A Quick Question

I have a quick question for you guys. ("You guys" being anyone inclined to answering.) I'm intrigued by Katie's comments to my last post, and find myself wondering ... what IS happiness, in the first place? How would you, personally, define it? And what is the difference between happiness and joy? Do you know someone who exhibits one or the other? What is it about this person that makes you think they are happy/joyful? Why do you think they are that way?

I'm going to come back to this subject. I have thoughts whirling and twirling around in my head, but I'm going to refrain from writing about them right now because I want to hear from you first. So ... soon.

Meanwhile, I have one more hour of Saturday Morning Bliss before I have to get back to being a responsible adult and get this house cleaned up, dinner thawing, and my Sunday School lesson prepared. It's Palm Sunday tomorrow!

Contemplating Happiness

I took the boys and met Andrea at the park for a picnic today. Of course, she had her two kids plus the three that she watches on Thursdays and Fridays. She'd also invited one of her daughter's friends, and this friend's mother came along and brought yet another kid. Oh, and we ran into Michelle when we got there, which was nice, since I haven't had a chance to talk with her in ages, but with her came three more kids. It was quite the zoo. I'd been really looking forward to seeing Andrea. I'd dared to hope that we would feed the kids, and they would run off and play and leave us to a peaceful chat. Hah! (I'm such a dreamer sometimes.) The only real conversation we got was after we'd gotten the kids back in our respective cars. We stood on the sidewalk between the cars, looking back and forth to make sure no one was escaping, and filled each other in on things we didn't want little ears listening in on. That's it. Five minutes. Seven, tops. But it was worth it.

Someday soon I really want to get together, just the two of us, and go out for coffee or something. But then there's the matter of the five kids between us. Could Kaitlyn handle them all? I bet she could. Hm ... But then, I use her so much because I have to. I hate to take advantage of her. Well, maybe I could pay her, sweeten the deal a little bit! It would be worth it to have an uninterrupted chat with my friend.

Mark asked me, awhile back, why I go out in the garage to talk on the phone. Well, quite frankly, it's for the same reason that I sometimes go into the bathroom to read. Privacy! I try to remember, when it seems like someone is always pulling on my shirttails, always needing something from me, that these days will not last, that someday I may even wish for them back, challenging as they are.

That's one thing I love about two of my newer hobbies: photography and writing haiku. Both require that you be truly present, in this moment. I have had a habit all my life of creating alternate worlds where I could shape things the way I want them to be -- or at least give my characters more power, more oomph that I feel like I possess in real life. And I'm certain I'll never give up that world. Creating stories is such a part of who I am. But I'm also learning to look for and recognize the beauty in the here and now -- in the first blossoms on my strawberry plants, in Casey's belly laugh on the swing, in Andrea's hug ... I could be as rich as Oprah and still not be able to come close to duplicating the beauty of those simple things.

I've been wondering about the source of happiness a lot lately. What makes some people happier than others? I've been told all my life that it's "knowing Jesus." Well, yes, that should make a person happy, if he/she truly believes it, but I've known an awful lot of unhappy believers. And wealth is definitely not the trick. Or power. Or entertainment. Sure, these things can make life easier, but do they make a person happier? In the long run, no. Anybody who follows the news knows that it's not so. Then what is it? What is it that makes a person happy? I think it's two things, really.

First, I think it's being able to see beyond oneself, to see the bigger picture, to realize one's own insignificance. True, that can be depressing, but it can also be freeing. If I am the canvas, I feel the pressure to be perfect. But if I am just an string, I am free to be limp in the Master's hand, free to add my tiny bit of color to the picture ... and depart. Nothing more is asked of me.

Secondly, I think happiness has to do with living our lives with our eyes wide open. That's one thing I love about having children. You tell an adult, "Hey, look! A cherry tree!" And he or she is likely to mumble, "Hmph," or something equally inspiring. (Or as an adult once said as we passed beneath a gloriously golden tree in autumn, "What a mess those leaves are going to be to clean up!") But if I point the same thing out to Brendan, he is awestruck. He is enthralled with the colors of the changing seasons. He has been equally enthralled at times with the ants on our sidewalk. I think my neighbors must think I'm out of my mind to sit out there with my son, feeding cracker crumbs to the ants. We can just sit there for the longest time, watching them work and wondering at their mystery. Honestly? Those of are some of my favorite times. And there's really nothing to them, nothing tangible at least, nothing that can be pinned down for later display. They are elusive. They are transient. And they are absolutely priceless.

Doctors and Waterfalls

We left twenty minutes later than I had planned this morning. You'd think after nearly 14 years of marriage and 13 years of parenthood that it would sink in that it always takes me longer to get the five of us out the door than I think it will. You'd think, after all this time, I'd prepare for that fact and not race around at the last minute like I've misplaced my head. But no. That would make life far too simple . . .

It turned out okay, though. We met Joellen at Fred Meyers. I dashed off to grab donuts, she bought coffee, and Mark popped across the highway to get gas. Then we were off. We got there early and were ushered right back, since we had the first appointment of the day. I felt kind of silly, though, once we got back there. See, we're used to having all of Mark's medical care through Providence. OHSU is not a Providence facility, however. They can't just pull up Mark's records from Newberg ER and take a peek. We have to bring them with us when we go up there. Both of us had completely forgotten about that so the doc really didn't have a whole lot to go on except our explanation of things, when what he really needed was test results, etc. So we'll have to wait for those to get transferred up, etc. But the doctor didn't seem too terribly worried. They set Mark up with a portable cardiac monitor that he's going to keep for a month, since he's been having irregular rhythms sometimes when he lays down. Also, he's been feeling what he describes as "vibrations" in his liver area, which the doc thinks might actually be arrhythmias. (It's interesting to me how sensations in our bodies can actually originate somewhere besides where we end up feeling them.) So I guess ... one day at a time? The doc's calm was reassuring, I must say.

The trip from there to Multnomah Falls only took about a half an hour. Mark drove because I was struggling to stay awake. Then Joellen and I hiked up to the bridge with the boys while Mark and Kaitlyn stayed down below. It's not far. Only 2/10 of a mile, so I'm not sure I can really even climb it as a hike! I remember it as being farther than that. But it was probably about the right distance for the boys. Since I was feeling so awful, I didn't mind cutting it short either.

I did get some good pictures, though! That place is just gorgeous. I remember when Kaitlyn was little, we used to be able to get right up by the falls. After that school bus sized boulder fell off the top of the cliff several years back, they don't let people that close anymore. I suppose that's good. Personally, I don't feel any need to know first hand what it feels like to be under a two ton boulder! But it was so ... I almost said "neat." What writer in their right mind uses the word "neat"? Let's see. It was more of a tactile experience to get right up to the water. (How's that? Better?) But still, it's pretty incredible to see (and feel) from the bridge.

On our way back down, Joellen and I talked about wanting/hoping to come back sometime this summer without small children. We'd like to take the whole hike, to the top. I just might see what I can do about making that happen. Anybody want to join us?

Sifting through Dreams

I am seriously sluggish this morning, so I'll tell you upfront . . . I'm offering no guarantees on the quality or even the coherence of this post. I hit the alarm for half an hour this morning -- something I rarely do because I am generally so eager to get up and write. When I did finally get up, I sat in the rocking chair with my coffee between my hands for another fifteen minutes, trying to shake off the remnants of several disturbing dreams.

I only remember snatches of a couple of them. I cannot go into detail here about those, except to say that they have to do with a friendship that I screwed up several months ago, that has finally begun to mend -- and my fears that I will do something stupid and send it all crashing down again. Have you ever had a friend that you just connected with, from a place deep within yourself? Well, that's what this friendship is like. I've spent so much of my life wandering alone in a crowd, and then I bumped into her and realized . . . this woman gets me! But the thing is . . . I'm not so great with friendships. Elementary school friendships are one thing. You play with the people you're thrown together with. And then in junior high and high school, Dad and Mom were the Hot Shots at our mission field church, so some of their "glory" rubbed off on us. We were "cool" within our own subculture (although no one ever would have called it that). And then college . . . and reality hit. I did make friends, several of them in fact. I have many good memories of times spent with these friends. I also have memories of being a total . . . shall I say, moron? I didn't mean to. I never meant to hurt people. It's just that I say stupid things.

Take, for instance, the size conversation my roommates and I had sophomore year. It must have been four or five years later -- we had graduated and I had Kaitlyn -- and we got together at a restaurant one day. My former roommate Tammy brought up a conversation I had nearly forgotten about. I guess I'd made some comment about how she and Kristine were both larger than me. Well, they were! It wasn't meant to be a slam against them. It was a statement of fact. And then to find out years later that I'd hurt them, that they still remembered that and had been carrying it around all that time . . . It was awful.

After college, I pretty much stuck to my sisters. They love me regardless of what kind of horrendous gaffs I make and I know that they know my heart, that I will not lose them out of something stupid that I say or do. They are safe. They are the only people who have felt safe in my life all these years -- until this particular friend came along. I spent months saying (periodically), "I'm so afraid that I'm going to offend you, that I'm going to hurt you." And she spent months saying, "Relax! You're fine. Don't worry about hurting me." And then . . . I did. And sure enough, I lost her.

Oh, dear. I need to wrap this up and get the boys up. We're meeting Joellen at the Fred Meyers in Newberg, then continuing up to Multnomah Falls, stopping along the way at OHSU for a chat with Mark's specialists about his hardening kidneys and his wacky blood count. It should be fun, once we get going. (The falls part, not the doctor's visit part). But right now I'm SO tired, it just sounds like a lot of driving and keeping track of kids and worrying about one's spouse who probably shouldn't be hiking but who (understandably) couldn't bear to be left at home.

But, briefly, back to what I was saying about this friend . . . I have developed several new friendships during the last two years, and they all mean a great deal to me. It's been a huge stretch for me to make myself vulnerable, to reach beyond my sisters (who I will forever hold closest to my heart) and make other friends. It's just . . . scary, because I'm so bad at it, because I can mess things up so horrendously without even realizing what I'm doing.

My other dream? It was about a car, an old fashioned car, and I was riding in it with my mom and my sisters. I wanted to drive, so they let me, and then I realized that the steering wheel was teeny tiny and that none of the gears or brakes were where I expected them to be. I kept lurching around, running into things, looking like an idiot . . . until the whole vehicle actually fell apart beneath us.

But who's insecure about their ability to develop and maintain relationships? Not me!!! Hah! And if you believe that one, I have a lovely stretch of coastal property in Montana I'd like to sell ya . . .

Thanks! and an Update

This is great! I love reading everyone's response. I hesitated to make another post because I'm hoping that a certain few people will join in and cast their words on the water. If you are one of the Certain Few (and if you think you are, you are), then write away! I've been carrying certain images from your poetry around with me. I'm not going to mention any of them here because I don't want anyone to feel self-conscious. I just want y'all to know how fun and inspiring it has been for me to read your thoughts and words. So ... thanks! Keep it comin'!

I don't have much time this morning, and I've started a new story which is screaming in my ear right now. I really must go give it some attention before I get ready to go over and watch Becca's babes for the morning. But I just wanted to pop in here and update everyone. Last night was a hospital night, and it was rough. Personally, I think that Mark was worn down from trying to be "normal" this last week. Not that I want to stop him! I think it's critical to his health (both emotional and physical) that he be able to go work at the church, see people, go to the park with his kids, and so on. But he was just plain worn to the bone by last night. I really hope that he'll just take it easy today.

Okay! Off to meet with "Tess" for ... forty-five minutes. Yeehah!

Our First Writing Exercise

I'm going to try something new. We'll just see how it goes. I love getting comments from people, having other streams flowing into the river, so to speak. I'd really like to have even more. So I'm going to post some of my favorite writing exercises. If you feel like doing the exercises as well (whether or not you consider yourself a writer), it would make my day if you would post what you wrote in the comments section. Remember, it doesn't have to be great writing. The point of this is simply exploration -- and sharing.

So here goes. From Poemcrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge, answer the following questions. (My answers are in italics. Just substitute your own.)

If I were a color, what color would I be? burgundy
movement -- lurch
sound -- snatches of a hummed symphony
animal -- hummingbird
song -- I can't remember the title, but it's a piano piece full of sadness, hope, and longing.
number -- one
car -- I wouldn't be a car. I'd be a bicycle with a white basket and a baby seat on the back.
furniture -- one of those bowl shaped wicker chairs with lots of cushions
food -- ice cream with nuts
musical instrument -- pan flute
place -- a backyard garden
element in nature -- waterfall
tree -- willow
What is something I'm afraid of? nothingness
What's the word hiding behind my eyes? longing

Now, using what you have written above, write a few lines about yourself, beginning with
I am ...

I am a hummingbird,
stalking bright flower faces,
persistent, alone ...

I am the liquid notes of a pan flute,
barely rising above
the roar of the waterfall.

I am a willow tree,
bent over the banks
of a chortling stream.

Now you try. I can't wait to read about YOU!

To the Coast, Again.

Today was a fabulous day! It started out rough. Mark had a really bad night, and I kept waking up to his moaning. (I do this a lot lately -- spend a few nights downstairs, catch up on my sleep, then start feeling bad about abandoning my hubby at night, go upstairs, get too tired, move back downstairs ...) In the morning, for the second day in a row, I couldn't figure out what that infernal noise by my head was ... or how to turn it off! When I did finally get up, I debated about whether or not I should continue with my plans to go to the beach today. I felt bad leaving Mark like that, but he would most likely sleep most of the day, and if he needed medical attention, my dad was on call to take him in to the hospital. I felt guilty pushing forward with my plans, but I know that I have to take care of myself if I am to care effectively for the extra needs of my family. So I went.

It was rainy and windy at the beach, but it was still wonderful. The tide was all the way out, and I went out again to investigate the tidepools. At first my mind was busy, busy, busy -- as usual. But I remember what a couple of writer friends have told me recently -- that one's writing can't be rushed, that downtime feeds the muse. So I just let my thoughts roam while I wandered around. I climbed and walked and peered into pools and took pictures and touched things. (Why do I feel a need to touch things? In some ways, I'm just like a kid!) I squatted down and stared at the face of a rock for the longest time. The longer I looked, the more life I saw on that rock. It was really incredible.

But if somebody knows, would you please hit "comment" and answer a question for me? This has me totally intrigued. Do barnacles made noise? I never thought they did, but then I've never seen a whole mess of them alive, waving their itty bitty antenae thingies, either. They sounded like very quiet chicks. Seriously! They did! But I wonder if what I heard was the water draining out between the shells. I don't know. Does anybody know?

Anyway, on to other things ... It was so refreshing down there that I got to daydreaming. Someday I'm going to have a house down by the Oregon coast. I'm going to live there, full time, year round, and every day I will go down on the beach and walk with my muse. And I'll have a spare room with its own bathroom and a hot plate and an outside entry for privacy. It'll have bookshelves lined with great books and paper and pens left in "random" places. There will be some quilts, like my grandma's quilt, and a basket of teas, and quiet. Lots of quiet. Pastors can send people my way who are worn out from life, and they can stay in my spare room. I won't bother them. They can just come and be refreshed so that they can go back to the fray. Wouldn't that be grand? I would love that.

And my grandkids will come, too, and I'll have a huge wooden swing hanging in the gnarly oak behind the house. (Do oaks grow by the coast? I don't think I've ever paid attention to that detail. Ah, well. This is just a daydream. Back to it ...) After we're done swinging, we'll have a picnic on the back porch. Bologna sandwiches and Fritos and 7Up (because that's what my grandmother used to feed me). Then we'll go down to the beach, barefoot, and build huge sand cities. And then we'll come back and throw open the windows and take naps, serenaded by the sound of the surf ... Someday.

In the afternoon, the rain picked up, and I spent some time trolling for treasures in the shops. Didn't buy anything except Mark's birthday present and the best bowl of split pea soup I've ever eaten. I sat in the car and read Zoetrope for awhile, too. Now, that is an exceptional journal. Someday I'm going to be published there. You'll see! Okay, I'll grant that it may take me 30 years, but I'll get there. Today, refreshed as I am, anything seems possible.

When I got home, I saw in Becca's face the exact reason that I need these days out so badly. She was thrashed! I asked her if she was sick. She said no, only exhausted. Yeah, well, my boys can be a bit ... um, draining? I love them dearly, but ... well, let's just leave it at that. I love them dearly. That said, these days away are absolutely priceless!

Friendship Makes the World Go Round

I got together with friends twice today. Earlier today I had lunch with Andrea. She's facing some challenges, and our conversation was by no means light and fluffy, and yet ... Well, I can't speak for her, but personally, I always feel lighter after spending time with her. No matter what's going on in my life or hers, just being with Andrea makes the colors come out in my life.

Then this evening my writing group met for a Pride and Prejudice tea and discussion at the library. (That's us in the picture. For those of you who don't know me personally, I'm the one in the middle.) The tea was nice. The food was yummy. The book discussion was interesting, but the best part was just being together, sitting around talking about life. Interestingly enough, most of our conversation was on pretty heavy topics, and yet somehow we ended up (in between the clucking of tongues and the shaking of heads) just laughing and laughing.

Our conversation tonight did not revolve around Mark's challenges. It was mentioned, of course. People always want to know. But today it was about Kimila's struggles (past and present) and Jenni's challenges. Of course, I can't tell you what they are dealing with! Those aren't my stories to tell. But I can say that their challenges are right on par with mine. And yet they carry on. They find a way, and just do it. One day at a time. And then days like today, we get together and realize ... we're not alone. Life is difficult, for sure. But with girlfriends to help carry the load, things are just so much easier to bear.

Not Much to Say

I didn't write Monday because I was so incredibly tired -- and so down. I'm learning, in my ripe old age, not to take myself too terribly seriously on days like those. I feel at these time (i.e. when Mark has spent lots of time in the hospital and/or I have had less than six hours of sleep) that I'm miserable -- always have been, always will be. I'm learning to tell myself, "Hey, self, buck up. You're miserable, yes. I won't deny you that. But you weren't miserable last week, and in a couple of days, you'll feel better again." But I thought it prudent that I not come in here and write, since I would only be oozing all over the place.

And yesterday? I was going to write, but I was busy, busy, busy all day. At night, I laid down with the boys "for a few minutes." Two hours later ... I woke up (but only so that I could officially go to bed). So much for doing anything productive with my evening!

I don't really have much to report anyway. Mark has stayed out of the ER for two days now. He's been putting in a lot of time at the church, working on some computer project they have going there. It's exhausting him, but I think he really enjoys being out and being productive.

As for me, I've been chauffeuring and writing (finally! Yea! I really missed it over the rough weekend.). I've been taking care of kids and cleaning and cooking and doing laundry and all the fun stuff that we all do as our penance for being human. ;)

I painted the dining room and stairwell with Kaitlyn and her friend Brianna on Sunday. Boy, was that a mess! I don't know why I can't paint without getting it all over myself ... and everywhere else! But the walls look so nice now. No more fingerprints. No more evidence of Brendan's ... ahem, artistic abilities.

Yesterday, when I was down, I went out hunting for daffodils. I've decided that I'm going to take the three best prints and frame them and hang them in my bathroom. That way, when winter comes again, I'll be able to look at them and remember that life is a cycle, that if I can just keep my head up, things always turn around eventually.

ER, again

Just in from the ER. Yes, this makes the third trip in four days. Mark blacked out, sort of. He just lost a short stretch of time. Ended up somewhere (in the house) and couldn't remember how he got there. And the pain was so bad that he asked me to take him in again. They ran a whole gamut of tests this time and found out that his kidneys have hardened (although they are still working fine) and that his something-or-other count that determines the clotting factor of his blood is way off. They could see that he was dry heaving and his nose was bleeding, so they gave him something for the nausea, but no, the doc said, he couldn't have more pain killers. Here's a prescription for an anxiety medication. Call your cardiologist in the morning. Bye bye.

Adam -- wonderful, fabulous nurse Adam -- came in and asked how we were doing with all this. Mark said he was fine. (I'd bet a big stack of cash he's not, but that it won't hit him until later.) I told him that I was tired, that I was just weary of going round and round and round. But there's nothing he can do about that.

I'm in a really foul mood. Maybe I should go sleep a bit before I have to get the kids up and start a new day...

Nothing New

I am happy to report that I have nothing to report today. Yesterday was wonderfully ordinary. I took Kaitlyn shopping for shoes and shorts for track. When I got home, I made lunch and set to work cleaning my downstairs. I enlisted the boys' help. (One thing I love about Brendan is that he's too young to realize that he's supposed to hate chores! He was having a heyday cleaning the toilet, here!)

I'll admit, I was in a bit of a state of emotional agitation yesterday, which is what drove me to clean for something like six hours. I get that way after Mark's worst spells. I think it gives me the illusion that I can change something, even if it's just the sparkle on the porcelain in my home! (Interestingly, I know at least one of my sisters does the same thing when she's agitated. Who needs antidepressants! Just break out the Ajax and an old toothbrush and we'll clean our way through our angst!)

I put on a movie at 8:30 after the boys were in bed. It's called Nine Lives and is really interesting. It's snippets of ... well, nine lives! I guess they overlap somehow in the end. But I only got into the third snippet before I had to turn it off and go to sleep. Maybe tonight I'll finish it. But right now, I hear Brendan blowing raspberries over on the air mattress. I guess that's my cue that this day has officially started.

Round and Round We Go

Yesterday was "date night" at the church, meaning that couples get free childcare so they can go out alone. We'd been talking about going to a movie, but he didn't feel up to it, so we changed our plans to watching DVDs at home, with the boys. Before we could go get them, though, his pain spiked to the point that I had to take him back in to the hospital.

I didn't want to go home just to spend the evening cleaning and breaking up fights between the boys, so I took them to Safari Sams. I worked on revising some poetry while they played. But then Alex injured himself. He leaned against what he thought was a mesh wall and was actually open air. He has a very distinct wail when he is injured, and after that he wouldn't play anymore. He kept laying down on the floor, getting in the way, begging to go home -- which was pointless since we'd just have to turn around and come back for Mark. He also kept asking me to "fix it." Fix his bruised rear? How was I supposed to do that? Humor, which usually helps with him, only aggravated him further.

We went to the dollar store, and the boys each got a toy. They also bought a couple of things for their daddy -- a little robot whose chest lights up and a glass that says "No, you can't have a sip." I picked that out actually because it made me laugh. It's perfect for Mark, who has for years been annoyed with my tendency to ask for sips out of his glass. (Not that his annoyance stops me from asking ... I mean, really! What's the point of dirtying another glass if all I want is a sip?)

Anyway, when we got back to the hospital, Mark wasn't ready to go yet so I took the boys out to the waiting room to wait. They played for quite awhile with their "FBI" sets, darting behind pillars to shoot at each other with their toy guns, until the receptionist informed that no guns were allowed in the hospital. Hello?!? They're clearly cheap and plastic and FAKE. And besides, we were the only ones there -- besides her. I think the truth of the matter is that they were annoying her. Whatever. At least, the moment I told the boys they had to quit, they did. Alex got Legos out of the hospital bag that I keep packed and ready in the back of the van. Brendan and I got out Go Fish. We dined on M&M and waited.

Mark showed up not much later. He wanted to stop at Fred Meyers on the way home. I didn't want to. I was SO tired, and my body just ached, but he needed a medication for the night so we went. Forty-five minutes and I won't tell you how many dollars later, we left the store. See, they hadn't managed to get through the crisis without narcotics. Narcotics and debit cards do not go well together, even with one's wife standing there, saying, "What are thinking?" I was very clear that I was not pleased with him, but in that state, he doesn't care. But this morning he does care, very much. He asked me not to allow him into the store anymore when he's on narcotics. Sounds like a darn good idea to me!

This morning, we are both weary. He is hung over, I guess you could say, from the drugs. I am just tired. Emotionally. I actually slept for over eight hours, which I haven't managed in quite some time. But nights like yesterday just leave me weary.

The good news is that I have to get off my duff here soon. Kaitlyn, back from her all nighter, needs to be run to town to get shorts and running shoes for track, which starts on Monday. It's a gorgeous day out here, and one could hardly help being cheered by the sunshine and the trees all decked out in blooms.

And then there are my babies ... particularly the little one who just came up to me, a Zorro type mask on his face, one hand clutching his "gun," the other behind his back. He had something for me, for Christmas, he said. He pulled out a little white flower. I grinned. "Well, thank you!" How can I be too down with that kind of lovin' in my life?

Farms, Hospitals, and All Nighters

I went on a field trip with Brendan's preschool class today. We had a lot of fun, although (truth be told) I think I may have had more fun than Brendan. The cows made him (and most of the other kids) a little nervous at first, and the pigs he found rather ... well, stinky! I think the sheep -- with the overly aggressive ram and a whole bunch of lambs -- were the best part. But by then I had taken so many pictures that I had filled up both of my memory cards. What can I say? I'm a picture freak.

We got home from the field trip to find Mark in agonizing pain upstairs. It hit suddenly and fiercely. We usually wait around for an hour (or two or three) to see if it will pass, but this was so severe that we quickly took off for the hospital. All the test, though, show nothing out of the ordinary (his ordinary, anyway). They finally took the edge off enough for him to come home after about four hours. I almost wish that they'd find something one of these days. Anything (almost). Something can possibly be treated. Nothing is ... well, nothing! Nothing but frustration and pain.

On a more positive note, the kids don't have school tomorrow. It's the end of the term -- grading day for the teachers. Kaitlyn is gone right now at a "girls' night in" at the junior high. (She'll be home at 9:30.) Then tomorrow she's going to an all nighter with her youth group. Sunday she has to paint the downstairs to earn the money for this outing. We give her a sizable sum at the beginning of the month. As sizable as we can reasonably afford, anyway. And she is responsible for making it last. This month it lasted ... four days. I didn't have the heart to tell her she couldn't go to this event. Perhaps I should have, since that was the deal. No money, no outings. But I just couldn't. So I'm making her paint the stairwell and the dining room wall instead. Although she has a friend coming to help her -- a rather spastic friend -- so this may turn out to be an adventure and not the lesson that I intend for it to be! I guess we'll see!

Memories and More

It has been brought to my attention that I've been providing an unbalanced view of my background. I wish to rectify that as quickly as possible, since that was never my intention. When I think of my childhood, I have many positive memories. I remember Dad wrestling on the floor with us after dinner. I remember Mom and him reading to us in the evening, even into our adolescence. I remember family night -- bobbing for apples in the our cold kitchen, going on a treasure hunt that ended up at a movie theater... I remember making Christmas presents together when money was tight -- woven pot holders or plaques or any number of things. I remember the wonderful smell of Mom's daily bread and the way she worked and worked and worked for us, not even stopping for her many migraines. I remember cinnamon toast and scrambled eggs when we were sick. I remember all of us grouped around Mom, while she sang to the littlest one at the time, "Two foot two, eyes of blue, coochy coochy coochy coo ... "

Currently I also have much to be grateful for with my family. For my birthday a couple of years ago, I was iced in. My dad slipped and slid over to my house in his little red pickup to bring me cake and flowers, a tradition he does every year, without fail. Another year I asked my dad for rose bushes instead of cut flowers. He works at a nursery so I figured that would be feasible. Well, he didn't just drop a couple of sticks off at my front door. No, he and my brother Matt dug a trench, hauled away the rocky soil, planted four bushes, and covered them with fresh soil. Those rose bushes are truly my prized possession, as much for the love they represent as for their innate beauty.

No, I am very fortunate in many ways to have the family that I do. What I've been talking about in here lately is simply the results of being raised in terror of a God who (supposedly) demands perfection ... or else. That's it. Nothing more. It's not just us (i.e. my siblings and me). This is multi-generational thing, and it breaks my heart. My goal here is not to hurt anyone. Nor do I wish to imply that my parents were unloving or cruel. Nothing could be further from the truth. But fear has kept our family in bondage for generations, and I am determined that it will stop here.

I know I am making some people uncomfortable (and some are probably downright angry). That's okay. It's not my goal, but I'm willing to there if need be. My goal is two fold. First of all, I need to sort through these things, and writing is the way that I do that. And secondly, I have found that if one person is vulnerable enough to say, "I feel ... I hope ... I'm afraid ...," then all of the sudden the people listening are far more willing to share their own struggles and fears. That is my goal. Silence is the breeding pond of dysfunction. If we can talk, we can heal, but I am convinced that we cannot conquer that which we don't acknowledge. And, again, it's not just "us." It's not even just our clan. It's common within the Christian church, and I think it breaks Christ's heart to see us chained up by fear when he gave so much so that we don't have to be this way.

Defining "Fear"

As my brother Mark wisely pointed out in his recent comments, we do need a certain level of caution to maintain order in our society. I don't agree, however, that we need to live in fear. My neighbor (the one with dementia) lives in near constant fear. She is afraid of darkness, afraid of storms, afraid of running out of food, afraid of intruders, afraid of pretty much everything. I am not. I lock my door against intruders because I have an understanding of what they could do to me and my children, but I don't generally fear them. I prepare for storms so that I'm not left stumbling around in the dark when the power goes out, but I'm not afraid. I am equipped, by experience and rational thinking, to have a healthy but calm respect for that which terrifies children and the insane. I see the way we relate to God much the same way.

For starters, the Hebrew has two words for that which we translate "fear." Pachad means "a terrified dread" (the state I lived in as a child, which I still occasionally sink into). This word is used in the Old Testament and in Revelations and refers to fear of our final judgment. Don't get me wrong. I do believe that we will all stand before God some day and give account for our choices. I don't take that lightly. But the price for our sins was paid for in Jesus. As he said himself, as he hung on the cross, "It is finished." Over. Done. The end. Paul adds to this in Romans 8 when he says, "There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus." And John says (in 1 John 4:17-18), "There is no fear in love, for perfect love casts out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love."

The other word that we translate "fear" is yirah. Rosemary Scott, in her excellent article The Fear of the Lord, defines this as "piety and reverence rather than abject terror." This is why, she says, some translations have chosen to use the word "revere" rather than fear. Anything more than that has to do with punishment and condemnation, which are obsolete in Christ.

Slowing Down

Brendan took these pictures yesterday evening. I was in a hurry, as usual. He still had to take his bath and we had things to do, gosh darn it! But as I looked out the window, I noticed that the construction crew has moved a CAT onto the site across the parking lot and decided to pop out and take a couple of pictures to send to my nephew. Of course, Brendan came, too, and then he had to have a turn with the camera. I wanted to say no, this was just a quick trip outdoors. It wasn't meant to be an adventure. But once he got started, he was having so much fun that I decided to tend to my strawberry plants and just let him do his thing for a bit.


I tried to do that with the other kids today, too. It's not easy for me. I want to push, push, push, achieve, achieve, achieve ... and kids are slow! But I'm trying, when I can, to simmer down and let them live life at their own pace. I let Alex make the brownies for snack last night. He is so deliberate about everything, it just about kills me! But I've learned that if I turn away and do something else, close at hand but not hovering, he'll get the flour measured just right eventually ... And his sense of satisfaction (and the yummy smell in the house!) were worth the wait.


Finally the boys went to bed and I settled in with a book -- and couldn't read. Kaitlyn had some modeling show on, and it was just intriguing enough to make it impossible for me to read so I gave up. I got out an old magazine and went to work cutting words out for a poetry exercise that I'm going to do as soon as I post this (and refill my coffee!). Kaitlyn sat down with me and started cutting outfits out. "Look, Mom!" she said. "This skirt could go with this blouse, and look at this ..." And I bit my tongue to keep from saying, "Why are you so into clothes? Don't you think there are things that matter more in life than what you wear?" But I didn't because ... well, because she's twelve, for one thing, and she has a hard life, and if dreaming about pretty clothes makes her feel good, then ... what's the harm in that? And secondly, not every situation is a teaching moment. Some are just "being moments." And last night was one of those times.

Taking Back the Truth

I watched a wonderful/horrible movie last night -- The Magdalene Sisters. It's a fictionalized account of what actually went on in the so called Magdalene Laundries. Originally established as a haven for prostitutes, they were taken over by the Catholic Church and gradually became more and more prison-like. Not only were prostitutes confined there, but so were the mentally challenged, the sexually abused/raped, and those deemed simply too flirtatious. Generally admitted against their will, they were forced into hard physical labor in order to pay for their "sins," and thus save their souls. Some stayed on for life, since it was difficult to run away and few had a man willing to come and set them free.

I found this movie hugely disturbing. In fact, I didn't sleep much last night, just trying to process it. Kaitlyn watched some of it with me and was horrified. Until then, she had never realized what atrocities Christians often commit in the name of God. My children, interestly enough, often win awards at school for character -- most notably, responsibility and (recently, for Alex) integrity. They are definitely not perfect children, by any stretch of the imagination. But they are good kids, eager to learn and full of life. They've never experienced the fear that so many Christians use to shape their children (and, quite frankly, their adults). And I am determined that they never will.

What was it Jesus said? "I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full." (John 10:10) I can only think that when he looks around and sees people beating themselves up the way we do when he has already paid the price, he must just want to cry.

My sisters and I all have clear cut symtoms of post traumatic stress syndrome because of being raised (by loving and well meaning parents) under this cloak of fear. Our minds and spirits are so warped that it has been a long and deliberate struggle for us to determine that this stops here. Our children will not know this fear. They will not. They cannot. They must not.

And so we go to therapy. And we talk to each other. And we write (well, I do!). And we force ourselves to watch movies like The Magdalene Sister, which remind us that we are not alone, even if the reminder is harrowing. We read books, like Brennan Manning's The Ragamuffin Gospel and Philip Yancey's The Jesus I Never Knew. (Click here and here to read more about these writers who have changed my life in the last year and a half by their genuine, unapologetic love for Jesus.) And we heal because, after all, that is what Jesus was all about.

Just Checking In

I hope you'll pardon my brief absence. I set a goal for myself this week: sort through all my poetry and send out all that was anywhere near ready. That seems simple, right? Jot down a few words to the editor, print out the poem, fold, insert in envelope, write address, apply stamp, and mail ... Not so fast there, Bucko! It's a lot more complicated than that. Well, it could be that easy. A lot of people manage their submissions this way. But then, a lot of people never get published, either! Targeted submissions (i.e. work sent to a particular publication because you feel that your work would actually fit in there) stand a much better chance of success. But market research, I'm discovering, is hugely time consuming. I'm banking on the fact that once I learn about these journals, the information will be "inputted" in my brain, and I won't need to start from scratch each time. I'm certain (?) that someday I'll be able to look at a piece of mine and say, "Oh, this would fit at Journal of the Small Town Loonies -- or some such market. But this week I was just starting to dig down through the rocky surface of the literary field. And of course, once I pulled up a poem for consideration, I often had to tighten it here and change it there ... And then, of course, I had to pop over to my Poets and Writers forum a few times to find out if a particular title should be italicized or set off in quotes and whether a limit of "32 lines" includes the blank spaces between stanzas ... And so it goes. All that to say, this is why you haven't seen my for a few days. I was determined to get through my file of poems that were ready (or nearly ready) to go out. I did. I now have 27 poems in circulation (and another batch that I set aside to revise further). It feels good. Really good. Oh, I know the odds. I know that if I get even one of these poems accepted, I'll be doing great. I expect the rejection letters. This field is hugely competitive, and most markets are swamped with submissions. It just feels good to be in the game.

As far as the rest of the family goes, it's been a pretty uneventful week. That's all relative, of course. Mark did wake me up at 4:30 a.m. on Thursday. "I need you!" I don't do well with those sudden awakenings out of deep sleep. You'd think after having three kids, I would be used to it, but then ... my kids always slept with me precisely because I have such a hard time getting up in the night. Anyhow, I digress. In the wee hours of Thursday morning, I went upstairs and found Mark bleeding quite profusely from his nose. It had been going on for fifteen minutes. "I need to get help," he said. This was a reasonable request, considering that he is on blood thinners and could bleed out. But for some reason I got really squeamish all of the sudden. I managed to look up "nosebleeds" in my Ask a Nurse book. And I got him ice to put on his nose, but then I had to lay down flat on the floor. I felt like I was going to either vomit or pass out. (Or perhaps both, in rapid succession.) I couldn't imagine calling an ambulance for a nosebleed, but I also couldn't imagine driving when I felt so lightheaded. Thankfully, in five more minutes, as I was trying to pull myself together to get behind the wheel, the bleeding stopped.

He had a couple of decent days -- just rather tired (from the blood loss, I think). Yesterday, however, the pain kicked in again. I took him to the hospital, came home, and left again to pick up the girls at the dance. Kaitlyn brought three girls home with her, and they heated up leftover Chinese food and crashed in the living room to watch Monster House with the boys. I was sitting in front of the computer, just waiting for the movie to be over so that I could lie down and sleep. I was nearly shaking from exhaustion. Then I got a phone call. I thought Jason would pick up Mark, but he wasn't due off work until the wee hours of the morning. Mark was done and ready to come home about 10:00. I told Jason I was going to go get Mark as soon as I got the boys to sleep. (Brendan was wigging out, big time.) He could tell from my voice that I was thrashed. I was having a hard time staying awake, even then. He got angry.
"WHY would you get behind the wheel of a car if you are so tired?"
"Because somebody has to go get him."
"Well, let somebody else go. Have you called anyone?" I'm sorry, folk. I know I need to accept help, and I'm trying, but if someone hasn't volunteered for this kind of stuff, I'm not going to go calling around at 10:00 at night to ask other people to drop everything and go pick up my husband for me. I just can't do that. "Well, would you drive if you'd had three drinks?"
"I wouldn't have three drinks."
He didn't find me humorous. "I will pick him up," he said. "I'll be awhile, but he will be fine waiting at the ER. You must not go out there like this tonight. You have children, and they need you not to wrap yourself around a tree."
I guess that's what I get for being related to a paramedic! But I knew he was right. I had literally had to slap my face on the way TO the hospital. I was that tired. I truly wasn't sure I could make it there and back without sliding off the road. But can you imagine how horrible I felt when I had to tell Mark that he would have to wait an extra couple of hours? I felt absolutely horrible! But then I laid down and the next thing I knew, Mark was rattling around in the kitchen. Once upon a time, in the not so distant past, he would have been quite peeved with me, but last night ... he wasn't. He was kind and understanding, and I found myself wondering yet again if the aliens took away my spouse and left a clone in his place! Well, if they did, all I can say is, "Thank you, great Alien Overlords!" :)

And now, I must be off. Katie sent me money to get a massage. An hour and 15 minutes from now, I'll be stretched out under the skilled hands of a masseuse. And then ... the library book sale! If I go straight from Urban Bliss to the library, I should get there in time for their wrap up, when the books that are left go for $3 for as many as you can fit in a large paper bag. Believe me, I can fit in quite a few! And the good thing is that the books that I want are considered "boring" by many people so chances are good that they will still be there when I arrive. Here's hoping ...!

Don't Beat the Muse

I couldn't do it. I was supposed to leave at 11:30 yesterday to go meet up with Jen and Caroline. By 11:15, I had to admit that I just didn't have the energy. I felt guilty as I spoke to Jen's machine. I need to cancel. Call me. Let's do something soon. Soon. But not today.

And then there was Christina -- and more guilt. In the last few days she has been agitated about her burns (understandably!), her garbage delivery schedule, her phone bill, her smoke detector, the TV viewing schedule, and the date/time stamp on her TV. Yesterday, it was her cell phone. She stopped me as I was getting in the van to take Alex to school to ask if I could help her so I stopped by her place as soon as I got back. I couldn't figure it out though. She asked if Mark could, and I said, maybe, but he wasn't dressed yet and it could be a half hour before he could come over to take a look at it. She didn't like that. A half hour without her cell phone? I reminded her that she has a land line that is fully functional, but that fact did nothing to soothe her. So I took the phone home to Mark, who couldn't fix it either. I took it back to Christina. She showed up on my doorstep a couple of times, but I was working yesterday -- nine hours primarily spent writing and getting submissions recorded and in the mail. I stood in the doorway and talked to her, but I wouldn't let her in my house. She called. I took the first call or two, then quit answering the phone. I felt bad doing so, especially since she could clearly see our van out front and knew we were home, but I cannot let her suck me and my family into the dark hole of her despair. I pray that I will be kind to her, available whenever and however I can. But "whenever and however" are not "always and in any way." I have a sneaking suspicion that even her family members are screening their calls. She's always saying, "I can't get ahold of my brother/my daughter/etc." I can't blame them! And yet I wonder what kind of guilt they must feel. I feel bad as it is, when she is only a neighbor I met six months ago, someone to whom I have no emotional attachment. What if she were my sister, my mother? I cannot even imagine what it would do to a person to carry that kind of weight around with them everywhere.

This morning I woke up and found that I couldn't write. My first inclination is to push myself. Push, push, push, produce, produce, produce ... But for some reason, as I sat with my journal, staring into the blankness of my head, I thought of an athlete. If she wants to be the best she can possibly be, she must push herself. Hard. Excellence does not come easily. But she also has to eat right and get enough rest. And if she injures herself, she mustn't ignore that injury. Perhaps with the right care and careful attention, she can push on through the pain. Sometimes that is what the game requires. But ignoring pain outright and just barrelling on, regardless of consequences, can turn a minor injury into something far more severe, perhaps even permanent. And so today, rather than trying to sprint on my "sprained ankle," I sat back and rested. I put down the journal, abandoned the computer temporarily, and set about feeding my soul with the poetry others have produced. Did I waste my writing time because I did nothing but rest? No, despite my ever present guilt when I am not productive, I truly think that rest was the best thing I could have done for myself this morning.

Flannery O'Connor said something that inspires me. I can't remember the exact quote but it's something along these lines: "I don't know if my muse will show up on any given day, but I'm going to be at my desk, waiting, in case she does." I like that. Yet I would add a line. "If my muse shows up and she is weary of life, beating her with a stick is not likely to make her perk up!" My muse and I can take a day or two to be blah. The world won't come to an end. And soon, we'll be back out on that track, pushing for the prize.

Stage Two: Exhaustion

I am exhausted. I find myself wishing that this week were over, that I could just kick back for a day or two and not have to go anywhere or see anyone. I want to go into my cave and hibernate a bit. Unfortunately, I cannot. This afternoon, I have a rendezvous scheduled with Jen Spink, a friend I have been trying to get together with for some time. She and Caroline are meeting to make jewelry, and Jen invited me to join them. I don't care all that much about making jewelry (although it could be fun). Mostly it's just that ... well, my relationships are my biggest priority. It's a push to find the energy to go today, but if not today ... when? So I'll go. And I'll probably even enjoy myself. (And I'm sure Brendan will enjoy playing with their young sons, too.)

I get to drop Mark at work at the church on the way to Caroline's. Afterwards, I will pick up Alex from school and head for Newberg, to take Mark to his weekly appointment at the Pain Center. Then this evening Joellen and my brother Mark ("our Mark" and I like to call him when talking to Becca, to keep him distinct from "my Mark," the one I married) are bringing a pizza and their Playstation 2 and coming to hang out with us for a bit. That I am looking forward to. Until recently, I didn't really know my brother well. If you promise not to tell, I'll let you in on a secret. Sh. Come close... I thought he was a royal pain in the ... um, well, you know ... as a child. But lately I'm realizing that he's quite a guy. So funny and caring and creative. And Joellen ... well, she's just a sweetheart. So, yes, I am looking forward to tonight.

Tomorrow ... what's tomorrow? I know there's something. Oh, yes, dinner at Mom and Dad's, although the day itself should be (fingers crossed, knock on wood) fairly quiet.

Then Thursday morning I volunteer in Alex's classroom to help with math, and Thursday evening my writer's group meets at Coffee Cottage in Newberg. Then I think ... I think! ... I'll be able to let down. I'll have two whole, wonderful days to decompress. In between runs to schools and hospitals, Mark's work and the store, and wherever else anyone needs chauffeured.

Oh, and I didn't mention yet ... my bipolar neighbor, Christina? Well, apparently she has developed dementia. I'm sure I will have a few "moments" with her this week, too. I cannot imagine living in her mind. She is so afraid and confused. I feel for her. I really do. And I feel especially for her college aged daughter who is mothering her terribly ill mother, trying to continue her own education while working on getting state assistance so they can put her in a group home. In the meantime, they simply can't afford it so Christina lives alone -- two doors away from me. And guess where she comes/calls when she gets confused, afraid, lonely? You got it! Me! My therapist says that she has a family, that she is not really my responsibility, and so I try not to let her run my life, but I do feel guilty when, for example, I tell the family to let the machine pick up the phone after she has called six times to ask if we are sure Golden Girls is on channel 32 at 8:00, or when I don't let her in the house and cut the conversation short when she brings me her garbage pick up schedule (which she had just called me about). I was trying to get ready for Grandpa's funeral. I didn't have time to be worrying about when her garbage was going to be picked up. But I'm disturbed now by the memory of the blood on that piece of paper. It was from a blister on her hand, from where she spilled coffee on herself two days ago. (She showed up at my door for that, too.) Should blisters bleed like that? I don't think so. And how did she burn herself that badly on coffee anyhow? I know I'm not responsible for her, but ... can I just pull the curtains and not answer the door or the phone? I may get to that place, soon. I mean, seriously ... In the meantime, I need to remember to have a chat with Kaitlyn today. I don't know what "an episode" looks like, but her brother has warned me that I should feel free to call him if one occurs. (But then, he didn't leave me his number.) I think Christina is harmless, but she is wound so tight that I can't be sure. I need to remind Kaitlyn not to open the door to her when I'm gone and not to hesitate to call the police if need be, for Christina's safety or for her own.

I am supposed to go to a "Team Meeting" at church for all of the volunteers on Saturday morning -- early Saturday morning. I don't think I'll be there. People are my priority. I could care less about Rah-rah-rah inspirational meetings and tidbits of info that can just as easily be sent to me in a memo. I know it's supposed to be a required meeting, but what are they going to do? Fire me? Yes, yes. I know this is a terrible attitude to have, but I do have my limits. This meeting is just a little beyond the scope of what I can think I can reasonably be expected to do this week.

Oh, you want to hear about the funeral? Um, well ... it was good, but I can't really tell you about it right now, not more than the surface things. I loved the fact that instead of a flower arrangement at the graveside, there were potted plants on his casket. Kathy and Karen and Grace had also set out a wooden tool box with some of his old tools, and the funeral home provided an American flag for his time in the military. That seemed so him, so much more than an expensive arrangement of cut flowers would have been. (I wanted to get a picture to put here on my blog, but I was afraid that would be too tacky, that some might be offended if I took pictures of the casket. I'm willing to offend if I have good reason, but getting a picture of something that struck me is not a good enough reason, in my book.)

So ... what else? The lunch was fabulous. I sat with my brothers and sisters and had a great chat and remembered (not like I'd really forgotten!) how fortunate I am to have them all. Then we had the service: Scripture reading and music, pictures and memories. I'm afraid I may have stuck out like a sore thumb because everyone in my family had the decency to cry. I couldn't have cried if my life depended on it. I still haven't -- not since Thursday evening. When we came out of the service, my sisters all had signs of stress. Katie's MS was causing her to limp. Someone was talking about perspiring, etc. Me? Nothing. Just a numbness and a huge urge to get out of there. I was so glad to get home. So glad. I ripped off my binding undergarments and found the most comfortable clothing I could find. Then I sat down, tuned out the world (as much as I could), and read a short story.

You'd think I'd relax, now that it's over, but I don't really operate that way. I've been in too many stressful situations, and I have a predictable routine that I go through. Yesterday, I was hypervigilant. Not afraid. Years ago, this state would have turned to crushing fear, but I've learned to deal with it so that now it just manifests itself liking a radio, picking up more than one station at a time. I watch people's faces, listen, stay poised and ready for ... whatever. Last night was the tossing and turning, which may last another night or two. This morning ... exhaustion. Later (tomorrow? this weekend?) I will feel overwhelming sadness and a sense that life is terribly short and that my efforts to make it count are pathetically feeble. And THEN I will write about it. I don't mean that I will write over the surface of it, like I'm doing here. I will dig into it and write through it, and then I will heal. But until then, do not ask me to cry or to tell you what I'm feeling because, quite frankly, I feel nothing. Nothing except exhaustion.

Remembering Grandpa

Grandpa, when you were on your way out last week, when your breathing had stopped but your heart was still beating, slower and slower, I wondered if I felt you, hovering over us. I looked up, near the ceiling, and of course saw nothing but the edges of the walls, the inside of a box that contained our family in a huddle around you. But it seemed to me that you were already gone from the shell on the bed and yet had not quite been whisked away, that you paused for a few minutes to watch us there. I could sense your concern for us, especially for your daughters, and your reluctance to leave them. But you seemed content, too, almost eager in your own quiet fashion to be on your way. And then you were gone. Was that really you I sensed there yesterday afternoon, at ten minutes of two, as you made your way out of this life and into the next? I guess I will never know for sure, or at least not until it’s my turn to go through those gates and I get a chance to ask you, face to face. But right now I choose to believe that it’s true. At the very least, it seems like something you would have done.

I’ve been thinking a lot about your life the last few days, Grandpa, and the way it overlapped mine. I know people always seem to focus on the positive at a funeral, packing away the negative like it never happened, making the person seem like some kind of saint we can barely recognize. I don’t want to do that. You weren’t a saint. Off the top of my head I can remember one moment when you made me grit my teeth in utter frustration. I was a teenager, and we lived with you for the summer. I had thrown something away, and you retrieved it from the trash. I can’t remember if it was destined for the recycling, or if somehow it was worth a couple of pennies, but I do remember receiving a very quiet reprimand and feeling a very unquiet surge of annoyance. But you know what, Grandpa? As I look back over my life, I truly cannot remember any other times when you rubbed me the wrong way. None. Maybe it’s post-deathbed amnesia, but I don’t think so. Because, see? In my mind, you are beauty. You are humor. And you are mystery.

When I think back on my childhood, I always picture your house on Carmen Drive. I know there were other houses before that, and one after it as well. But to me, that house IS you. It was simple and solid and surrounded with a beauty that was as quiet as it was vibrant. My favorite place in that backyard was the boulder by the fish pond. That rock was great for climbing on, and it was just far enough from the edge of the deck to make jumping from one to the other feel like our own mini-extreme sport. (That, and walking from one end of the trailer bed to the other, trying to keep our balance as it tipped. Wow! Who knew a backyard could hold such excitement!) But I was talking about the rock, wasn’t I? Sometimes, we also just sat on it. See, we learned early on that the fish were afraid of our carousing, that they would only show themselves if we were still. What a thrill that was to see them poke their golden heads out from beneath their little fishy bunkers, deciding whether or not it was safe to proceed back into the sunshine. You were like that, in my mind. I can’t really know what you were thinking all those years. Maybe it was the generation gap, or maybe it was just your personality, but I never really got much of a glimpse of what was going on in your head. But you seemed to me like a wise child, one who knows that life’s golden moments come to those who are willing to sit quietly and wait.

You weren’t just quiet though. Beneath that tranquil surface was a fabulous sense of humor. I never had the privilege of seeing you onstage. I am told that your public humor was a bull in a tea shop, over the top and hysterically funny. I’m sorry I missed it. Your dinner table humor was, by contrast, a deer by the side of the road. One had to be alert or the moment would slip by, unnoticed. But when it was seen? Ah, the rewards of spotting that graceful and elusive beast!

But your humor didn’t confine itself to moments around the dining room table. It manifest itself in what you produced as well. I remember your Christmas tree substitute one year – a frame of metal wire, decorated with garland and glittering balls. I remember, too, the gift you made for Kathy’s boys one year. A rocking horse would have been a perfectly suitable gift, of course, but a rocking chicken … Now there’s a statement!

But your creativity went far beyond Christmas tree substitutes and ride-able chickens. Your whole place was a testament to your artistic nature. Life happened there. It was captured on the walls, in your paintings and photographs and woodwork. It was portrayed in your colors – green mostly, a reminder of the personal growth that you never abandoned. But personally, I felt it most in your garden -- in the lush green yard, in the fruit trees and the flowers, in the precise rows of raspberries and corn, even in the agates sown among the gravel beneath the living room window.

I know you moved on from that place, that you created a life with Grace that was deeply rewarding to you, but in my mind, your spirit will forever live in that house on Carmen Drive. When I need a moment of quiet or a bit of creative inspiration, I can go back there in my mind. I can sit on that brown rock, listen to the breeze in the grape arbor, and wait for the golden fish to appear.

Christian? or Paulian?

I am angry today, angry to the core of my being. Not that anything has changed all that drastically in my life since this time yesterday. It's just that my uncle is coming from Texas for the funeral. In five hours, I will hugging be him, telling him how happy I am to see him (which will be true), and he'll be telling me how good I look (which will not be true) and how much my kids have changed (which will also be true). I am so excited to see him. And I am so dreading it.

See, I cannot think of my uncle anymore without thinking of what he said about my sister Katie. After two failed marriages and dipping dangerously close to suicide at least once, my sister admitted that she's gay. My uncle said that the Bible is very clear about how we must treat gay Christians, that if his daughter Claire ever did such a thing, he would cut her off. The heartbreaking thing is, I know he would.

The thing is, when Katie came out of the closet, I, being a "righteous" person, shut her out -- until God started to convict me of my arrogance. I've realized many things over the last couple of years of soul searching. I'll share a few with you (if you're still listening. I'm sure more than a few have stopped reading by now.)

So what have I learned? First of all, the Bible refers to homosexuality four times. Four! Do you know how many times it refers to poverty, to compassion, to taking care of the sick and the widow? I don't have the exact number on hand, but I know that it's in the hundreds. We are quick to throw the gay person out of our midst, but the stingy and the arrogant are more than welcome. But who did CHRIST condemn? The arrogant, those who loaded down the backs of the people beneath them and did not lift a finger to help them carry their loads. I know many people will think that I am teetering dangerously close to the ledge of hell, and I'm sorry for causing you that anxiety, but I have to be honest here. I just don't see Christ taking the side of the Pharisee against the monogamous gay person.

Now am I saying that I agree with the gay lifestyle? NO, no, no. I think that sex involves giving a piece of your inner being to another person, that those who give themselves away too often, too freely end up brittle -- or hard as a rock, whether she is gay or straight. But the context of Deuteronomy is pagan worship practices, which involved male prostitutes, and the context of Romans is the flagrant no-hold-barred, let's-sodomize-little-boys-and-anything-else-we-can-get-our-hands-on attitude of first century Rome. I don't believe this is anywhere near the same thing as a monogamous gay relationship.

Oh, but Romans is the Word of God, right? And the Word of God says ... No, stop. CHRIST is the Word of God. Romans was written by Paul. Paul. A man. A godly man, yes, but a man. I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that the modern church would stop being Paulians and start being CHRISTians.

And one more thing ... if you must insist that Paul spoke the words of God, then I must politely insist that you remove your earrings and makeup, that you take out those braids in your hair, that you women cover your head, that we dig up your grandparents and baptize them, that you beat yourself for the good of your soul, that ... what else? Enough. You get the idea. Once you've done all that, then perhaps you are qualified to disown your daughter because she had decided not to lie any longer about who she is. Take the whole basket, or leave it. Don't pick out pieces of fruit and peg people in the back of the head with them.

But if you'll excuse me, I must go get ready for my family gathering because ... I love them, unconditionally. And I always will.

Saying Goodbye to Grandpa

Grandpa died today. When Mark and I got in from a run to McMinnville, we had three messages on the machine. He had had a massive brain bleed and wouldn't live more than a few hours. Mark had been headed for bed. He had a rough night last night, one that would usually have taken him to the hospital, but he had decided to tough it out, not even telling me about it until morning. I told him he didn't have to come with me to the hospital, but he wanted to come, despite his fatigue. So we made arrangements for the boys, left a note for Kaitlyn, and set out.

The drive seemed to take forever. I don't why it felt so important for me to get there while he was alive, since he was already comatose, but it did feel urgent to me. And we made it. They had taken him to a private room. He had an IV for meds to make him more comfortable, but no measures were being taken to preserve what was left of his life. He was struggling hard. The idea Hollywood portrays of people "slipping away" when they die is about as far from reality as Neptune is from Mercury. The body tends to fight hard, even when it cannot win. And Grandpa was fighting. He would be still for awhile, and then his body would shake and shudder. He would gag and gasp for air. It was tough to watch. I had seen it before, having been with my other grandparents at the end. But my cousins and my sisters had never seen that, and they kept wincing like they were being physically wounded. Everybody wanted to breathe for him. Kathy kept saying how it seemed like there should be something to do to help him. But we could only be there with him, to hold his hands and rub his legs and talk to him while he did the tough work of shedding his skin.

I know he could hear us when I got there. There was a lot of subdued noise in the room with so many people around, but if someone came close and talked near his ear, his body responded. And when Kathy came and sat by him and began to talk to him, he calmed down. Then he gradually he seemed to be less aware of what was going on around him. Over the next hour and a half or so, his attempts to catch his breath slowed and finally stopped. The room grew quiet but not silent. I put my finger to his neck several times. Each time, his pulse was slower and slower. Grace came in. She had gone home to let out the dog but made it back just in time. I gave her a hug and the chair by Grandpa's head, and she was with him as he slipped away.

Nobody seemed to want to leave after he was gone, but no one knew quite what to do. Then someone suggested that we pray and for a long we did exactly that. Jonathan walked in, and Kathy broke down and crossed the room and let her son hold her. But mostly we were okay. Teary. Exhausted. But okay. We told stories then, gathered around the body of this man we all loved, and it didn't seem at all odd to be in the same room with a dead person. I thought about how that used to be the way it was done. The body was kept in the home, and the family life moved around it -- briefly, of course. But I really think it gives everyone a chance to process both the life and the death when it is not rushed and sterile and removed from sight.

On the way home, I told Mark that I wonder where Grandpa's spirit was when his breathing had stopped but his heart was still beating. It may be my (often overactive) imagination, but after I had given Grandma Grace the chair by his head and moved to the foot of the bed, it seemed to me that I could sense his spirit, not in his body and not yet gone, kind of hovering over us, watching us, concerned for us, but content. And then it was gone.