Grief

The lessons God has taught me in times of grieving are the greatest lessons of my life time. And on top of the comfort He brings and the things God teaches me in my loss, He somehow turns the pain into a gift. Its amazing, and wonderful, and mysterious indeed. And when I think it couldn't be more amazing, God takes those times of sadness and turn them into the compassionate moments in my future where I can share with someone else who is hurting. God's love and care are that exquisite, that precious. I do not ask for the pain of loss, and yet... and yet I wouldn't trade a single lesson learned through it all. More to come...

Isaiah 28:23-29

23-26Listen to me now. Give me your closest attention.Do farmers plow and plow and do nothing but plow? Or harrow and harrow and do nothing but harrow?After they've prepared the ground, don't they plant? Don't they scatter dill and spread cumin,Plant wheat and barley in the fields and raspberries along the borders?They know exactly what to do and when to do it. Their God is their teacher.
27-29And at the harvest, the delicate herbs and spices, the dill and cumin, are treated delicately.On the other hand, wheat is threshed and milled, but still not endlessly. The farmer knows how to treat each kind of grain.He's learned it all from God-of-the-Angel-Armies, who knows everything about when and how and where.

The writer is drawing an analogy between the Lord's treatment of his various "crops" (peoples) and the farmer in his field. The farmer does not till his dirt forever, but just until it is properly prepared. Sometimes that soil requires the picking out of rocks, sometimes it takes extra nutrition in the form of fertilizers and amendments to support its crop. Each field is different and each crop is different. So preparation varies but the end result will be the same if a farmer prepares his land according to the requirements of the crop he has purposed to grow.
I need to be patient with others and with myself as each person in my life is a different "field" in an individual sense, as well as in a corporate sense of church family, government, nation, world. We are all at different places in life. Just as some crops will grow in Bakersfield's heat and thrive, others will shrivel and die if planted in the wrong time and place. Tomatos flourish in abundance in summer here, but fuscias, if they manage to survive the heat of summer, will die in the cold of the valley winters.

What a beautiful description of God's timing as he plants, nurtures, and harvests at so many different junctures in time, not as a commercial farmer would plough a field and then harvest one determinate crop at one time, but rather as a home gardner walks through his or her garden daily, pulling a weed here, watering a little extra there, watching each tomato or cucumber or pumpkin come into it's peak of flavor and ripeness before the harvest moment.
Father, I ask you to pull me back to the small garden where I can be effective, planting, weeding, and harvesting the crop in my plot rather than trying to plant huge fields which I cannot manage. Help me to be content with my garden, dilligent in its care, and vigilant to protect, nurture and care for the blessings of fruit that you allow me to harvest in Your time.

Mamogram day

I'd rather have a root canal procedure than a mamogram and of course, its Breast Cancer Awareness month and we are thinking about "the girls" and their health.

I had my mammogram this morning. What a way to start the day.

I arrived at the Kern Radiology here in town at 7:25. I signed in at 7:29. My appt. was for 7:30. I had written it down, I am sure of this. I checked in at the desk and the girl says to me, "You know, you are late!"

I said, "I beg your pardon? No, I am not late, my appt was for 7:30."

She tells me that's not true, I was actually scheduled for 7:10 and then she demands to know who I talked to who told me different.

I stared at her for several seconds, then said, "Really, are you kidding? Do you ask for the person's name and write it down when you make medical appointments? 'Cause I don't." What is she, nuts? I made this appointment a month ago, I don't remember who I spoke to.

So the girl gives me my update form to fill out and I go sit down to fill it in. When I bring the form back to her, she and the girl next to her are making jokes about being LATE!!! By now I am angry-- I asked her if I should just reschedule because obviously she has a problem with my arrival time, and she says, "Oh no, we were talking about ourselves, not you." UH huh. Sure. I buy that story.

So I go sit down to wait to be called. I watched, and this receptionist waits until 8:00 AM before putting my chart on the counter to be picked up by the technician. WHen I finally get called back by the technician, I asked her if I was being worked in instead of being treated like a regular appt., and she says no, she doesn't think anyone is ahead of me.

By now I am pretty upset. The women in the back office are so lovely and kind, and I am embarrassed because now I am not only dreading having the mash-o-gram, but I am angry and trying not to cry. Not fun. I end did manage to endure it by hunkering down in a corner of the room with the stupid gown on, and hiding behind a magazine from the other woman in the room.

Finally my name is called, I manage to get through the procedure without crying. Congrats to me!

The best part of this story is, this rude receptionist girl is unaware that the people who own the radiology place are people I know. I plan to write a nice letter and let them know all about the vindictive wenches they have working for them. I sorta feel like the woman in that movie, Fried Green Tomatoes, who, after the teenager whisks into her parking spot ahead of her at the mall, the older woman rams her car into the teen girl's vehicle, over and over and then says to her, "Ive got more insurance than you do."

Gotta love it!

Home waxing... bad idea

I have had this home waxing kit from Bath and Body Works which I have used several times quite successfully. Last night, the kit turned on me. No really. It was like a cheap horror flick, one minute sitting silently in the pan of hot water, the next minute firmly attached to my upper lip. Let me explain.

The wax kit seemed pretty docile, and I figured it was one thing I could do at home without having to go to a pubic place and have witnesses watch the torment of hair being ripped off my face. And I was saving the cost of a beautician doing it for me. So I bought one some time ago and have been successful waxing my eyebrows a couple of times, and my upper lip once, too. As menopause has encroached on my face, it is necessary to do this. I think.

So last I heated the wax in the pan of water like the directions said. No problem. When the wax was heated pretty thoroughly I removed the pan from the stove top and let it cool a little. Into the bathroom I went, pan of water keeping the wax warm and workable. Following the directions on the insert in the box, I wiped my lip with the pre treatment stuff to clean the skin, and dabbed off the excess. Then I scooped a blob of the oozy, blue wax and gently smeared it across one side of my upper lip. It did not feel hot, just warm. Then I smeared more wax on the other side. Lastly, I plopped some dead center unter my nose, hoping to clear out all the random dark hairs that have taken up residence there.

After allowing the wax to set for a couple of seconds, I pulled one side of my lip taut, and peeled up an edge of the wax. It tore, plinking out multiple hairs as desired, but then-- Ow!! It wasn't coming off in the center. In fact, while I wasnt looking, the wax had oozed onto the lip itself, and was stuck there.

NO worries, I pulled at the opposite side, and had the same result: side pulled off as expected, but the middle was stuck. STUCK! Yikes!

Slightly panicked, I tried to lift the edge of the wax, and took a small chunk of my upper lip off. OW! My eyes were watering and my nose itched exquisitely and then I sneezed several times.

Standing in the bathroom and trying to remain calm, I grabbed the nearest washcloth and dipped it into the pan of hot water on the counter, hoping to soften the wax enough to pull it free. I stuck the washcloth under my nose, and held it there. Gently lifting the cloth, I realized that it was now also stuck under my nose. I thought of that scene where Debra Winger is dealing with a bird stuck to her head in "Forget Paris" and tried to look on the bright side: my washcloth was not flapping around like the bird did in Debra's hair in the movie. Not taking much comfort in that thought, I leaned down face first into the pan of water, reheating the washcloth enough to dislodge it from my face.

Now I had a fine mustache of blue wax, facial hairs, and turquoise terrycloth below my nose. I was still teary only not from sneezing, when my husband walked by the bathroom and glanced in at me. This was not going well. He sputtered, and laughed, and said, "What is that on your upper lip?" I shut the door. I could hear him chuckling, then howling on the other side of the door. I had to admit at this point there was an element of humor in this mess. But smiling hurt so I refrained.

I thought to myself, what mom would do? Peanut butter came to mind! Yes, peanut butter! that's it! Off to the kitchen I ran, avoiding my husband by turning my face toward the wall opposite the TV, which he was watching in the next room. Reaching into the cupboard, I pulled out the jar, hastily unscrewed it and dipped a finger in and rubbed on the peanut butter-- which turned out to be chunky! OWIE!! Now my lip had peanut butter chunks mixed in with the wax and cotton fuzz and hair and a small amount of blood from the peanut lacerations. But the wax was breaking up a little, so with several more swipes of the hot washcloth, I managed to scrape off the remains that were visible of my mustache, wax/peanut butter concoction and a little more epidermis. Ice packs are not mentioned in the Bath and Body Works waxing kit, but as a former user I highly recommend using one.

This morning, my lip still feels tacky and swollen, there are several scabs right in the center and it sorta looks like those women in Hollywood who have their lips blown up with injections of silicone. Ugh. If this is what it takes to be glam, I will pass.

Me and Oscar the Grouch

At my work place each day, my boss greets each person he sees with a cheerful smile and a hearty “Good morning!” At first, I confess I didn’t quite know how to respond to that. See, I grew up in a home where the grouchies were a known and easily identified entity until all adults had swallowed their first AM cup of coffee. I honestly believed that was normal: grouchy until caffeinated. But its not. Further, it’s a waste of a perfectly great morning to be a “pouty-poo” as my friend Debbie says.

And guess what I am learning from Dave's daily cheeriness of disposition? Joy is a habit. Yup. A habit! A choice to be! And it's not as difficult as I once assumed. In fact, I rather like choosing not to be Oscar the grouch. God is still in the business of teaching old dogs new tricks—even me.

I used to read in my Bible that "the Joy of the Lord is my strength." For the longest time I thought that meant that God was going to make me happy. But if that were so, why was Paul the Apostle challenged with so many difficulties? And why did he choose to be happy in prison, or when faced with persecution? Because he understood that joy was a choice and that he could make that choice and nobody could take it away from him. Wow! Who needs to go around the world to find a new land? This is enough discovery to last a very long time. How silly to waste even a moment of the days I am granted. I choose to greet the sunrise with a smile, and to breathe a prayer of thanks for another day.

Each and every one.

LIstening for the Wa-Wa

I have listened for years to the sound of tuning guitar strings at my house. There are at least seven guitars at our house, not to mention the plethora of drums, brass horns other instruments that have ebbed and flowed through our door. The guitars are the constant, and I enjoy the giftedness of those who play this instrument. My husband, sons and others always tune their guitars before playing. The pluck-plucking of strings, the twisting of the little keys on the neck resulting in sharpening or flattening of notes. I confess to having been plenty annoyed at the noise made by tuning sometimes even in the middle of a song as the player’s ear became aware of a slight off- key sound that I just didn’t catch. Sometimes in my impatience, I would think, how picky can you be to stop a perfectly good song to tune yet again? Gee whiz, just finish the song!

One day recently Adam was tuning his instrument “harmonically” (hey, you can't live with guitar players for 30 years without picking a few things up) as I read the newspaper across the kitchen table from him, only half listening to his music. He was repetitively pluck-plucking at the strings, two at a time, and listening. Feeling annoyed that that my reading had been disturbed I asked, “What are you listening for? It all sounds the same to me!”

Adam patiently plucked one string, and then pressing a finger on the string just below it at a particular fret, plucked it too, and told me to listen to the vibration which he referred to, for my ignorant benefit, as the “wa-wa” that could be heard when one string was not in tune with the other. I listened, and, oh my goodness, I could hear it! There was a vibration between the two strings, a sort of “wa-wa” sound that was fast at first, then slowed and finally stopped as he brought the strings into perfect pitch with each other. He looked up and grinned at me. I smiled back. A light bulb moment! For the first time in 30 years of hearing guitars played, tuned, stroked and plucked, I had listened for something new, and it had been revealed to my ear.

Of course God took that teachable moment to speak to me. He said, in that voice of His, “This is what I want you to do with Me, with My Word. Listen for something new. Listen for the deeper meaning when I speak to you. Listen to the tuning of my instruments, and gain deeper understanding. Now you hear the surface sound and interpret it as clatter in your day. But listen, ever so carefully, so you can hear something new."

Are you hearing just the clatter, or are you tuned in? Are you willing to listen to old things in a new way so the Lord can reveal something wonderful? Are you hearing the ever so smooth hum when the “wa-wa” disappears and your heart is tuned to what God has for you? Today, open your heart and mind to the possibilities. Hear the perfect notes that the Lord plays. Listen for the “wa-wa”. It is extraordinary!

Lance's Birthday

“The heart of grief, its most difficult challenge, is not ‘letting go’ of those who have died, but instead making the transition from loving in presence to loving in separation.”
~ Thomas Attig

On January 6th we celebrated our grandson’s 3rd birthday by meeting at the Greenlawn Southwest cemetery at 7 PM. we set candles around his gravestone, and at 7:14PM, the time he was born, we sang a lovely song for him that my son wrote. Then we lit candles on little cupcakes my daughter and I made with little Curious George rings on top of each one. We sang “Happy Birthday” and a pastor from our son’s church shared a brief devotional about grief and God’s deep love for us. It was a precious time. We left the candles (in votive containers) burning at the site as we released balloons for Lance and shared in the solace of the evening with each other.

Afterward we went to In ‘n Out Burgers across the street, and my daughter, Rachel, took the leftover cupcakes and shared them with some customers including a large family of kids who were having dinner there. The little kids loved it, and it was a most satisfying way to use up the cupcakes while reveling in the joy on those smiling children’s faces. She even gave one to a tough looking young man with strange piercings on his head who was sitting in a booth in a corner, and he asked why she was passing out the goodies. My daughter explained that they were from her nephew’s 3rd birthday celebration across the street at the cemetery, because he had died last summer. This big though looking guy got all teary and was clearly moved as he accepted a cupcake to remember Lance by. It was most touching, heartwarming, and comforting.

People really do care, but they often do not know how to express it or grapple with their own feelings about death and loss.  For me, I have come to trust God more fully today, understanding that if I could see where Lance is now, I would not wish him back to this world no matter how much I miss him. Even so, my heart hasn’t quite grasped how to love my grandson in separation.

Lesson Learned

Someone told me once that contemporary worship songs don’t teach Biblical truths like the old, traditional hymns do. But I know otherwise.

So I’m lazing in bed one Saturday morning listening to this bluesy country music on the radio, when my husband suggests I get up and go for a ride with him. You know, A Ride. On the bike. A motorcycle ride on the Harley. the HD. Umm... wait, don't I have a dentist appointment to go to? No? Sigh...

Why do I find this so frightening? Is it that I haven’t got my last will and testament in order? No, it's my active imagination that can graphically picture my body smeared across blacktop like strawberry jam on burnt toast. I confess to that fear. After hedging a bit, I agreed to go and suggested a short run to Tehachapi. That seemed relatively safe. Except that I forgot one small detail: the freeway.

Freeways are a piece of cake in a car, and everybody drives them like they own the road in California. On a bike, however, even with my ever so cautious husband driving, vulnerable does not begin to describe the feeling that gripped me that morning as we rode, screaming along at 65 M.P.H. next to 18-wheelers and cars with cavalier drivers (not as in the Chevy, but as in lacking concern for my bodily safety).

I felt exposed; completely at their mercy should any one of the drivers make a wrong move. What some people consider the thrill of speed is terror to me. I clung to the bike. Wiping wind-crusted tears and sweat from the corners of my eyes, I peered out at the brownish horizon in town. As we ascended into the golden, oak tree-dotted foothills, the brown haze cleared. Above the layer of smog on the valley floor, intense blue sky suddenly surrounded us, and directly above was the bluest of all. I looked upward… and kept looking up. Things looked clearer up in the sky, safer; no traffic to distract my thoughts.

I clung to the rumbling machine and was suddenly intensely aware of God's presence. He was right beside me, holding my hand and my heart. I imagined His massive, gentle hands manipulating the puppeteer’s strings attached to us as he raced along holding us aloft, orchestrating the show. I smiled at the mental picture of God in great white flowing robes, snowy beard aflutter, effortlessly zipping through the azure sky. And then I heard Him. No, not a voice. God speaks in lots of ways. When God brought to mind the lyrics to a contemporary worship song, “You Never Let Go”, I knew he was giving me an Instant Message. The song’s lyrics are, “Oh no, you never let go, through the calm and through the storm. Oh no, you never let go, every high and every low. Oh no, you never let go, Lord, you never let go of me!” Because of that song, I knew to cry out to God in my fear, and when I cried out in my heart, God heard and reassured me.
Sometimes I see the silliest images of God in my mind. But then again, maybe this was the perfect mental picture. God knew my need, and in His generous grace, peppered with a sense of humor, He gave me an imagined scenario that provided the way to soothe my fear. He was my peace.

Hubby set a much slower tempo for the ride home on the well worn and twisting road, meandering through the low desert. The slower pace allowed for viewing tiny, shell pink wildflowers waving by the roadside; slithering, russet color snakes; lizards whose color blended into the ash gray stones. God was there to be seen in all His creative glory, His artistry on display in the color palette of the land.

That day, on the back of a motorcycle, God soothed my fear and reassure me that He never lets me go. That’s a lesson learned, and applied.