Forgotten

At least Tracy had toys in the nursery when Mom left my youngest sister at church that time when we were little.

Today my husband forgot we were carpooling and left me at work.  Soon after 5 when I went looking for him it didn’t take me long to realize he simply forgot me.  The only other co-workers who live even remotely close to us whom I could ask for a ride home were either gone or had dinner plans close to the office.  Sighing, I called my husband’s cell phone.

When he answered I asked where he was.  “Uhm, I’m coming back from getting my tire checked,” he said.  “Are you close to the office?” I asked.  He hesitated.  “I’ll call you when I’m close,” he replied and hung up as I was asking where exactly he was.  I knew immediately he had forgotten me and wasn’t about to admit it.

Replacing the handset I sat at my desk for a few moments as I considered my options.  We had been in all day meetings and corporate dinners for two days and I had plenty of work to do.  But I didn’t want to start on any of it if he was just a few minutes away.  If he wasn’t I was only going to get more frustrated by the minute not knowing how long I would have to wait.

Lemonade out of lemons, I decided, foraging in my wardrobe for a pair of walking shoes.  Yes!  Rummaging in my bag for a hair clip I scored again.  Heels off, hair up, I grabbed my purse and set out to put my wait to good use by taking my walk.  Outside the weather was nice and as I moved along the parking lot I began to feel pretty good about how I was handling this little change in plans. 

I had logged 25 minutes when my phone rang.  “I’m here,” he said.  “I’m walking, be right there,” I said, pressing the End button as he began to ask where I was.  I had waited half an hour, he could sit for the additional two minutes it would take me to get back to the office.

As I got into his truck I mentally prepared my gracious acceptance of his apology.  I was sure he felt bad enough about leaving me and keeping me waiting, there was no reason to be unkind.  I climbed into the passenger seat and waited.

“At least you got your walk in,” he said.  Then we drove off.  

No apology.  No “gee, I’m sorry about all this.”  No need for my acceptance speech.  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.  He is a great guy, but the words “I’m sorry” don’t come easily to him.  As we made our way through traffic he tried to start up work conversation a few times, but I just couldn’t get interested in talking to him.  Finally he turned on the radio.  As always when I need a way to process my emotions,  a blog was quickly coming to me and I started tapping on the screen of my smart phone.

By the time we pulled into our driveway I was almost finished writing.  He got out of the truck wordlessly, pulled the trash cans into the garage, and entered the house.  All the clichés came to mind – “All’s well that ends well”, “It’s no big deal”, “a hundred years from now you won’t even remember it”.   And at least I didn’t have to bring in the trash cans, only the mail and our meeting luggage from the truck.  I recalled my devotional from just this morning.  Galatians, 5, Fruit of the Spirit.  Just another opportunity to practice love, joy, peace, patience, and longsuffering.

Yes, there was a little fruit of the spirit in me, but mainly I was glad to have my blog.  It served me well 4 years ago when it was born out of the Duke Disaster, and it serves me well now,  funneling my feelings and saving me ammunition.

Terminal Humor

I drove my husband to the hospital this morning.  He found out he needed an Endobronchoscopy only last week.  A midst waiting for the lab results of a mole that was removed last week and having to schedule a treadmill stress test, going in for this EBUS biopsy of a way-too-big node in the middle of his lungs has produced stress.  Even for my husband, who is known for giving stress, not getting it. 

I knew he was getting antsy when he announced last week that he was taking two days off work for a road trip to the Ranch.  To him, the Rockin R is like Tara is to Scarlett O’Hara – he’s got to put his boots on that land fairly regularly.  The trip did him good, and when he returned home he had only one more day to wait and wonder before the EBUS.

We were both feeling pretty good about things as we got into the car to drive to the medical center.  All of our kids, siblings, Mom, church family, friends and co-workers are covering us in prayer and we know that all of these health things are in the Lord’s hands, so no reason to worry.  Nevertheless it’s disconcerting to have to go through the tests.  As I pulled out onto the main street heading for the expressway I decided to turn the radio on.  I have a couple of fave “radio preachers” and I thought Paul could use the strength and encouragement that I experience regularly from their biblical preaching.

I turned up the volume and heard “…you are sick and it’s terminal, you must come to grips with it.”  Immediately I yanked the knob down to mute and looked over at Paul.  “Well,” he said, “that’s it then.  It’s terminal.  Now we know.  I guess there’s no reason to even have the procedure, just turn around, let’s go home.”  I started laughing.  I couldn’t help it.  My desire to encourage him in his moment of anxiety had done exactly the opposite.  It felt like the words coming out of those speakers had been directed at him.  Unfortunately NOT the words I was expecting or wanted him to hear.  Maybe it was my own anxiety, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

“Thanks honey, it’s so nice to know you won’t miss me when I’m gone.  Sure am glad I’ve done all this financial planning, you’re going to be fine.”   He kept the morose, Eyeore look on his face but I knew he was having fun at my expense.

“You have that phone conference with the financial guy on Wednesday, think you can hang on until then?” I asked, laughing.  He shook his head.  “I don’t know, now that it’s terminal I could go any day.”

That little banter lightened the moment, but after a few minutes of silence the weight of possible bad results was back in the air.  I reached to turn up the volume on the radio.  Surely by now the uplifting part of the sermon would be on.  “I recall the funerals of my parents,” the preacher was saying.  “Their lifeless bodies a reminder that they were no longer.  A reminder that we are all sinners and one day each of us will die.”

Once again I quickly muted the volume.  Paul looked over at me.  “Would you mind not turning that on any more?” he asked.  Once again I burst out laughing, not able to hold back.  “I’m glad you think this is so funny.  Are you even planning to attend my funeral?”  Paul’s teasing was relentless, and every funny one-liner that left his lips just made me laugh harder.

By the time we got to the hospital the tears were rolling down my cheeks.  The irony of the whole situation had gotten to me.  Locking the car, I picked up my day bag and turned to Paul.  He stretched and looked out past the concrete to the cloudy sky.  “Yep, special close-in parking for the terminal patients.”  “Stop it,” I said, I’ve got to be able to focus once we get inside.”  We smiled, and together entered the building.  Like Mom always says, if you have a sense of humor you can get through anything.

An Unexpected Gift

I have been given the greatest gift – the gift of Time.  Oh how I always crave more ‘free’ time, although as a believer in Christ all of my time is actually His to redeem as He sees fit.  But time that isn’t allocated to work, or as in the case with this gift, prison ministry, is a precious thing.  How to use it?

I’ll work on my book and web site preparations, of course.  And have time to sit, pray, read devotions and scripture, and just be.  Which is what I like to do on January 1 each year anyway, reflecting on my many blessings and writing goals for the coming year that stretches out before me like an unused roll of fresh drawing paper waiting for a story in pictures.  So many things to choose from:  house projects, picture projects, writing letters, culling things to give away or sell on craigslist, updating my prayer list, putting the house back in order after the wonderful week of having kids and grands here.  Plus I’m always in danger of ADD moments – oh look, there’s a cabinet I need to reorganize, or a closet to clean out, or I’ve always wanted to move that couch to the other side of the room which means rearranging everything and before you know it a day has passed.  Maybe I’ll even get out of my pajamas and get dressed.

So I pause before letting my mind get on the thought racetrack speeding towards overwhelmed.  Looking around the grandkids room I marvel at Emily’s version of cleaning up.  She did a great job, and I enjoy looking at how she arranged the books, stuffed animals, puzzles, toys, and arts and crafts, different than I would but not so different after all.  The toy Tonka digger that usually sits by  Mike and the Steam Shovel is now parked in front of the wooden blocks next to the golden books.  Which have been read and much loved this visit, I’m happy to say.  The Peter Rabbit family shelf is playing host to Noah’s Ark and all the animals stored inside.  The Winnie the Pooh section is relatively undisturbed, except that Eyeore looks anxiously at Piglet’s foot which is stuck in his ear.  Clifford and Company are in their place, as are the Three Bears and their book.  The Bambi and Jungle Book area is definitely in disarray.  Bambi’s head is leaning back into the corner, exhaustion emanating from every fiber of his stuffed body, while Baloo and Lion King look quite happy to be perched atop the Peter Rabbit puzzle case, digger’s tractor tread perched atop Lion King’s head like a black rubber halo.  Stickers adorn everything – books, the floor, toys, and sleeping bags.  Pooh sleeping bag is neatly folded away in the closet, but Caterpillar sleeping bag is languishing on the floor in need of a wash.  

Across the top of the shelves things are almost normal.  Cat in the Hat leans over into Ramona, who has one shoe hanging off as always, their books as backrests.  Minnie and Mickey have been left to their own devices, as has the Very Hungry Caterpillar, while Spot was only recently placed back after being loved on by Liam over Christmas.  Mouse is nowhere near If You Give a Mouse a Cookie but is sitting over in the new toy wooden rocker with Nativity Bear, on the floor next to Raggedy Ann.  My blocks that spell grandchildren’s names no longer say Emily, Molly, Lily, Lola or Liam.  One set says May, another says Mo, and yet another grouping has an I leading an E and Y on their sides – clearly Molly was involved in this.  The musical water globe is still perched next to the box of crayons and stickers, directly beneath Little Red Riding Hood and right in front of Curious George.  Snoopy sits at the far end, one ear looped over his head, looking content.

Which is how I feel.  Content.  I LOVE the evidence that my grandchildren have been here, and am reluctant to make any changes.  So I won’t.  I’ll spend this gift of time as the Spirit moves, some in quiet gratitude, some in creative writing, some in productive cleaning, but all bathed in the knowledge of how filled with love is my life.

Letting Go of Christmas

I always have a hard time letting go of Christmas.  Not just because I’m a poor transitioner, but also because I love the season.  For some people this time of year isn’t filled with love, laughter, joy and hope, but the Lord has greatly blessed me and my cup overflows with those things at Christmas.  The birth of my Savior, the beautiful music that goes with the season and the matchless Nativity Story.  Christmas cookies.  Lots of them.  Parties.  Family gatherings.  Christmas lights on the house and the tree, memories that flood when I hang ornaments and place the Spode china in the cabinet and put out the Christmas shelf decorations, in the past for my children now for the grandchildren.  I love it all.

This morning I sat with my granddaughters on a generations old cedar chest in my bedroom.  Emily read aloud a book she made for me when she was 5 and played the recording of her sweet voice saying, “I made this just for you Grandma because I love you so much.”  Molly stood on my other side and with my arms wrapped around them both as we talked and laughed all I could think of was that my heart was smiling.  These wonderful moments – why would anyone ever want to let them go?!

Their annual weeklong visit just ended but the glow that is in the house when my daughter and her family are here stays with us for weeks.  Our traditions are simple and not unique – early morning day after Christmas shopping just my daughter and me, Emily and Molly out in our front yard selling my homemade Christmas cookies (some years are better than others), watching a Christmas movie as a family, playing games (Clue and Monopoly are the current favorites), a big Christmas feast on the Christmas china with all my children and theirs (Lena we missed y’all this year, only illness could have kept you away!) and my baby sister, lots of visits from my son and his, building villages and cities and compounds with my serious collection of Legos kept from when my two were little, hot chocolate with tons of tiny marshmallows, Christmas cookies, lots and lots of stories, and time to just visit.  Heaven.

Now the house is quiet, not in a lonely sort of way but in a soft lingering way that is peaceful and hopeful, mitigating the underlying emptiness of already missing these loved ones.  I am grateful that we had this time, for we have other kids and grands that live so far away we don’t see them nearly as often.   That distance has taught me that real family love isn’t hampered by miles when hearts are aligned.  

Over the next few days I’ll pack up the Christmas china, the shelf decorations and the tree ornaments and store them away until next November.  The few remaining Christmas cookies will be eaten at home and shared at work.  I will once again get used to the grandkids room as my prayer room and the guest room will be freshened to stand ready and waiting for its next occupants.  But for now I’m going to savor the moments and memories, sitting in the soft glow of the tree lights sipping from a Christmas cup and thanking God with all my heart for my blessings who have been living among us this past week.  I’ll let go on another day.

Ducks, Duke and Digging Out

In my perfect world, all of our children and their families would live within minutes away, we would spend time together often and every holiday as one big family.  I would never miss a single school or church event for any grandchild and time would pass slowly.  But in reality, anything that comes close to that is pretty wonderful.  Like our pre-Thanksgiving weekend.

All but two of our kids’ and their families were at the Ranch.  Those who grew up there call it the Farm, but I’ve never quite understood that.  The land is an active cattle-grazing and hay-baling acreage, but there are no crops grown or even a garden at this point.  Doesn’t matter, it’s a wonderful place no matter what you call it.  Rains or shine, you can hunt fish, target shoot, hike, chase cows, feed donkeys, pet horses, and all while dodging an assortment of kids, dogs, vehicles and animals.

This November weekend featured children ages 11 months to 15 years (Dakota, you aren’t really a child but I can’t quite group you in the adults category yet :), 6 dogs from King Duke at 12½ years old to the younger ones only a couple years over pup stage.  The atmosphere is all the more charming when God blesses us with rain, so that by the end of the weekend we welcomed sunshine and the chance to dry out even with the combined smell of wet dogs, damp clothing and not-quite-fresh men and children.

Whether it’s hog hunting at night or duck hunting in the pre-dawn morning, our guys are hard core.  Duke can still duck hunt with the best of them and continues to amaze the guys at his instinct and retrieval skills.   Saturday night they headed out in the pouring rain to hung for hogs in the Hog Assault Vehicle.  Katelyn and Emily, determined to go regardless of weather, donned heavy plastic bags over their clothes to try and keep our some of the rain.  No hogs were killed but the HAV got stuck and needed digging out.  Which only meant more fun the next day when Chris drove his brand new honkin’ big Chevy pickup down to bring it back.

Brother Joe worked his magic to prepare another fantastic Thanksgiving feast with turkey, dressing and all the fixings, topped off with Heather’s delicious pie.   On full stomachs we settled around games of Parcheesi or cards.  Bedtime comes early at the Ranch, because waking up does too.

Kids  as young as age 9 are allowed to drive the old jeep or mail truck around the property for fun and for free.  Kids from the age of 4 freely walk over to the hay barn and roam among the round bales, cowboy boots not slowing them down at all as they climb the bales and rafters.  That’s nothing after using the ladder to get to the top bunks in the grandkids room.  The mail truck was put to good use as Katelyn, too young to drive legally in the outside world, put the pedal to the metal and covered some serious ground.  The dads used the Jeep or the motorcycle to cover ground quickly as they worked to clear brush and gather wood to build a deer pen.  Our assortment of vehicles also included a brand new Chevy truck, travel trailer, and 4 door sedans.  No shortage of wheels.

Which were used to rescue the little girls.  They became enchanted with the idea of chasing the donkeys, not realizing how far away from the house they’d traveled and how heavy the bag of treats would become.  Also not realizing the amount of ant beds, cow patties and stickers they had to wade through, remnants of each now clinging to their leggings.  At the sound of their cries Carri drove to pick them up and we spent the next half hour scraping shoes and pulling stickers.  Note to self:  buy rain boots for the girls to use at the Ranch.

Inside I busied myself with mending Katelyn’s jacket hem, loving the sense of life back in the day where the most pressing chore involved a few minutes with needle and thread as I listened to my daughters share pregnancy stories and mothering tips.  In the distance I could hear rifle shots and shotgun shells, see several of the men wearing holsters for their pistols.  How many pioneer women had done just that?  Of course they didn’t have my modern kitchen with running water, a custom designed tile shower or a Dollar General close by for staples.   And they didn’t have a large digital picture frame showing pictures from our recent trip to Europe to provide beauty and grace amidst their Ranch life.  Come to think of it, my world is pretty perfect after all.