Rough Christmas.

No words.

Come back in a few weeks.

Just Like You

By now, most readers of this blog realize that I am a childfree adult. That was not by choice, but it is what it is. Every so often I wonder what it would be to have a child of my own. I wondered this yesterday as I cleaned up the guest room after Briana (Stepdaughter #2). I could have throttled her--stuff everywhere, dirty bed sheets, bits of paper and wrappers on the floor, bags of whatnot on the table and goodness knows what under the bed. I aired my feelings in the silence of the house, muttering threats and accusations aloud as I vacuumed. Yet the thought of hearing her voice on the phone saying the predictable, "Barbara, did you miss me?" makes me laugh and melt all at once.

Most of what I said in anger yesterday is what I heard my own mother say to me about being a mother. So I guess stepmothers have some small idea of what motherhood is about. But there is still something missing. I can't look into the face of a child and see myself. I can't hear my daughter muttering just like I do. I will not have the opportunity to see how my children might mirror me. There is no miniature Barbara who will remember me singing "Beyond the Blue Horizon" over the sink, or singing "La Dona Mobile" in the shower, a la Pavarotti. What I do will die with me most likely.

Oh well, it's all been said before, and there's no use in grousing about it. Maybe I've thrown myself into teaching, loving, and mentoring my students because they do stand in for children in some sense. At least, I can leave something of myself behind for the world in the students I train--at least, so I've thought.

Tonight, I checked my email before going to bed. There was a note from Jocelyn, one of my students:

Dear Barbara,
Thank you for your patience in guiding my work with clients as well as myself in the past 6 months. I feel so blessed to be working in the same site with such an amazing person like you are. I look up to you as a model and I truly hope that one day I can become as incredible as you are.
Hugs,
Jocelyn

I have a fan.

It warms my heart to get an email like this, particularly after my previous blog entry--that some of my university students are hopelessly juvenile. But Jocelyn is an excellent student and has lots of natural talent. She will go far beyond me in skills and achievement. When I watch her talk with clients, I see myself 20 years ago. When she gets excited and regales me with stories of "...what the family did when I said that!" I hear my own once-youthful voice. When Amanda tells me, "The whole time I was sitting there [in therapy] thinking, what would Barbara do here? I tried to be just like you right there" --I am initially shocked but complimented and cheered. I am relevant to the younger generation in some way. I could not be more deeply moved.

So, close to Christmas, I can say that I am forever grateful for the students whom God has placed in my path. I am thankful for their confidence, their receptive faces, for the way they challenge me with "the hard questions," their tears of defeat and fear, and the hugs and kindness they have shown me this last year. They shall never read this, as none of my students know of this site. But my heart thanks them, and my mouth says the words: "I am blessed by you, indeed."

Thank you, Jocelyn. God bless you again and again.

Grades

found here

This time of year always gives me fits. I'm an educator of university students. One would think that they would be mature, responsible, accountable, timely--all the things that their younger high school counterparts are not known for.
But at this time of year there seems to be no difference between the two.

I recall the first paper I read in my university teaching career. There was an odd, lurching quality to it. The writer was not articulate in class, nor was she particularly astute. And yet her paper contained both brilliant observations and ponderous, inane remarks. Bells went off in my head. I wondered if she had plagiarized.
After a trip to the library to find the one cited work in her paper, I opened the book to a page from which she had copied several paragraphs, verbatim. I was stunned. Now I had the most unpleasant task of confronting her about engaging in behavior that is defined as academic dishonesty.
When I called her in, I first asked her if she would please define plagiarism. She did that correctly. Then I handed her a copy of her paper in which I had highlighted every remark I could find that had been plagiarized from the library book. I asked her to explain what I was seeing.
This was the point at which my lofty notions about being a university professor took on a more realistic perspective.
After a few moments of thinking about her paper, she volunteered, "I don't think that the woman who wrote this for me understood what plagiarism is."
This was an intriguing twist.
"And why did someone else write your paper?"
"Because I have cancer and had too much going on to write it."
"What kind of cancer do you have?"
"It's a kind you don't know anything about."
Do tell.

Suddenly, in my mind I was back in third grade, standing in the cloak room of our two-room schoolhouse. Miss Lawrence was standing over me menacingly with one hand on my shoulder.
"Why did you put grass down Bernice's pants?"
"Because...well..."
"Don't you know that's not a nice thing to do and it made her cry?"
"Well...I thought she wouldn't mind it." Lie! I was teasing a defenseless, slow girl and could offer no other lame excuse than that.
"How would you like it if someone did that to you?" Miss Lawrence's mouth was very tight around the edges.
"I don't think I'd mind too much."
And around we went. I was fighting for all I was worth to go toe-to-toe with Miss Lawrence and she was trying to get me to admit my wrongdoing and repent. Neither of us got what we wanted at that moment. I know that Bernice surely didn't. She picked grass out of the back of her pants for several hours that afternoon, sitting right up there in the second row of desks at the front of the room.

And my plagiarizing student wasn't about to give in, either. Even when I sent her to the dean's office for a formal reprimand, she told me that she didn't appreciate having her reputation tarnished with allegations of misconduct. I could have wrung her neck.

I'm sitting her at my desk with two class rosters in front of me. Students have been told from the beginning of the term that they MUST turn in four types of paperwork by December 8th in order to get credit for their practicum course. This instruction was given before class and in two subsequent mass emails from my office. These are master's and doctoral level students. Sixteen (16) out of 53 students did not get their paperwork in to me on time. So I'm assigning 16 (count them) incompletes for this class. When I spoke with two students today, whose paths I crossed, one looked blankly at me as though I was addressing her in Swahili, and the other girl blanched and begged mercy. But 16 of these mature, adult students, will get an incomplete and a written reprimand.

Hhrmph. @%#*$!.

It will all be over tomorrow.

Kitty Boy

My friend, Shirley, excitedly told me today that she just picked out a cat at the local humane society and will be taking him home after he is neutered. She was thrilled.
I remember when I was first teaching, Shirley moved in with me to go to graduate school at my university. She had never had a cat and I had Zita--a black beauty with green eyes. Zita was 10 years old and very devoted to me. I could talk to her in a squealy voice and she would flop over on her back and look up at me, begging to have her tummy scratched.

Shirley was taken with Zita. She watched me talk with her, call to her, sleep with her, feed her, cut her claws, and last but not least, be her cat mom. She told me once that I was the one who taught her how to take care of a cat since she just had no idea of what was possible.

So when Shirley and I went to get a litter box and cat food today, while her little cat was in surgery, I felt a bit like an auntie or something, helping her select what she needed for her upcoming cat-motherhood. By looking on the website at the humane society, I think the buff colored cat at the beginning of this entry is said cat baby.

It is hard for many people to understand what having a cat means to single women--or particularly women like me, who have never had the privilege of having babies. We talk to them, explaining all the reasons why we must not have them fishing in the toilet bowl or climbing the Christmas tree. They look at us soberly and then do whatever they jolly well please. But they sleep with us--up against us in beds that are often too small for the both of us--and they choose the place that suits them best--not us: between our legs, under our chin, or inside the covers, occasionally kneading against parts of us that are not claw-proof. Their sunny little faces are full of mischief and at other times, sublimely content.

Zita used to hide in the shower behind the curtain and once I was occupied with shall we say, serious business, she would burst through the curtains, bounce off the wall about knee high, and fly out the door with her back in a frantic S-shape. Then there's Otis, who sat in the bathtub tonight whilst I removed all the caulking with a putty blade. Never mind the flying bits and old caulk. There he sat as pieces whizzed past his head. He occasionally batted a more interesting piece across the tub, but otherwise just sat very close under my arms and looked either at my face or watched the putty knife peeling away old caulk. I just wonder what was going through his little brain.

They're little delights, these cats of ours. I'm so grateful that we are able to enjoy their light heaviness against us, be chased by them, and sleep with them. They make our lives happier just by being their sweet, contrary, and sweet selves.

Rules

The story is told of three children whose mother mandated that coats were to be removed and laid across the table every day when they got home from school. She would then hang them up about an hour or so later.

One day, the children came home, took off their coats and laid them across the table. "Mom," one of them asked, "Why do we lay our coats across the table instead of hanging them up? Everyone else hangs their coats up when they get home, but we have to lay them on the table. Why?"

Mom said, "I don't know why...I guess it's because that's what we did when I was growing up and it's just a habit."

"Why did you do it when you were little? We don't want to do it anymore."

"Well," mom began. "I suppose I could ask mother about this. She'd know why we did it." So she rang up her mother and asked her about it.

"Mama, why did we have to always remove our coats and lay them on the kitchen table when we got home from school?" There was a long silence and Mama replied, "It's because that was the rule when we were growing up, so I did it with you because I thought that it was a good way to do things."

Mom asked, "Do you have any idea why Gramma asked you to do that?"

"I don't know," Mama replied. "But I can ask her. I don't know if she can remember why, but I can ask her." So the next visit to the convalescent hospital where Gramma lived, Mama asked her about the coat question.

"Mother, do you remember when we were children, and we came home from school--is there anything you recall about what you made us do then?"

Gramma thought about it for several minutes, her mind going back to the old country kitchen with the pot-bellied stove in one corner. "Oh yes. You used to go straight out and feed the chickens after school and Randolph practiced the piano."

"No Mother. I mean..." Maybe Mother wouldn't remember. "As soon as we got home you made us lay our coats across the kitchen table and you put them away later. Do you remember that?"

Recognition flickered across Gramma's face. "Oh yes. I remember that we did that for awhile."

"Didn't we do it all the time?" Mama asked. "Because Patsy has the kids doing it and they don't know why and I did it with Patsy and I never gave it a thought. But why did you have us do it?"

Gramma chuckled. "You had the kids do it? Oh good night!" She began laughing out loud. "Don't make them do that. Tell Patsy to stop it!" And again she laughed outright. "Oh Honey, there was an outbreak of head lice at the school. The teacher sent home a note to us saying to look through your scalps to see if there were any nits on your head. But I didn't want to embarrass you children with that. So instead, I asked you to lay your coats with the sheepskin collars, across the table with the collars near the stove. My thinking was that if you had head lice, the heat from the stove would drive them off the collars onto the black wool of the coat and I could see if you had lice that way." She laughed again, "For goodness sake, I think we can stop doing it now!"

Three generations of kids following through, now putting their coats on the table in the dining room, far away from a stove or heat. No lice would be seen on the white and pale blue polyester Columbia parkas the kids were wearing now. No. Those rules were for children in another era, living under different circumstances.

I tell this story here because we are all caught up doing things by habit, governed by rules set long ago: the rituals we have during the holidays, the way we speak to other people, what we say off the cuff to neighbors. It is the principle of old rules that we need to take with us and apply to today's life. The literal rule may have no meaning, and even be laughable in today's society. We have friends who are different than the ones who made the original rules, who treat us differently than the old relationships that we still react to. We are now adults with the skillset of grown up people, and capable of creating our own rules for how we behave. The old rules are not bad: they just need to be revised and reapplied. It's the principle that counts, not always the exact action that we see.

Embarrassing!

If my understanding of the English language causes surprise in my stepdaughter by colliding with her generation's understanding of various words, imagine what my older friend's comments do to me.

I have a wonderful friend who is 83 years old. She grew up in Chelmsford, England. Her vocabulary, and many of her attitudes are quite Victorian. I think she's charming. She's taught me many things, just by being who she is. And I've learned some hilarious expressions from her as well.

When she is shocked about something, she'll say, "Oh my giddy aunt!" The imagery in that always makes me laugh. If someone feels smugly full of themselves she says of them, "I think someone fancies their lemon drops."

I enjoy the decidedly British usage of her words: she gets cross with people; she carries an invalid pass (handicap tag for her mirror) in her car; the neighbor's cat makes a terrible row. She uses a tea cozy and offers her friends a cuppa. Hearing her speak gives me a sense that I am visiting England.

One day my friend called to tell me that she'd had some water leakage disaster in her apartment. She'd had a plumber come in to repair something major. As he worked on the pipes, he seemed rather depressed and began telling my friend all of his woes.

"A terrible situation he has, with his wife wanting to leave him and having an invalid child. Sad, really." She paused, thinking about his sad tale. "He told me as he was leaving that he felt better after talking with me."

That was so like my friend. She is wonderful at listening and nurturing people.

"So as he was leaving, I told him to keep his pecker up. Life would be getting better for him."

I sucked in a lungful of air. Oh my goodness. "Did you really say that?"

"Yes. But I don't think he thought well of it. He gave me the most unusual look and left in a hurry."

"Well..."

"Barbara, why do you think he would do that?"

A few explanations and howls of laughter later, she got it. And when she got it, she was delighted with the shock quality of her comment, even though telling someone to "keep your pecker up" was common and acceptable back in London during the 30s. Just not now, and not in America.

It reminded me of a family we knew as children. The parents had immigrated from Australia and provided no end of amusement to my mother, for some reason. She was unaccustomed to hearing their accent and it was a matter of comment almost every time we spent time with the family. Our fathers looked alike and served at church together in a similar capacity. (and they both fell asleep sitting up on the rostrum at church, much to our chagrin). Mother was surprised to have the husband kiss her every time he saw her. She was shocked when the wife asked mother once for "...a clean nappy because Andrew has pissed himself again."

The story I recall about the woman in this family is one that always makes me smile. The husband was a scientist in a large, prestigious university. He bought a house for the family close to his work. Because of the proximity, and his warm nature, he invited his colleagues over for lunch one day. He was a vegetarian back in the 60s, when few people were, and his colleagues wanted to see what he ate. So he invited them home.

The day they were to have lunch, they all piled into two cars and drove the few blocks over to his home. Just as they were all getting out of the cars, Elizabeth came trotting into the driveway from the street. She'd been out jogging and had just made it home. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I'm all knocked up!" as she reached out to shake the first man's hand. Her visitor's eyes popped and they all were speechless. Clearly, her comments were not what they had expected.

It can be humiliating to stumble into something like this--as the one speaking--and not know why people fall into silence or gales of laughter. I went to Ireland once for a speaking engagement over 10 days. I became acquainted with a number of wonderful people who helped host the event at which I spoke. In addition to loving Ireland, the manner of speaking and the accent, the people were warm and delightful. One evening, on the way to the conference hall, my driver stopped to pick up Eddie, who was hitch hiking into town to hear me. We chatted and laughed heartily all the way to our destination.

Later, as I was speaking that night, I began to mention individuals by name in the crowd. "And there's Eddie. We gave him a ride tonight on the way here." 300 pair of eyes bulged and looked wonderingly over at Eddie, who was turning a deep shade of red. It was deathly silent. I got back to my topic and stayed there for the rest of the evening.

Later, an older Irish gentleman sidled up to me and explained that the Irish say that they give someone a lift, but never a ride. Giving someone a ride has sexual connotations to it. So I had just announced to this crowd that I had had sex with Eddie in the car on the way over to my talk that night. No wonder he was mortified. I could have collapsed from embarassment.

The rate at which a person can mature is directly proportional to the embarrassment he can tolerate. Douglas Engelbart.

Ho Ho Ho!

This week we took stepdaughters one and two out for dinner to celebrate the completion of the first quarter of the year for one, and the first college quarter ever, for the other. They were in fine feddle, picking through their Italian meal in a five star restaurant. As we were waiting for the waiter to bring our desert, I reached into my purse and brought out a cellophane bag of chocolates, with a jaunty red ribbon tied around it that said, "Ho Ho Ho" on it. One of my colleagues had given it to me earlier in the day and this seemed to be the perfect time to try one of the Dove chocolates.
The ribbon was a beautiful shade of red and had wire in the edges, so it could be bent into lovely curls. I unfurled it and stretched it out on the table.
"Look at this," I said, holding it up for the girls to see. "Isn't this a sweet little gift?"
Briana's eyes bulged and a look of horror crossed over her face. "Did a student give you that?" she asked cautiously.
"No. Another teacher did."
She regarded the ribbon for a moment and added, "What an awful thing to give someone!"
Now I was surprised. "Why?" I asked. "It was really nice of her. I love chocolate."
"Ho Ho Ho?" she asked, slowly, her voice pregnant with suggestion.
I scrunched my forehead, thinking. What on earth could be wrong?

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You dork, Briana."
Briana drew back with a suddenly flushed face. "Sarah, you don't give someone a gift that says you're a 'ho on it."

Leaping across the generation gap, I finally understood what she saying. The only 'ho she knew about was from rap music (ho = a crass reference to a woman of sorts).

Oh my word.

"Are you kidding? Santa Claus says "Ho, ho, ho!"" I remonstrated. "There's nothing wrong with a ribbon that says "Ho, ho, ho!""
"Like you don't know that," Sarah elbowed Briana and looked away with disgust.

The conversation disolved into nothingness as we savored the chocolates. When the waiter came a few moments later with our tiramisu and chocolate mystery desert, "ho, ho, ho" was not on the radar screen. For the girls. But I thought about it the rest of the evening.

I am now on the other side of the great generation divide. I am officially middle-aged. Given my options, I don't think I'd rather be anywhere else.

What am I supposed to do?

There are times when it is hard to know what to do or what choices to make. Several months ago I met with a student who, when she met me, fairly shouted, "Barbara, I know now why I met you. You are in my life to be my mentor." I didn't have a sudden rush of positive feelings, but since she approached me, and since I work in higher education, I felt duty bound to be of help to her.
I also greatly admired her for being so forthright about seeking out what she wanted, at the risk of looking silly.

So I've been meeting with this young woman every week for an hour. It's not for therapy; it's for talking about whatever she wants to talk about. She'd like to go back to her home country and start an educational institution for impoverished women who face a future of near slavery and abuse. It's a marvelous goal and I've done all I can to encourage her in setting everything in motion. So we've talked about how to realize her dream: go talk to the dean, talk to people who can help her set up a workable curriculum, find a grant, work with a benefactor to help fund her students, etc. It's been very exciting.

And I started feeling beyond my depth. I had no answers for her. I know nothing about starting schools. I'm a simple country girl from Upstate New York who lives very humbly in a fast-paced world. As I've listened to my student every week, I've wondered to myself whether or not our time is serving her well.

She's very excitable, eager to create helpful programs for her compatriots, --and she wants to do it all last month! There are days when she comes to see me when I can't interject a comment for a good 25 minutes, so ebullient is she. So I sit back and wait, fighting the tenseness in my shoulders and my shallow breathing as I try not to feel impatient. She is going so fast, almost as though she is trying not to give a moment to her fears. Or that she feels that if she can plan everything out herself, it will naturally, happen. When finally she stops, she looks at me with expectation, but with some disgust--maybe that she's talked so long, or that she knows that her excitement will be difficult to translate into action, or bracing herself for a rebuttal from me.

Every week I hear myself saying the same things:
Knock on every door and then wait.
Don't be afraid to take risks in asking people to help you.
Ask God and see what He opens up for you.
Keep your determination to help your people at home.
Seek out ways to be content while you wait.
Line up options and then wait.
Recognize that wherever you go next (after graduation) may be the perfect training experience for you to run a school.
Wait.
Pray.
Wait.
Stay active.
Keep faithful.
Wait.
Set things up that can help.
Wait.
Wait...

Wouldn't it be nice, if, as an old pastor from my subculture used to say, "...God could just throw a brick at you with a note tied on it?" I would love it. For people who are not used to a God or Higher Power who actually does something when they ask, this can be agonizing--an exercise in futility. What am I supposed to do? Unless one has a history of seeing the providence of God in situations that open up fortuitously and has experienced that stretch of faith, waiting brings up all the doubts and old stuff of the past, like nothing else. So I try to support her during these days, as she tries to create this school. Part of the challenge is keeping her from going off the deep end with her anxiety. And part of it is helping her to wait until the plans and connections she has made have ripened into reality.

Any more, I end up saying the same things every week. "Cecilia, I can tell you one thing without any shadow of doubt whatsoever. It's something I know is more true than the fact that I'm sitting here. And that is, that God is absolutely trustworthy. Keep setting things up and investigating possibilities. But you are working too hard creating options for your life and then asking God to choose one of them for you. Just ask Him to show you what to do, make the best choices you can with what you have to work with, keep praying, and wait to see what will happen. You will know exactly what to do at the right time."

Cecelia squirms in her chair and launches off verbally in another direction. Then she stops short and says, "I know. I just hate this waiting stuff. It's horrible."
"Yes, but you will not rush into doing something that is foolish and ill-advised, and you will have more options, the longer you wait. If you are to go a certain direction or make a certain choice, you will know it and do it before it disappears."
"Do you think?"
"No. I know it."
She sighs, frowns and looks at me with that same expression of disgust from earlier.
"I think you need to be my therapist, Barbara."
"No. I can't do that. It's not ethical to provide therapy to my students."
"But I don't take any classes from you."
I regard her the same way every week: sideways, looking up through my eyebrows. "Cecelia, just wait. You will see what you need to do next." She is a master of changing topics, and like a waterbug, flits across conversations with lightning speed.
"Cecelia, slow down. You will know what to do."

So we sit together every week and ponder what to do next. That's her story.
Mine is that we sit together every week and share the unfixability of her situation. She needs to sit and wait. She doesn't graduate for six more months. She will be fine. She will know what to do, and everything will come together for her because everything has ripened into reality at the right time.

I know it like I know few other things in this world.

Forgive Me

One time I was invited to address a group of Christian singles on the topic of forgiveness. Going to singles events was not high on my list of priorities, but speaking was. So I went to great pains to put together a scripturally based, very convincing presentation about what forgiveness means and how to do it.
People loved it. I was pursued by a bunch of single people (men and women) who appeared to want a romantic relationship with me. I dodged them all and came home alone.

Later that same day, I was reflecting on the meaning of forgiveness and praying about my day. It suddenly struck me that I had harbored mean and angry feelings toward a former boyfriend who should have asked my forgiveness, but never did. I was outraged by his lack of concern for my feelings--feelings that had been dashed to smithereens when he was diagnosed with active AIDS, contracted from another man. Now he was in the hospital for what would be the last time, and I was trying to cope with the ignominy of having dated a gay man in front of my entire community. I was livid. He should have at least apologized for using me as a front. He could have told me from the outset that he was gay and that he merely wanted to have my friendship. He could have told me about his ever-present male friend and I would have stepped aside. He shouldn't have lied and tried to convince me that he was straight. But he did none of these things and I was duped and angry. I was waiting for him to confess his behavior before I would deign to forgive him. And I was becoming more and more emotionally disconnected on the inside. It's not smart to wait for someone else to ask forgiveness first because then you can't move ahead unless they do. Holding myself hostage like that was not good emotionally, socially, or spiritually. This is not how God does forgiveness with us. He offered it to us before we were capable of knowing it.

I had clearly not forgiven him and I needed to be forgiven for my resentment of him. So that night, accompanied by much tearfulness, I wrote him a letter in which I asked him to forgive me for my fury toward him. It was now my firm resolve to forgive him, but it is a process--a gift from God--and I could only give him little bits of forgiveness now. The relief I felt was enormous, although I assumed that he'd be put off by my letter.

But it was enough for him. He thanked me over and over for my letter even though he never apologized. When he died a few weeks later I knew that he didn't feel under condemnation from me. My bitterness was gone. I was hurt and confused, but not hideously angry at him.

Why do I tell this story here? Because we are all in desperate need of forgiveness--those who hurt us and we who are hurt by them. When someone does something hurtful to us we both can become entangled in a circular pattern of resentment and non-forgiveness. It is only when we recognize the darkness of our own hearts that we can extend forgiveness to anyone else. Only when we realize how much in need of forgiveness we are, that we can give that to someone else.

Today my heart is sagging because I need forgiveness from somebody else. I have been vindictive and mean. My behavior was unacceptable and I am guilty of treating someone in a way that they didn't need to be treated. I am humbled in the knowledge that when someone was mean to me, I was mean back to them. I was wrong, just like they were. Part and parcel of being human. Time to reach for the Divine.

Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. Matthew 6:12

Hyacinths

If thou of fortune be bereft

And of thy store there be but left

Two loaves, sell one and with the dole

Buy hyacinths to feed the soul

I don't know who wrote this, but I know that I grew up hearing my father repeat it frequently. Whenever he'd buy something that was not a necessity, he'd grin at mother and repeat this poem. "It's hyacinths!" he'd explain.
That poem has stuck with me. In fact, I use it in couples therapy a lot, of all places.

When life takes hold and we are caught up in the daily grind of making a living, keeping the kids in clothes (that they'll want to be seen in and that we can afford), caring for elderly parents or just trying to keep up with the mountain of laundry, we can completely lose sight of hyacinths. What I mean is that we can easily get so bogged down by living from necessity to necessity (time or material goods) that we fail to nurture our soul or the soul of our spouse.

John, one of my former clients, recently emailed me and asked me how he and his wife could keep from fighting. We'd ended our course of couple therapy on a good note. They'd made excellent progress and felt satisfied with the way they were now able to relate and communicate with each other. And now there had been a fresh outbreak of arguments. "How can I make Marissa truly know that I love her and that I'm attracted to her?" He felt that he had somehow fallen down on his part. A very logical fellow, I could see how he could view affectionate lingering through the lens of cold time efficiency.

Marissa needed hyacinths.
I wrote John a lengthy treatise about how to deal with his situation and ended with this:

"Most women realize their husbands love them, but very few hear it enough. Even fewer feel appreciated by their husbands. Those women who often hear how much they are loved and appreciated are very happy women. Marissa needs hyacinths to feed her soul--things that aren't practical: poems, little notes in her pocket or on her pillow, a passing hug and kiss, comments, the gift of time.
So let the grass in the backyard grow up to your knees if you must, but sit and watch the sunset with Marissa, or in passing give her a quick massage across her neck and shoulders, or when she's washing dishes walk up behind her and put your arms around her and kiss her neck or just hold her to you. She needs to know--to feel--that if you could take all the women in the world and line them up, you'd come back to her every time."
Verbal hyacinths are very powerful indeed.


In the 1982 movie, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Sir Percy Blakeney declared his love for Marguerite in a most outspoken manner. When Marguerite remonstrated with him, he said expansively, "If I were to tell you that I adore you, would you have me do so stintingly? Or would you have me declare it as I feel it--with all my heart?"
There they are: hyacinths aplenty.

Material goods are necessary. But our souls shrivel without hyacinths.
Show me a person who knows they are loved and I will show you someone with a handful of hyacinths.

Living in joy

This is a picture of my parents on their 56th wedding anniversary. They are wearing matching shirts that my mother made for them, and mother has on the orchid that my father got for her to wear to church with her suit. This was my father's favorite picture. I came across it last night as I was looking through some files on my computer and it caught me up short. We had this picture sitting out for my father's memorial service.

It breaks my heart.

But this entry isn't about my sadness per se. It's about the process we all go through as we begin to realize that the world is a difficult place. When we lose our adolescent idealistic ideas about how wonderful and painfree this world is.

Last evening, Sam and my two older stepdaughters went out for an early dinner. In the course of conversation Sam mentioned that we had fallen into bed the night before around 8:30. Stepdaughter #1 rolled her eyes and shook her head with that I can't believe it! expression on her face (she does this better than anyone I've ever known). What followed was predictable as rain.
"Dad, that's really sad. I'll never do that!"
"Oh, you can say that now because you're young."
"No dad, I can't sleep before 8:00, except if I'm really tired!" (he had just told her that we were exhausted...)
"No, you wait. One day you'll do the exact same thing as we did. You'll see."
"No dad, you always say that and it's just not true. I'll never be like you."
"Oh yes you will! When you get older you'll do the same thing."
Sam took a breath and I knew what would come next: "I used to say to myself, "I'll never be like Grampa." And here I am, doing a lot of things just like he did. And you'll do things just like me, too, even though you'd rather die. You'll understand that when you get older."
She eyed him with disdain (another thing she does extremely well) and shook her head again, looking off in the distance as if to purge the image of Sam she had in her mind and escape such unpleasantness.

Watching her last night, it was clear that she still feels that she has the ultimate control over Life. That if she wills something, it happens or doesn't happen. That pain occurs from poor choices only, and since she's so responsible, this won't happen to her. That she will live forever. That painful joints and gray hair happen to others, but it will never happen to her. She is 21. She is supposed to feel this way to a large degree.
Looking at her, I wondered if I was envious of her straightforward sense of expectation of what her life would be like, or if I am merely still caught in a wave of grief from my father's death. Or perhaps after seeing so much senseless suffering and loss, I expect that pain is inevitable in life on this earth and that we can't paddle our own canoe on the course we'd always choose.

I used to have a very starry-eyed notion of how life worked. If we are good, only good will happen. This idea is an example of justice philosophy: the idea that bad things don't happen to good people. If I prayed enough and was living the way I believed that God wanted me to, that nothing bad could happen to me. I would be under the constant watchcare of angels. And I couldn't in my wildest dreams, imagine myself ever aging or getting wrinkly or gray-haired.

I remember an older pastor saying things like, "We live in a vale of sorrows." I used to nod, thinking of all those other people who had losses. I didn't really understand what he was saying. But then my dear friend Maria died tragically in Yosemite, as her husband had a massive heart attack and the car plunged down a ravine. My first love had leukemia and will probably die early because of it. One of my student's husbands died last week. He was far too young to die. A beautiful woman in her late 50s who used to accompany me when I sang, had back surgery that went terribly wrong. Now she walks with her legs flayed out and she's all hunched over. Another friend had a stroke two weeks ago and lay on her bathroom floor for a day and a half until someone found her.

If you tell a person in their 80s that so-and-so dropped dead of a heart attack, they will feel sad and be surprised. But the sense of shock an elderly person feels about these things, I believe, is less than the shock that someone 18 years old would feel about an acquaintance dying. The sadness and horror would be the same, but elderly people begin to expect people to fall ill and die. Young people generally don't live with this expectation. Though not true of all older people, we seem to be able to view life more realistically: bad things happen in this world, and it is still good to be alive.

The challenge is in living with abandoned joy while realizing that there is death and suffering all around. As a Christian, I view pain and loss as the results of sin in this world. It is inevitable here. And at Christmas in particular, when Handel's Messiah is sung, the answer to living in joy surrounded by a world full of suffering becomes apparent:

Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: "Death has been swallowed up in victory.
"Where, O death, is your victory?
Where, O death, is your sting?"
The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law.
But thanks be to God!
He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
1 Corinthians 15:51-56

Change

I learned two days ago that my job description will probably change in the next couple months. There are no words to explain my relief!
In the current job I direct a teaching clinic, teach, supervise, and act as liaison with community agencies that train our students, write the yearly academic report, and try to write articles on the side. ("What side?" you rightly ask...)

I knew something was wrong Friday when I came home from work, walked in the house past Sam and said menacingly, "Don't talk to me, don't touch me, leave me alone, don't follow me. I'm in a foul mood and can't even talk. I'm so angry I could explode." I've never said that before to anyone and it was alarming. I'd spent the entire day working on an article for publication. I finally got it revised (for the third time!) and sent off to the editor for a final review. In the process of working on that article I couldn't get to the clinical things or deal with the crises in the clinic that arose. It was truly more than I could keep up with.

My chairperson called me at home that afternoon to ask me a simple question about something and I started blowing smoke at her. "This job is structured in such a way as to be impossible. It's too much for one person--maybe even two. I've found so many messes to clean up since I've taken over for the last person--isn't anyone keeping track of these kinds of things, or were you saving them up for me?" I recalled saying that about another place I'd worked. Maybe it was just me. Maybe I'd also been hired into places with the expectation of saving the day. That was told me in clear terms when I arrived here. So I gave my chair an earful.
Then I learned that she wanted me to transition to full-time teaching and get out of the clinic. Nothing could make me happier. Then I can teach clinical courses in the clinic but not be responsible for the operation of it. Even better.

There are times when life goes in funny directions. I'm thinking that the direction I'll be moving toward will be an excellent one. More to come on that.

All I Need

My friend sounded very frightened on the phone today. "I don't tell anyone this but you," she began. "Because you're my friend..." I was silent, waiting to hear this privileged information.
"Are you there?"
"Yes. I'm just waiting."
"Oh. I don't tell anyone this. But I have no food. There is absolutely nothing in the fridge, nothing for the boys to eat. All my money is gone because I was sick."
"How are the boys eating then?"
"Oh, one of them has a credit card, or they go to their father's house to eat."

I have felt rather sorry for myself over the last couple weeks. I have made sure that my stepdaughters have the things they need for school, now that Sam and I are officially responsible for their care. And I have not been able to get the things I need for myself--not to mention, tucking money away in savings. Just yesterday, I was crying against Sam's chest. "I just want something to show for all that work getting a PhD. But..." I couldn't finish.
"Is it this house?" Sam knows that this house is a daily discouragement.
"No."
"Is it not having the clothes you want?"
"Yes. ...and other things."

All of this was lost in my consternation for my friend today. I had been contemplating sending money abroad for mission work, but here seemed to be a need in my own backyard. And the fact that my clothes are out of style is irrelevant when a person I know and love doesn't have food for herself and her family.

A couple hours later, as we put bag after bag of groceries away in her sparsely furnished cupboards, I realized just how much I do have. I'm healthy, happily married, employed, fulfilled (most of the time) at my job, respected in the community, and have the knowledge that I am loved on earth and in heaven. I have all the things that really matter.

On top of having all I need, I also have the pleasure--and it is a huge pleasure--to be able to give to someone else who has a need. As a child in a financially modest home (read, poor here), I despaired that I would ever have anything to give to anyone else. My mother baked bread and gave it away, along with vegetables from the garden. And that has always been my model for generosity. But this time I had the wherewithal to go beyond that, and it was a true gift.

I told this to Sam as I explained how I had just spent all that money. He is such a dear. "Now we know why God allowed us to put away that extra money in savings, don't we?" He paused and took a breath, looking kindly at me. "There are reasons for everything. We just can't always know why at the time. But look!" He threw out his arms for emphasis. "We know about this one."

We have all we need, and now someone else does, too. I am so blessed and so grateful.

Glory

This morning I went off to church alone, as Sam and Briana were both under the weather and still in their beds. The sanctuary was full of beautiful Christmas decorations and the Advent candles were up front on a table bedecked with gold and red fabric. The choir was listed to sing Christmas music and I realized with a start that this is the first week in December, so we'd be getting to sing carols.
The deacons asked us in our row to press together and make room for two. He held up his two fingers in a peace sign and pointed to the space next to me, as he beckoned someone from the back of the church to be seated. A very large man shoved his way into the pew and sat down. I leaned over to welcome him and he looked away. He was out of breath and clearly had not liked walking down the center aisle all the way to my -pew.
Oh well. He was in church and that was what mattered.
An old friend came to the microphone with his guitar and invited the congregation to sing "Angels We Have Heard on High." I love that song because of that long "Glo-ho-or-or-orrrrr-ee-uh" at the end. It's always been a challenge of mine to see if I can hold out the note all the way to the end of the phrase instead of gasping in the middle of the word (a pet peeve of mine).
As I started singing the second verse ("Shepherds, why this jubilee?") I heard a loud soprano voice rising over everyone else's singing. It had a bit of a hooty quality to it, but the woman was spot on pitch. I was having such a swell time singing myself, that it wasn't until the second "Glo-ho-or-or-orrrrr-ee-uh" that it dawned on me that the soprano voice belonged to none other than the man sitting next to me. As I glanced sideways at him I could see an acqaintance on the other side of him looking at him with an expression of wild surmise. He was enjoying himself, eyes closed, leaning back in his pew and this high voice coming out of his puckery, cherubic lips.
I almost choked.

As I came to the last chorus, I began thinking that it's only because Jesus came to this earth that we have something to be happy about. He has broken the power of evil and sin and death in the human race. Because of His life, death, and resurrection, all of us can live in hope. We know that this is not all there is.
The man next to me was singing like he realized this, too. His voice slid down about two octaves, and he and I finished out the song.

Glo-ho-or-or-orrrr-ee-uh!

Squished

"Squished," found at this interesting blog

I can't believe that it's been nearly a week that I've not been back to my blog. I've been pushing myself very hard since I have an article due on Friday, and have been working day and night to get all the revisions done. Oh, and I also have a book chapter to submit on Friday. So that's what I've been about. My free time has become squished and I am squashed under all of my responsibilities. It's a time when I wish I could be teaching instead of running a clinic, teaching courses, supervising students, making site visits, doing research, and writing.
Next week I can hang Christmas lights around the house, put up the Christmas tree and start making Christmas gifts that need to be done in one month (say it's not true!)
Don't go away! I'll be back Friday night (with great relief!)

Thanksgiving Reflection

Yesterday as I was baking my annual pumpkin cake, I heard a loud popping sound. Otis jumped and looked worriedly out the back window. I saw a wisp of smoke coming out of the neighbor's chimney and chuckled to myself about what he must have had in the fireplace to make that noise. A few minutes later I noticed another neighbor going around the house, knocking on all the windows and yelling, "Steve, are you there? ...is anyone home?" A small stream of smoke was now coming out of the back bedroom window. The vertical blinds over the sliding glass window had melted and were in a pile on the floor.
An hour and two broken windows later, the fire department and my neighbor were picking through the burnt items on the back bedroom floor by lantern light. Something had exploded in that room--his computer, I think. So today, Steve is thankful that he still has a house and that he just has smoke damage, not a total loss.
Snug in my own smoke free house this morning, snuggling Otis and inhaling the warm smells of good things in the oven, I am grateful for many, many things. May all of you have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday, and bask in all that you are privileged to enjoy.

Incidentally, you might enjoy this cake. I can't make a crust to save my life, so a pumpkin pie is an ordeal in my book. But this cake is like a custard with a lovely crust below and above. It's from my friend, Martha and it has no calories:

Mix 1/2 cup melted butter and 1 egg with 1 package of dry yellow cake mix. Set aside 1 cup of this mixture. Press the rest into the bottom of a 9X13 glass baking dish.

Mix 1 large (29 oz.) can of pumpkin with 1 cup sugar, 2 eggs, 2/3 cup milk, and 3 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice. Add a dash of salt. Pour into baking dish over the cake mix crust.

Mix 1/4 cup sugar, 1 teaspoon of cinnamon and 1 cup of saved cake mix mixture. Crumble over top of cake. (optional: pour 1/4 cup melted butter over the top of the cake and swirl around--this really adds to calories and doesn't appreciably improve the cake, so I'm not sure why it's recommended).
Bake at 350 for 50-60 minutes, or until the cake doesn't jiggle in the middle when gently shaken. Serve warm with non-dairy topping or whipped cream.

This cake can be frozen or will store in your refrigerator for 2 weeks. Enjoy!

Old hands, new hope

From a most excellent blog with beautiful photography

Since I moved to this town five months ago, I've been making regular visits to see an elderly couple. Etta has had a stroke and doesn't get around well. She spends most of her time in a recliner chair in the den. Jack however, is a going concern. Every morning he drives 2 miles to pick up the young woman who cares for Etta, brings her to the house and then takes her back home at 11:00 a.m. Then at 8:00 p.m. he picks her up again, brings her back home, where she helps Etta get ready for bed. Jack then drives her back to her own home at 9:30.

Jack is 94 and Etta is 95. They have been married for 73 years.

When I met these folks, my heart went out to them. They have no children and have lived alone in their own home for all these years. They have a beautiful condo in a gated community, and their house is spotless and comfortably furnished. No one should have to live by themselves like that with no one related to them to help them. Being the bleeding heart I am, I was immediately concerned when I first visited them. What if Etta falls on her way to the bathroom? Jack couldn't pick her off the floor. What if Jack has a heart attack while he's driving, or plows into someone with his huge boat of a car? What will she do if Jack dies? I realized that there are lots of qualities they have that my parents had: they are affectionate and live as a team. One lives for the other.

One afternoon during a telephone chat with Jack, he told me that he was grateful they could still be together in their own home. He had the slightest edge of concern in his voice as he added, "It now takes Etta 15 minutes to get to the bathroom and back. But we have to look at all that we've been given over the length of our lives, not just now."

When I visit these folks, there is not one iota of self-pity or concern about themselves. Life is what it is. They are content. Etta called me the other day to tell me that she'd found an ad in the local university paper that she felt I needed to investigate.
"Here's what it says. [I could hear papers rustling in the background]. Are you ready to write it down?"
"Yup."
He-he..."It's one of those computer addresses: double-ya double-ya double-ya dot homeseeker dot com. Does that sound right?"
"I'll check it out."
"You never know Barbara, it might be just the ticket."
"That would be wonderful."

Later in our conversation I asked her if I could bring over Thanksgiving dinner to them.
"Oh, that's sweet of you, Barbara. Let me ask Jack."
She dropped the phone onto her bosom and yelled at the top of her lungs, "Jack! Barbara wants to bring us Thanksgiving dinner. You have everything, don't you?"
A muffled response from another room.
"Okay."
"Barbara, he has everything for dinner. We're going to have turkey breast, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and string beans. Jack has everything to make a pumpkin pie. So I think we're all set. But thanks anyway!"

That dear old man is cooking their own dinner and is just as happy to do so. They are self-contained. What a miracle that is in itself. But that they can do all that they are able to do is a real testament to positive thinking, healthy living, a good relationship and faith in God. So I moved from my position of pity for them to gratitude for such examples. They don't need me as much as I need them.

I smiled as I hung up the phone. I have to figure out what I'll be cooking for our Thanksgiving dinner.

If music be the food of love, play on!

Found here

Some people seem oblivious to the sounds around them. Others thrive on chronic background music--loud, frenzied, not-listened to, pulsing music. Sam is such a person. He has ADD so having lots of auditory stimulation actually helps him focus. He gets calmer with music going full blast.

I was a single, silence-loving, book-loving, curmudgeon-introvert for 44 years. Sam's music makes me feel like I may lose control and start throwing things.

My father had a degree in music and taught band and choir in private high schools. He had a choir that made a recording of sacred choral music. We grew up hearing music--classical or sacred music--all the time. The worst musical noise we had was the cacophony of drums, bassoon, trombones, tubas, piano, french horn, bass clarinet, and lots of singing full tilt. But there was some predictability and pleasure to it. As children, it was exhilarating to find expression with my siblings with such gusto, although I recall mother blowing smoke more than once about the "confounded noise in this house!"

Sam bought a CD of two guitarist brothers last month after hearing them at an outside street concert. They sounded exotic and invigorating in the open air. But going full blast out of Sam's study, they sound like two manics on speed with ants in their pants. The volume, frenetic repetition, and lack of melody can run me right out of the house.
Oh, I like loud music. Beethoven's 1812 Overture, or Puccini's La Boheme at top levels make for a spiritual experience. I may need some extended silence to soak in the experience afterward, but these are musical numbers that one could conceivably walk away singing in one's heart. Not so with the sheer noise of the wild guitarist brothers.

Of course, not everyone likes my music, either. Sam says the relaxing music I play puts him to sleep, especially if he's driving. So we can only listen in the car to very upbeat chamber music--which I prefer over static-ridden talk shows or worse yet, station scanning (!).

Sunday morning, Stepdaughter #2 came to breakfast with her laptop and set it down next to her plate. It was playing some sort of nondescript whining, bellyaching, juvenile moaner-type singers. I gently pointed out that I had music playing already on the Bose in the corner: Bach motets. She winced, but turned off her computer and ate thoughtfully. I was so grateful to continue breakfast in peace.

My cousin used to have a fit about hearing Bach: all those bewildering chord progressions. While I felt myself ascending heavenward, she was spiraling into emotional oblivion, driven by the angst from the incessant minor chords.

Sam and I once found a wonderful Mexican restaurant in the Northwest. Thrilled to finally be free of the sallow, tasteless "Mexican" foods of the Midwest, we ordered and fell to. Almost as soon as we started eating, we both noticed the music in the place: Carribean salsa. We found ourselves eating faster and faster, gulping and gasping, as the driving rhythm of the music pushed us to speedily eat our food. We loved that place, but the music was intolerable. We eventually found another Mexican establishment that suited our musical and culinary tastes better.

I personally detest band music. Yes, my father was a band conductor and we lived and breathed John Phillip Sousa's music for years. But those tweedling, squeaking clarinets, out of tune, and the volume of band music was just more than I could ever bear.

It's interesting how each of us can be so different. I honestly have tried to assimilate and to meld to Sam's preferences in many areas of life--when they don't offend me or threaten my own tastes. I now like the music of Acoustic Alchemy, and David Benoit--both types of music that would have given my father spasms. And Sam listens to the Brandenburg Concerti and Pavarotti.

As I write, the door to my study is closed. Coming from Sam's study is some kind of drums beating that precipitously gave way to Kiri Te Kanawa singing "Sheep May Safely Graze." My blood pressure begins to return to normal and my shoulders unclench. It's a good world after all.

Big in the head

Marvelous drawing, found here

My dear friend Olga, joined Sam and me for lunch yesterday. While I was finishing up with the salad and we were alone in the kitchen, she hurriedly told me that she thought she was dying. With tears and sighs, she recounted symptoms that proved that she was hanging by a thread: bad taste in her mouth, bloating and gas, a 22 pound weight loss in two months, grinding pain under the right part of her ribcage--it all added up to her imminent demise.

I don't mean to poke fun at Olga, because if those things were happening to me and I had no medical knowledge, I could think I was dying, too. The problem is that she has paid $300 in physician visit copayments in the last month, and is getting nowhere. Her doctor has told her that she is being hysterical, that it's all in her head, that it is gastritis, etc. When she told the doctor that many of her friends are physicians, he relented and ordered an ultrasound. "No gall bladder problems, see?" was his only comment after noting that there were no stones in her gall bladder. When Olga asks questions he acts as though he doesn't hear her. He doesn't respond to her comments and often, doesn't give her eye contact. He has in a word, grossly mismanaged her care, in addition to misrepresenting a noble profession.

I took out my 1977 medical-surgical nursing textbook and read to Olga all the symptoms of gall bladder disease. I recalled my rather straight-laced nursing teacher saying in a hushed voice, "Fat, forty and farty--the cardinal symptoms of gall bladder disease." We had cracked up to see Mrs. Reinbaum say farty.
"That's everything I have!" Olga exclaimed, after hearing the list of symptoms. "What's wrong with the doctor?" She has told him all of her symptoms, asked about various forms of treatment, and asked for a referral. She has even begun reading medical textbooks. As the problem has only increased in terms of pain, lack of appetite and bloating, she has gone back the doctor several times. She only gets responses grudgingly--nothing for pain, no anti-inflammatory, nothing for the "gastritis" she supposedly has, no concern. Since Olga is an immigrant, she is especially vulnerable to being taken advantage of. I won't stand for it.

Needless to say, I'm going with her to her next medical appointment. There is no excuse for what has happened to Olga. It is classic litigation material and I have no reservations about expressing this. This physician practices out of an HMO that has a reputation in the community for stringing patients along, taking money for needless tests, not providing good care to their patients. I anticipate a huge lawsuit one day that will shut down the entire enterprise.

The lesson I take from this is the realization that when we don't talk to other people and keep everything inside, the issues we hold close to us becomes "big in the head." That is, they take on lives of their own and become overwhelming. Since we don't have the opportunity to get a reality check from anyone else, we think the worse, assume that we are somehow to blame, and begin trotting out all of our weaknesses and propensities just that implicate us. As we circle the drain, so to speak, we recite our beliefs about the issue, our history, and all the facts because we can hardly believe what is happening. Nonetheless, we still go down the drain.

It is also at such times that people do rash things to try to relieve themselves of the angst they feel at carrying about such a story of doom and gloom in their head. People become suicidal, strike out in violence at other people, become hermits, tell someone off, begin planning their funeral service. Anything done to deal with a huge story in one's head will fail because it is no longer possible to think objectively or rationally about the facts. The response comes from the bigness of the problem, not the problem itself.

Children who grow up in abusive homes often have trouble with this. Shame keeps them from finding out from someone else how the rest of the world lives, how parents behave, and what is typical relational behavior. Instead, they develop sensitivities to anything that reminds them of the abuse. They may be people we consider "touchy" or they may be standoffish: they don't want people to think they're less than anyone else, or that they come from a dysfunctional background. Or they might become abusive themselves as a way to feel less vulnerable to being victimized again. Such people also don't know that what has happened to them doesn't necessarily mean that they're defined by it. They believe that the family issues that loom so large on their horizons--complete with all the pain and emotional blind spots--are visible to everyone else. But it is just the irrational, touchy, lashing out behavior that tells people something deeper is amiss.

Stories of where we come from can indeed become very big in our heads if we don't invite anyone else into our lives.

So Olga realizes today that she is not dying. She has epigastric pain, but she knows what it is now. The story in her head has gone from watermelon size to the size of a pea. I am revved up to take on her doctor. I imagine that she slept very well last night. I know that I did.

Concrete things

This is what my yard looked like after I went after it yesterday. For some of us who work with our heads for a living, and whose work does not always give immediate results, it is gratifying to do various types of physical labor. Because then one can see a product--something concrete and satisfying from one's labor. For me, that means cooking. It also means hacking and chopping tree branches.

Yesterday afternoon, I came home early and wanted to crash. But my grief had me feeling pent up inside. I needed something to work it out. Our rental property just happens to be covered with trees, bushes, and all manner of vines, and overgrown whatnot. The man who owns the property told us to have at it and do whatever we felt we wanted with it. So I had no end of branches to cut off. With a small handsaw I chopped down a 20 foot Hibiscus tree. The flowers were lovely, but the roots go under the foundation and the branches almost completely obscure a window at the side of the house. After that, I hit the tangerine tree with pruning scissors and saw. That tree has been full of old dry leaves in clumps, all through the branches. I went after it with a broomstick and knocked down dust and bits of twigs and leaves. It now looks like a half-way normal tree.

The dead peach tree went down with little fanfare. I started hacking at what used to be someone's Christmas tree. It had become half dead and had very snarly branches with lots of dry, dead pine needles. Fortunately for it, the blade on my saw gave out before I could chop it down. I'll save that for another day of horticultural Rambo frenzy. For now, the backyard is littered with heaps of dead branches, leaves, and logs.

I went to sleep last night around 9:00 p.m., completely exhausted.

I miss my father, and the knowledge that I can't call him tomorrow afternoon as I usually do, leaves me feeling empty. It seems that grief makes abstract, higher thought almost impossible. My head feels vacant, and I've been having a difficult time attending to very complicated tasks at work. This surprises me, because I have almost always felt invincible; that nothing could ever knock me sideways. But the death of my father has left a gaping hole in my heart and I marvel at the depth of my sadness.

Thankfully, life is full of all sorts of concrete tasks that I can accomplish. Today my office manager took a day off. I went after the office cupboards (that probably haven't been cleaned for four years). Three huge trash barrels later, and many amused guffaws from my students, the place was much cleaner and in order.

It is evening now, and I've cooked up some Moroccan Stew: eggplant, zucchini, currants, cinnamon, yams. Another concrete activity. It smells lovely.

Otis is on my lap as I write, occasionally batting at the cursor moving across the computer screen. I put a piece of scotch tape on his toes and his wild foot slinging to get rid of it makes me laugh hard. I still feel Sam's hugs from an earlier snuggle. Life goes on--just more slowly and thoughtfully. And I am grateful for all I have to enjoy.

Delicious!

Today I stayed home from work. My brain is in denial that anything significant has happened to me. My body tells a very different story. One could push me over with a feather. I was awake last night at 1:30 and couldn't go back to sleep. So I opted to stay home from work just to rest.

Something that has always been therapeutic for me is baking. I made the most wonderful persimmon chocolate chip cookies. You might want to try them:

In a blender, mix together 1 cup persimmon pulp with 1 tsp. baking soda. This breaks up the pulp and integrates the soda. It will turn into a congealed mass in a few minutes.

In a bowl, mix together 1 stick of butter (1/2 cup) or margarine; 1 cup brown sugar; 1 egg. Cream together until smooth. Add persimmon mixture and blend well. Add 2 cups all-purpose flour, 1/2 tsp. cinnamon; 1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg. Mix well. Add 1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts and 1 1/2 cups chocolate chips.

Drop from teaspoon onto greased cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees for 10-12 minutes.

Next time when you'd like to make something special, try these. And have some free therapy in the baking of them!

I knew better

Hotflash found here

Last night Sam stated, "I'm craving ice cream. I'm going to Cold Stone." Not wanting to be left out, I asked for ice cream, too. "Something chocolate with nuts." And so 20 minutes later, I sat in front of the TV with my chocolate nutty ice cream watching a show about sex change operations. Since I took control of the remote for a change, Sam sullenly watched the election coverage on his computer in the study.

It seemed idyllic, but I had to pay for it. I'm menopausal. I had a hysterectomy 10 weeks before Sam and I got married. The resulting hot flashes almost ended our marriage. I couldn't stand him getting close to me in bed because I'd be too hot. I'd wake up in the night with perspiration pouring off me and shove Sam over away from me. There was no cuddling, none of the cozying up and sleeping on his shoulder that I had for so long dreamed of. On those occasions when I'd throw an arm over Sam during the night, he'd soon push it off with a phrase I heard over and over that first year: "You're sticky!" I didn't want to use hormone replacement pills because our family has a history of breast cancer. But after Sam told me that his girls complained, "She's hot all the time when no one else is!" I decided that I had endured enough. So I got a prescription for Premarin and was a happy camper for a long time.

After we moved here to the Southwest, I realized that I'd have to find a new doctor and get my Premarin prescription renewed. I didn't. So I'm not using Premarin now. And guess what? No hot flashes. Of course, that is because I went off the pills a few days before I went back east when my father died. Mother doesn't eat sugar, and I was eating rather sparingly. I knew that dairy, eggs and sugar all make hot flashes worse. So what did I eat yesterday? An omelette for breakfast (thank you, Sam) and a bowl of ice cream to end the day with.

Not only am I hopelessly congested this morning, I "flashed" all night long. Morning came too soon today. I think I'll stay home from work until my flashes become little power blips. I think the days of eating whatever I feel like, whenever I want, are officially over. We all grow up. We don't all grow responsible!

For those of you who experience power surges every so often, here's an excellent resource for you.

My quilt

My friend Lois made this quilt. Isn't it gorgeous? It's an applique quilt that won a blue ribbon this week from a group of quilters.

I wanted to take up quilting one time. My mother has made quilts out of necessity as we were growing up: quilts to keep us warm all those cold New England nights. Her quilts were heavy and had my dad's wool army blankets inside as fillers. Sleeping under one of those quilts was satisfying and very warm. In fact, I got so used to the weight of mother's quilts that when I visited other places, I couldn't sleep with light blankets over me. Something didn't feel right, so I'd put a throw rug on top of the bed so I could get the right weight over me in order to be able to sleep.

But Lois' quilt is a piece of art. I wanted to learn how to do that, too. Perhaps I will one day.
What strikes me about this quilt is how long it takes to make each square, sew it all together, and then quilt the entire piece as a whole. What tremendous patience and creativity Lois has!

I suppose that life and moving on is like the process of quilting: it is made up of pieces, each that takes time and effort to make. One part is our accomplishments in terms of career or education. Another part is our relationship with family. Yet another is composed of our friendships. Our emotional wellbeing and the efforts we put into that kind of growth is a square.

As I heal from the death of my father, I've been thinking about the kaliedascope of my life. There are several parts of life that need attention: relationship with family members, grief resolution, my own emotional health. Every day I stitch a few more patterns onto my quilt. I pray as I think about all that needs to be done on it. One day, it will be beautiful. For now, it is a work in progress, with seams askew and loose threads. But I do not work on it alone.

Our lives may seem a tangle, but as we commit ourselves to the wise Master worker, He will bring out the pattern of life and character that will be to His own glory. (Desire of Ages, E. White).

Grief

How long does grief take?

As a therapist, I have been asked that many times by numerous people. The answer is that the time required is different for every person who must experience it. And we all respond to losses in different ways. But how long will it take for me? I can't help but wonder as I observe myself, immersed in grief, yet with a lighthearted relief that I have survived a very painful experience. It seems to me that there are worse things than a death. Death is a clean-cut finish and it can be grieved because it will not change. It is final. Resolution and closure are appropriate goals.

I heard some stories yesterday in which grief has gone on and on. People were in a sort of emotional limbo, trying to figure out how to proceed. Yet they were fearful that if they pushed forward, they would lose opportunities or hope that there would be any change whatever.

There are things worse than death.

One man asked to speak with me after the seminar. Stepping into a darkened hallway, he sobbed out, "My wife died three months ago. I had to watch her suffer for years. It was so awful. ...I'm so raw and it's so painful!" I knew that wasn't why he wanted to talk with me, but he couldn't hold back this crucial information. When he saw that it was fine for him to express himself, he cried and sobbed as he explained what had happened. He had been overwhelmed trying to take care of patients whose lives were in shambles, and who could not or would not respond to his attempts to help them. He was clearly so wounded himself that he could not cope with the pain of his patients. He wept for several minutes and we stepped further into the shadows to give him privacy. I was so touched by his sorrow. It would have been second nature to gather him into my arms and hold him. But I just held his hand, listened, stayed with him, and shared his desperation.

Later, as I was getting ready to leave, a woman approached me. "I'm going to start crying and I don't want to, but here goes..." And she burst into tears. We moved into a darkened area and sat down on a bench in the church reception area. Her marriage was in trouble. She didn't know what to do. It was surrounding an issue that she could speak of to no one except her counselor. She could not hold back, and she gasped and sobbed for several minutes as we spoke together. When she finally stopped and regained her composure, she thanked me over and over for listening. Her self-imposed isolation had been broken, and the buildup of her pain had been relieved somehow just giving words to her experience. I prayed for her and she went home.

As both of these people left the building, they turned and looked back at me. The man smiled warmly and gratefully. He looked lighter. The woman was embarassed about her red eyes and only nodded as she left. It is an intimate gesture to share such deep grief with another person. I had been honored to be invited into their experiences and glad I could help relieve some of their pain.

This morning when I woke up I couldn't get out of bed. My body is telling me what my mind doesn't have awareness of: that I am grieving myself. How long does grief go on? Why is it that there is no easy way around it? When I had major surgery, I cooked a meal the day I got home. I was driving the car in a couple days (against medical advice). It was easy to bounce back. But this insidious thing holds on and shows itself in unexpected ways at unexpected times. It's pervasive enough that it has made me reevaluate every relationship that I have and every life goal and value that I possess. It's something that makes a person want to run away, to do rash things, to throw off everything that doesn't contribute to happiness or life in significant ways, to start over in some major way, to burn bridges.

In my mind's eye I see the eyes of these weeping souls of yesterday. I know that they went home afterward to put one foot in front of the other: babysteps toward the light. Their tears have warmed and instructed me. Their tears were not in vain. I can do the same.

Forgiveness

Found at Remember Rwanda

This weekend I'm in the Pacific Northwest giving a seminar to a group of Christians about forgiveness. It is interesting to see people come to these workshops wearing their frustration and defensiveness on their faces. At least, as the speaker, I can look out across the audience and see the pain and incredulity they must feel. They don't look at each other, so it's not as visible to them as it is to me.
Something really jumped out at me during last evening's talk, and that is the balance between insight and responsibility. Let me explain.

People who have been unfaired against in some manner tend to keep track of what has happened to them so they have a way of making sense of the flood of feelings they experience. They create stories about who hurt them, what it meant to them, how it has affected their lives, and the practices they have adopted in response to the hurt. People tell themselves these stories often, adding details to bolster why they do what they do or feel the way they feel. Such a story initially helps to make sense of why they feel so miserable. As time passes, these stories can take on lives of their own. It gets trotted out whenever the person feels sad about the results of being unfaired against, and it is told as justification for any number of ills in one's current situation. As it is rehearsed, the teller becomes firmly fixated in the past and unable to move ahead. They mistakenly refer to the past in order to somehow come to terms with the present. The story gets told over and over until onlookers say things like, "He really has issues with authority" or, "She has relationship problems" or "He's one of those walking wounded people." These stories get told to people hardly known to the one telling it, because the story is so tied into the individual's sense of identity that they can't explain themselves without explaining what has happened to them. It is a real turn-off to have to listen to explanations of how a person was hurt, aggrieved, frustrated--over and over and over. Grievance stories are crippling.

We all have some sort of grievance story about someone or something. It is human nature to try to understand why we are the way we are. It is shirking of responsibility to use those stories to excuse ourselves from being accountable for our behavior in the here and now. We remain trapped by the past, waiting for someone else to change before we will grow or be responsible for the way we are acting.

I have seen this happen over and over in therapy. Therapy is a place where people learn how the past has impacted the present, what their natural propensities are, and how to deal with their circumstances. But a number of people enter therapy merely to understand why they are the way they are, and then do precious little to deal with their current unacceptable behavior. They mistakenly think that it is enough merely to gain insight into themselves but they leave therapy without any substantial change. They are still prickly to deal with, abrasive, self-absorbed, and without concern for anyone but themselves. This is not successful therapy. (and many of us have been accused of providing this type of therapy when in fact, the clients drop out of therapy the minute we begin holding their feet to the fire about their resulting behavior. "I'm wounded, can't you see" is their response).

We hear theology that smacks of this idea, too. If you realize that you are a sinner, come to God, and that's all you do. Yes, because we are human we can't muster a whole lot more than that. What gets left out is that we now must walk in newness of life through the Spirit of God. We are responsible for our behavior after we come to God, through His life-changing grace. We don't rehearse how damaged we are by sin without asking God to change us. We work at it while He works within us. That's why it is called a spiritual discipline--it requires something from us.

All of us are wounded. We live in a sinful world where at times we have to come to grips with circumstances that we wouldn't wish on our worst enemies. Understanding how badly we have been hurt is not adequate. Being responsible for the way we subsequently treat others is the rest of the story that needs to be developed.

Today I hope to help our seminar attendees think about how to move beyond their grievance stories and into responsibility for their behavior. When I look into the faces of the hearers and see the "Aha!" expressions and determination to be responsible for themselves, I will know that real growth has occurred.

I'd better get out of bed and get to the church!

Resource

A Hidden Treasure

Thank you all for your support and prayers during this sad time. It is very hard, but I have been borne up by the knowledge that many people have held me close in their hearts at this time. I am so grateful.

Looking through my father's desk this afternoon, I came across an email he sent a friend about prayer. I don't know what the circumstances of his friend were that prompted the email, but it is very comforting to me as I sit in Daddy's desk chair and am surrounded with his things. My father had apparently just finished watching a Crystal Cathedral service on television in which Robert Schuler stated emphatically, "There is a blessing in unanswered prayer."

"When I was about 15 years of age I had just returned back from a two mile uphill ride on my bicycle to visit a young lady in which I was very interested. As I rode into my driveway, I got to thinking, "Lord...It would be nice and handy for me if there was a girl that moved in next door to me. that way, I wouldn't have to knock myself all the way out, two miles uphill, past all those nasty dogs. think how efficient it would be for me."

"A couple days later, after I had forgotten that instant, I noticed a moving van next door and THERE WERE THREE GIRLS moving in. "No that's a real way to answer prayer, Lord!" In a very short time I had one of them as a friend...well, you know. Efficiency was evermost in my mind. Yeah--sure!"

"Several years later after I had given my life to Jesus, and had gotten married, my wife and I enjoyed talking about how the Lord had answered our prayers for each other, brought us together from very dissimilar backgrounds. As we were looking out our upstairs window, I noticed a young woman (now seven years older) walking across the street and a light bulb went off in my head. THAT'S THE GIRL. NOW LOOK AT HER!"

"As I put my arm around my wife in an affectionate hug, the thought came to me also...There is a blessing in prayer...even unanswered ones."

Death be not proud

Daddy

July 10, 1930 - October 25, 2006

Today on the way to work I received a phone call from my mother and father's neighbor on the East Coast. She handed off the phone to my mother, who told me that my father had suffered a massive heart attack and was dead. He had gone out for a walk with the dog and on the way back, passed my mother and the neighbor as they were just setting out. Mother noticed that he was walking slowly and asked if he was okay. "Not so good, love" he replied, and went inside. Mother thought he merely had some joint stiffness or had to get to the bathroom. When she walked into the still dark house at 7:05, she heard a strange gasping sound. Daddy was breathing his last, slumped over on the couch. She called 9-1-1 and sat with him. "I watched him turn white" she later sobbed. And now after 56 years, mother is a widow and alone in a farmhouse they shared for 36 years. His glasses still sit perched on the table next to his hearing aids where he put them this morning.

My father was only 76 years old. He was as strong as an ox, eager to please, and adored my mother. He was talented, energetic, and active. Now he is gone. Daddy willed his body to science, so we honored his wishes that way. Before the coroner wrapped daddy's body, he asked mother if she wanted to be alone with him. She said no. She was current with everything that needed to be said to him. Just that morning they hugged and kissed each other, telling each other how much they loved one another. Daddy told mother he loved her before he went out for a walk. "I know, love." She had not been saving something up to say to him and she was as prepared to say goodbye as anyone could be.

I am stunned, to say the least, but I have to say that this is my experience, too. Just last night I called my parents and had a good chat with them. Daddy was very chatty and warm. He was delighted that the sewing machine they sent me had arrived in one piece. We discussed the latest Handyman magazine, as he was delighted that I love doing woodworking and remodeling projects. I don't remember much of our conversation, only that it left me feeling warm and so grateful that I called. I can still hear him telling me, "I love you, Barb, and I'm so proud of your accomplishments." I have no doubts but that he adored me.

Yet there are streams of light coming through the sadness. Opening my email when I returned back home, I noticed a message from my father. It had been sent at 7:01 a.m. His email ended with a comical remark about wondering if he could mail me his woodworking lathe. And he told me he loved me again. He was dead within four minutes of sending that email, so I received his last communication. I am so grateful.

Daddy died at home, with mother at his side, on his sofa where he took his daily naps. He did not linger and he died very quickly, even though it was unexpected. He had just told me "a funny" as he would say, and he probably felt pretty good, emotionally. It was exactly what he would have wanted, except for my mother's broken heart.

Only two weeks ago I told a relative that there is not a place where I feel closer to God than at a funeral. It may sound strange, but it is the absolute truth. It is at a funeral service when one thinks about what happens after death, and how God plays into all the sadness and losses we face on this earth. My faith tradition believes in soul sleep, which is what most of Christendom believed until the last couple centuries or so. What this means is that when people die, they are as though they are asleep. Then comes the resurrection day when Jesus returns to this earth to gather up His people. As He descends on a cloud with millions of angels and the brilliance of His glory, He shouts, "Awake! Awake, those who sleep in the dust!" And all those who love the Lord will be made alive with immortal bodies.
My father will come up out of the grave tall, healthy, vibrant, and with an immortal body. He will find mother, who will again be youthful and beautiful, and together they will ascend to the Holy City in heaven. Until that day, he will remain sleeping in the grave, oblivious to all that occurs here. The next thing he knows will be the sound of Jesus, whose voice he has longed to hear all these years, and whose face he has often said he wants to gaze upon.

There are certainly worse things than death. I knew daddy was very tired and sad. I knew he had done his best and was painfully aware of the times and places where it had not been remotely good enough. But he kept going, trying to serve God in the best way he knew how, with the best of intentions. I'm so glad I forgave him a long time ago. Now daddy rests in peace and I am left with a deep, clean sadness. I am so grateful that although he was not perfect and although I struggled to understand him for many years, I did understand and love him in the end. I have no regrets.

Night-nite, Daddy, until we meet again.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
John Donne