my own coffee, too. Maybe I'm going to be okay, as well.

My Hands

I wish I had taken a picture of my hands every year of my life. I could have chronicled my life in a very explicit manner if I had. I also wish I had a picture of my mother's hands. I can't quite remember what they looked like. I don't think my hands look much like hers ... but maybe they do ... or did. I'm a good year plus older than she was when she died. My mother was a pianist. Most of my memories of her hands -- well, really ideas of memories -- are of them moving across the piano keys. I remember the first time I heard and watched her play the boogie woogie. I was never the same after that. I was so ultimately impressed by my mother's talent. All I could think was that I would never be able to play like that. And I never was.

I wear one of her rings most of the time. I have a vague recollection of the way it looked on her hand. I remember the stone had fallen out once and she was in a panic. Lucky Mother found that diamond on her bathroom floor. She found another lost stone teetering on the welting edge of a car seat. Lucky. Yeh, lucky. Dead at 47. Hmmmmm. My sisters and I also joke about the "backhand" and the diamond that might catch our cheeks if we were cheeky. The hand that could discipline ... Thanks for that. I learned.

Tonight as I glance down at my own hands I see age -- but I'm not distraught. I have soothed sorrows and pain -- wiped away tears -- bathed babies -- put on bandaids -- and even given injections with these hands. I have brushed my daughter's thick, beautiful hair and cut my husband's black curls with these hands. I have sewn clothes and knit socks for my son with these hands. I have baked cookies, crimped pies, peeled potatoes and kneaded bread with these hands. I have fingered notes on my flute and directed singers -- even arranged music with these hands. They haven't let me down. Yet. The last few weeks one of my thumbs has had that pang of arthritis. I've had it before -- in the same thumb and, sometimes, a pinky -- but, thus far, the discomfort has always passed. I think the pain is fading even as I write. I hope so.

My aunt had crippling rheumatoid arthritis and developed it at a very young age -- probably around 24. She had studied and trained to be a surgical nurse and was brokenhearted when she was unable to continue her career due to the effects in her hands. I never knew her without the painful disfiguration that she suffered in her hands and feet from that arthritis -- and have always thought it a very cruel affliction that she endured with such beauty and grace. I will always think of her hands as beautiful, loving hands -- as they prepared and served meals in her home year after year -- and how, somehow, she maintained her distinctive handwriting -- somehow unaffected. I loved her hands.

My kids' hands resemble their grandfather's more than mine or David's. David's father's hands, not my father's hands. My son uses his fingers just like his grandfather -- the way they manipulate a knot or handle small items. It's uncanny. But his hands form the same shape that David's did on the guitar. I remember the way David's hands fingered his unique chords on his guitar -- and what they looked like picking the intricate patterns of his songs. I remember the way they looked the day he put this little diamond on my left hand and they way they cradled our newborn daughter. Her hands have their own beauty as they, too, go up and down the piano keyboard, making beautiful music that I wish I could make.

A few nights ago I celebrated the birthday of a dear friend and gifted her with a cake. It made me remember some of the great cakes I used to create with my own hands. Were I in another time in my life, perhaps I would have formed the rosettes on her cake myself! Instead, it was my hands that cradled her cake in the pictures of her blowing out the candles -- like so many pictures in our family albums. Some day one of those pictures might stand-out to a grandchild, as they realize that those were my hands in the old pictures -- lovingly offering a cake made with love by Grandma Leslie -- or Great Grandma Leslie. That's a comforting thought!

I miss holding hands with David. In the later years of our marriage, we didn't do it all that often -- but when we did, it was poignant and I always made a note of it: Hold hands more often! Sometimes, it was better than a kiss. These days, I am sometimes taken aback, but always thrilled when my daughter grabs my hand and publicly walks with me down sidewalks and inside stores. She's 20. Imagine, if you will, the gratification -- the sheer love that I receive in that simple act. Bliss.

Since the kids have returned to school, I use these old hands to text random greetings -- to check on loved ones -- to share information. Somehow they have adjusted to the touchscreen keyboard! I thought I'd never be able to change from the numberpad with the satisfying bounce and beep, but I've successfully made the switch. Of course, sometimes the result can be quite humorous. "I live you" is a common error. My son likes to mock me on that one. Oh well. Hopefully, the message gets through anyway.

Another thing I miss is writing notes. Before all of this adventure, I was a note writer -- a card sender. I still try, but it's just not the same. It was a spiritual discipline for me. I wrote to my aunt with the arthritic hands almost weekly. I had a friend who was experiencing very aggressive cancer and wrote to her regularly until she died. I sent pretty regular cards to a couple other young widows, too ... some weird sort of foreshadowing?

But last night I got to use these hands to comfort and feed a friend -- to hold her hand and ladle soup. I think that sums it up -- hands to comfort -- to serve -- to pray -- to create -- to touch -- to love. Mine are a little wrinkly-looking these days, especially in the dry winter cold, but they are still my hands and I get to decide how to use them. And I am accountable for how I use them. Thank you, God, for hands.

Alone again ... naturally?

That sort of sounds pitiful -- a little pathetic. Part of me feels that way; part of me does not. It is the natural order of things -- for children to grow up and move-on (though it is also natural for them to return home from time to time). It is NOT as natural to be widowed and alone at my age. The more natural order of things -- well, at least for what I believe to be the majority of other parents around my age -- is to be "alone" with your spouse again -- a return to those pre-kid days. That is not what I'm experiencing, though it is what I had always planned. Dang.

As the day of the kids' departure drew closer, I began to panic a little as I looked at the still-adorned Christmas tree and the myriad of decorations dotting our home. Packing-up Christmas alone is awful. My daughter has been a real Godsend these last few, sad years -- not leaving me to face the daunting task on my own. This year, my son was a great help, as well -- patiently hoisting all the boxes upstairs and very neatly putting them back into the attic. Taking down the tree is particularly difficult for me. I pretty much weep over every ornament, remembering where it came from and associating it with Christmases past. As the kids get older, I have a harder and harder time differentiating their personal ornaments, which we pack separately. I really needed both kids to sort those and get them packed before they left. Thankfully, the tree is now perched atop the burn pile and the boxes are stowed away for another year. Now I can put my attention to the dread task of preparing for the taxes and the requisite FAFSA.

It's always a post-Christmas curse -- working through mountains of receipts and credit card statements in order to itemize all of our income and expenses. Once accomplished, however, taxes -- both corporate and personal, FAFSA and assistance from my financial advisor become way more straightforward. Still, it's a nightmare when you're like me and don't keep up with such stuff. I think I have at least six months' worth of bank statements never even opened, let alone reconciled!

Way back when the kids were wee and David was healthy and a young, very upwardly-moble professional, he handled all of our bill paying, banking and taxes. This may surprise many who only knew him since his diagnosis and change in vocation -- but it was David who purchased a new and exciting software program, Quicken, and itemized every last cent spent -- and was one of the first in line to purchase the brand new, life-changing Turbo Tax software. (Wait, Turbo Tax wasn't the first one -- it was something else, but the point is the same.) He was very organized in his mind and in his behavior. His office was neat. He kept up with all the financial stuff so that he never faced what I'm facing right now -- and he accomplished it all pretty painlessly. When all of that responsibility got turned over to me in the aftermath of his diagnosis and subsequent life changes, I did not handle it as well. I was adding it to my already billowing list of responsibilities, which altogether became more and more overwhelming. I have never recovered.

Throughout the last decade and a half, I generally spent most of the month of December working through all the financials and was pretty much incapable of getting the tax data to our accountant before mid-February at the earliest -- so I stopped doing it in December and started punishing myself in January instead. I'm putting it off another day by writing this blog! I always hope and plan to stay more up-to-date each year. Maybe this year it will happen! I've been planning a computer swap for a while now -- and finishing the financial work will get me a step closer to that, which will result in a notebook computer that I could keep in the kitchen, where I may be much more likely to enter expenditures and reconcile a bank statement upon receipt. Guess I'll have to wait and see whether or not my really wise plan sees fruition. That mental energy factor will be key. It continues to ebb and flow ... mostly ebb.

But I've had to move my old computer downstairs into David's office -- mostly untouched since the last time I wrote about it. Somehow, the desk had been cleared, so I have some workspace. My son helped me to move it and connect all the cables. Lo and behold, David's old laser printer worked without any snags -- no searching for drivers or anything! I didn't know it was still functional and my laser broke down last year. This is a coup. The CPU is now hard-wired to the ethernet, so I'm back in business. Now to begin attacking the mountains of paperwork ... Not surprisingly, I am writing this on my notebook in my kitchen. David's office still smells like David's office -- his things are still in there -- all over place. I'm going to have to work up to spending long segments of time in there. Perhaps it will be a motivation to more purposefully undertake the task of dismantling his life.

I struggle with happiness. I struggle with the near mandate (or actual mandate) to rejoice in the Lord because I have a hard time rejoicing in anything, so I sometimes feel guilty about this. I'm not one to dwell on the sinfulness of mankind, but more on the loving, merciful, saving Grace of the Lord, but I often feel like my "failure" to love my life is sinful -- sort of a waste of God's creation. I do know that God knows my heart -- my sorrow, my brokenness -- as well as my faithfulness, my service and my desires so I'm not beating myself up over this. I'm just aware of it. I find great comfort in the two first Beatitudes: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. (The Greek can also mean that not only are the poor in spirit and mournful blessed by God, but that they bless others. I think that's beautiful.) I know that God is patiently waiting for me to get to that place of joyfulness, but for now, being blessed and being a blessing is where I am -- where He has me. It's okay. For now. What I really need to figure out is how to do all this "paper"work joyfully -- remembering to pray for the mental energy and being mindful of the gratification of completing good work. Sounds like a plan! But tomorrow, it will be daunting again.

Today's sermon was about the true nature of worship. Kierkegaard's "Theater of Worship" was the model. It made me remember good old Dr. MacKenzie teaching the "Religio-Philosophical Dimension of Life" at Grove City. Anyway, the point is that God is the audience and we are the performers -- praising, confessing, and responding. Though I never finished reading Rick Warren's "Purpose Driven Life," I believe he borrowed heavily on Kierkegaard's thinking regarding Worship. So my question -- my conundrum -- is how to worship fully RIGHT NOW. I have an added element, perhaps an obstacle, but not necessarily. Continuing with the "Theater" metaphor, I am a "prompter" more than I am a "performer." I participate in worship nearly every Sunday through music. Rather than being a plain old congregant being prompted and performing for God, I'm a middleman. I'm playing descants and cueing cut-offs for the choir -- following the bulletin to see when I have to get up and do something. It can, and often does, detract from my worship performance. It sounds strange, but it is true. I think this is why a pastor friend of mine found an alternative church to attend -- to worship as a performer, rather than a prompter. Food for thought.

So back to the alone part. Nearly my entire adult life I worshipped "alone," that is, David was out of town on Sundays at least a third to a fourth of the time. Always a prompter, I had other companions in the choir loft, for example -- but worshipping beside a spouse is different. For me, it made worship more complete -- and now I never experience that fullness of cleaving. I always have and continue to grieve a little for others who worship alone -- those who are single, widowed, or divorced -- and particularly for those whose spouses simply do not worship. After David died, my worship environment wasn't altered much, but I moved into that space -- single worshippers -- with involuntary certainty. I still had my children beside me (and they were often prompters, too). But now I never have him by my side. I also no longer receive sweet, intermittent text messages from David, rebelliously giving me a glimpse into his worship experience that day -- sort of placing us side by side. This fall, I grew accustomed to the absence of my kids. My pew space requirements keep getting smaller and smaller (we have chairs, but I prefer my metaphor).

I guess it's just the same old broken record. Poor old Leslie -- sitting alone in church -- going home to an empty house -- getting up in silence and having to brew my own dang coffee. This isn't natural and I don't like it. Poo hoo. But I'm gonna' try a new "worship" theater -- my office. I'm going to bring God in there with me and praise Him when I get a good chunk accomplished. I'm going to play music and sing along -- performing for Him -- glorifying Him -- and being thankful. I guess I'll have to report on my progress, won't I. Oh look ... I need to do laundry!

post-Christmas whatever .... Holy Days

This year, for me, post-Christmas is a severe cold. I don't have the energy to experience the blues because I'm distracted with some kind of weird virus. What kind of cold starts as a cough? Anyway ... three days later and now I have a runny nose. Isn't that backwards? It's a good excuse for not getting Christmas gifts put away, dealing with the clutter and holiday foods that take over the kitchen counter. All of this only delays the inevitable end of the festive days filled with excited shoppers, Christmas music, smiles and greetings, eggnog and bright and shiny lights. David thought we should sing Christmas Carols in June ... he had the right idea.

The English (and others) handled this stuff pretty well with the twelve days of Christmas -- Christmastide. These days followed Christmas, so the festivities and merrymaking continued, ending with "Twelfth Night," which led right into Epiphany, another feast day! Shakespeare wrote a play with a Twelfth Night as the setting ... David had a leading role in that play back in college, but I can't remember which one. I thought he was a king, but I'm not sure that's even a character. I'm not well-versed in Shakespeare, but I do know it is a comedy, not a tragedy! He was really hunky in his make-up. I'll leave it at that.

My grandfather's birthday was January 5, Twelfth Night -- but we never heard a peep about any such stuff -- but we always observed Epiphany (the next day) when we took our Christmas tree down. I guess more contemporary celebrations whittle it all down to a couple days rather than a dozen. We have to go back to work and back to school -- back to the routines of our overly busy lives nowadays. I bet the post-Christmas blues that some people suffer would be greatly diminished if we would continue our festivities (even while working and going to school, like we do for all of Advent ...) for twelve days. There is a catch, of course. These are holy days and Christmas has become so secularized. The justification would be more difficult, don't you think? According to Wikipedia (your friend and mine), "The first day of Christmas is Christmas day and each day is a feast in memory of a Saint or event associated with the Christmas season."

The days are as follows:
Day 1, December 25: Christmas Day
Day 2, December 26: Feast of Saint Stephen Saint Stephen is considered the first martyr of the Christian Church. This Feast day is mentioned in the carol "Good King Wenceslas". Boxing Day, a non-religious banking holiday occurs on the first weekday following Christmas.
Day 3, December 27: Feast of Saint John the Evangelist
Day 4, December 28: The Feast of the Holy Innocents. The Holy Innocents were the young male children ordered murdered in Bethlehem by King Herod, according to the Gospel of Matthew. The traditional Christmas song "The Coventry Carol" describes this event.
Day 5, December 29: The Feast Day of Saint Thomas Becket.
Day 6, December 30: The Feast of The Holy Family.
Day 7, December 31: The Feast of Saint Sylvester.
Day 8, January 1: Feast of The Holy Circumcision of Jesus, renamed as The Feast Of the Holy Name of Jesus or the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God. In middle age Western Europe the Julian calendar (which puts the beginning of the New Year around March 3) was not replaced with The Gregorian calendar (with January the first as the start of the New Year was not adopted in until 1750). The current Catholic Church does not recognize New Year's Day as an official holiday.
Day 9, January 2: Octave day of St. Stephen or The Feast Day of St. Basil the Great and St. Gregory Nazianzen. In England, the Lichfield Martyrs are also celebrated on this day.
Day 10, January 3: Feast of Saint John the Apostle or The Most Holy Name of Jesus:
Day 11, January 4: The Octave Day of The Feast of the Holy Innocents or the Feast of St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, the first American Saint.
Day 12, January 5: The Feast of Saint Simon Stylites, the modern church recognizes this as The Feast Day of St. John Neumann.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twelve_Days_of_Christmas

See what I mean?

But what about our churches today? Of course not all denominations can agree on which saints can/should be venerated -- but a lot of those listed above are catholic (universal). I bet they could figure out a way. Could we not continue to be festive and show all that good will toward men (women and children are included there, of course) after Christmas -- even when we return to work and school, not unlike how we operate throughout Advent? My church sometimes celebrates Ephiphany. Some years we have a big party, complete with a hunt for a huge yule log, the task of bringing it up out of the woods, the subsequent bonfire and the obligatory King Cake (obligatory because whoever gets the baby Jesus figure in their piece is obligated to provide the cake the following year). In worship it's all about the arrival of the Magi, of course. A holy day. A holiday.

David's family cut off a piece of their Christmas tree trunk each year and rolled it up and packed it away with the Christmas stuff to be used as the following year's yule log. I'm not sure where they burned it all those years they lived in a fifth floor flat in Beirut, but I'm pretty sure they kept one nonetheless. David and I did that once or twice. I can't remember why we quit doing it! (We've always had a fireplace, except for a brief stay in a cave of an apartment in Alexandria.) Perhaps that's something the kids and I can pick-up as a family tradition this Epiphany, when we put the angel back in the attic ...

But back to observing twelve whole days in celebration of Emmanuel. I think I'm pretty correct in stating that the church is no longer the focal point of the family and the community like it was in the Middle Ages ... or even just a few decades ago! Sundays have become play days -- sports days -- days for things other than worship and fellowship with church family. The greater church holds continuous conversations on how to get people back to church. I wonder if intentional festivities of holy days might be a place to start? Festival of this and festival of that. Joy -- rejoicing -- worshipping that God loves us and is a merciful and forgiving God. Of course there's still confession and contrition, but the forgiveness is the big gift that warrants a celebration. Just sayin'.

So it's that time between Christmas and New Years when we sort of sludge through our days. Along about December 30, we perk up again. Maybe we have an invitation or two to a New Years party. Maybe we decide to go skiing for a couple days. Some of us travel after Christmas to have second Christmases with extended family. But even so, after the party horns have been silenced, the hats have been crushed and discarded, the champagne bottles tossed in the trash ... we wake up to a new year that is often marked by a simple return to the old grind. What's new about that? It can be very discouraging to many. But what if, instead, January 2 was another feast day to celebrate Octave day of St. Stephen or The Feast Day of St. Basil the Great and St. Gregory Nazianzen or whomever? Maybe we eat leftover pork and sauerkraut from our New Year's dinner -- bring out some straggler Christmas cookies -- have little gifts for everyone? I wonder.

I'm still working on this joy thing.  Right now I'm going to take some medicine, blow my nose and try to tidy some of the post-Christmas clutter.  I have my pork roast and sauerkraut already for The Feast Of the Holy Name of Jesus, but I'm not prepared for The Feast of the Holy Innocents!  What will I do?