Come Rest Awhile

So Sam and I have traveled to Puerto Rico to visit his family. We are so blessed to be staying with our dear cousin and his wife: Lovely people, fine Christians, delightful company--and they dearly love us (and vice versa).
I came her burned out. In fact last week, I gave a plenary session at a medical university about burnout and I myself was a hairbreadth away from being completely incapacitated by burnout. Strange irony. I flew back home on Tuesday night and on Thursday evening we flew out of LAX to Puerto Rico. I slept for hours on the plane, then a few hours in the hotel, and another 10 hours that night. I was just so exhausted.

I continue to be very tired.

I've worked so hard to get my program at work up and running. There are so many needs and I am one person. I'm to support over 1200 individuals in their work--without an assistant or anyone to organize or schedule me. I've been burning the candle at both ends. Now I am still tired and feel close to tears quite often. Another week of deep, long sleep will probably help me feel like a new person.

Tonight I read a wonderful chapter in the book, Desire of Ages by Ellen White. It is the narrative of how Jesus withdrew into a quiet place with His disciples after they returned from their first missionary journey. They had made mistakes and didn't know how to proceed for Him, and they openly shared their disappointments and failures with Him. This is where I feel I am just now. I am feeling the overwhelming need to be much in prayer and scripture, finding new strength for what is ahead and learning from Christ how to be more effective in my work.

My chest is tight. Too many demands, too many broken hearts and challenges that need more than what I can supply to these employees. I have tried my best but I'm probably overlooking some significant things that would make my efforts go farther.

And so I pray and meditate on the wonderful words in Psalm 103--He remembers our frame and that we are dust...I am very dusty just now.

Tired, broken, but not without hope. Just without energy. Praying that I can take in all of the peace that I hear in my surroundings: the singing coqui, crickets, the laughter of my cousins, the lilting Spanish all around me. And so much love here.

From where I am sitting I see three pictures that I think I simply want to look at. One is of Jesus walking on the waves and reaching down to Peter, who has sunken down and is drowning. There is no judgment in Jesus' face. Even though most of us roll our eyes when we think of Peter's bravado in asking to be called out onto the water.
Then there is a picture of Jesus holding up a man who is fainting back against Him. In one of the man's hands is a hammer and spikes that he apparently just drove into Jesus' hands. Yet there is Jesus, still supporting the one whose actions damaged Him. I have so far to go to come close to His perfection and grace.
My favorite picture is of Jesus walking back to a flock of sheep carrying a rather helpless and dumb looking lamb on his shoulders. He is not frowning about this either, but seems to have an expression of peaceful joy on His face. I'm so glad He carries me, for that is what I need right now. I am so very blessed to be carried by Jesus so tenderly.

I am sure that many people get burned out. In fact, only about 4.5% of doctors do NOT get burnout. We are not sure why or what characteristics they have that protect them from burnout--but a full 95.5% of doctors do get burned out. I'm sure the rates of burnout for nurses are similar. I've been burned out as a nurse, a teacher, and now as a therapist/program director. Jesus has carried me every time. I am trying to learn (this week) about staying on His shoulders.

"As a Father pities his children, so the Lord pities us. For He knows our frame and remembers we are made of dust" Psalm 103.

Reflections on the Life of Elvira Ruberto Couden
(9/26/13)

First of all, thank you all for coming. As I look across the room and see all of you, I know that Mother would have been honored to know that you came to pay your respects to her.

I would also like to thank the participants in our service today:
Chaplain Smith, who was so kind to Mother during her last years and particularly, her last days.
Dick and Gracie Garner, long-time friends, so kindly visited Mother and prayed with her.
Doug von Kriegelstein is a lifelong family friend, who also visited Mother during her last days.
Shelly Harring is yet another longtime friend, whose unflagging support has meant the world.
I am grateful to all of you, and as always, to my husband, Gil, for his love and support during these difficult last six years.

When I reflect on my mother’s life, I think of a woman who grew up in the most disadvantaged circumstances possible and rose above it. She was born in the inner city with gangs, disease, pollution, poverty, and the Great Depression. She became ill with TB and was sent away at the age of 16, for three years, during which time she received only one letter from her mother. Neither her mother nor father ever told her that they loved her.

The number one goal of most parents, it is to care for their children in such a way that their needs are met. A secondary goal for many parents, is to give their children more than what they had, be that spiritual, emotional, or material aspects of their upbringing.
As I reflect on Mother’s life, there are two main statements that can be said: (1) she did give infinitely more than she ever received in structure, material goods, and security than she ever experienced as a child.  And (2) the negative effects of her difficult childhood was an ever present influence in her life and in the life of our family. 

Mother worked harder than anyone else that I’ve ever known. She always kept a large garden and a small orchard. She sewed all of our clothes including my father’s suits. She made six loaves of bread every week for over 25 years, and prepared three meals a day for us. She put her heart and soul into being a homemaker because she felt that her children were her responsibility. It was a comfort to know that whenever we went home from school, be that elementary school or college, Mother would be there, --often with something hot on the stove and good smells throughout the house.

Our home in New York was paradise to Mother. She never tired of pointing out the contrast between the serene country surroundings and the city in which she was born. She often said it was heaven, and I have to agree.

My mother had a wonderful sense of humor. Once as a child, she was home unsupervised. When she heard my uncle come home from school, she decided to surprise him. She surprised him all right—she climbed onto his bunkbed and when he walked through the door, crammed a chamber pot over his head, nearly breaking his nose. It took the building super and some salad oil before it came off. Of her brother’s subsequent crooked nose she often quipped, “He was the only man in New York who could smell around corners after that.”

When I was 16, she and I had a major disagreement about whether or not I could wear a bikini to lay in the sun in our backyard. She thought a bikini was indecent, but I pointed out that the only eyes that could see me were the local cows, and I kept wearing my bikini in the sun. One day as I was laying on a blanket in the backyard, I saw a hunched over figure come around the back of the house. Without my glasses, I couldn’t see who it was, but whoever it was, they looked pretty suspicious: disheveled blond hair, trench coat, shuffling walk. And around the back of the house they came and started fumbling with the back doorknob. Leaping up and pulling a towel around me, I ran up to this person, quite concerned. “Can I help you?” I queried. They mumbled and tucked their chin down further into their coat. It was several moments of my questions and moving around the person to get a good look at them before I heard a characteristic snorting laugh of my mother and she turned to look me in the face. She had found an old blond wig and thought that she’d have a little fun with me and possibly teach me not to lay around in skimpy clothes. We laughed about that as recently as two weeks ago.

Since Mother worked so hard, she often fell asleep on the couch in the evening long before it was time for bed. She slept exceptionally soundly, which gave us license to do all sorts of things to her: put hats on her and snap pictures of her; tie her wrists to the couch legs then yell “Fire” and see her struggle in a sleepy stupor to get off the couch. She was a wonderful sport and I have numerous photos of Mother asleep with all sorts of items in her hands and on her head.

As a 14-year old girl, Mother used to listen to the opera on Saturdays and go out on the stoop afterward and sing her heart out. Her love for music never flagged. When I was growing up at home, if I ever got to church late, I never wondered if my mother was there. You could hear both of my parents’ singing at the top of their lungs—and they sang VERY LOUDLY—their voices soaring over everyone else’s. We kids would shrink down in embarrassment. Later, one of us would say, “Mommy, you sing too loud in church. It’s embarrassing.” She would retort in a superior voice, “I’M praising the Lord, so anyone else can think whatever they want.”

It wasn’t until years later when I was carried away singing with the congregation in church and noticed a man in front of me turning to look at me. Later, I commented to Gil about what I thought was rather daring behavior in turning in his seat like that. Gil responded, “Well Honey, you were singing awfully loud. You could be heard over everyone else. Of course he would turn around.” The apple didn’t fall far from the tree in that respect!

Mother loved animals. Every Sabbath that she came to spend with Gil and me at our house was marked by joyful barking of Baxter and Charlie, who would rush to greet her. She would hold Baxter for hours and make over him. When I called her in the evening, she’d say, “Put Baxter on the phone” and I’d hold the phone up to his ear so she could say a few words to him. She loved her dogs and cats that she had over the years.

But the city girl never could get used to the chickens or ducks that we had. She never went out to hang the clothes on the clothesline without carrying a broom because she was afraid of Donald the duck—my duck—who used to try to peck at her pink flip flops. (I taught him how to do that). She would storm into the house with the exclamation, “Barbara, get down here and get that bird out of the yard so I can hang the clothes.”

And when she found out that I had brought Giovanni, an orphan chick into the house to sleep in my bed next to me (actually, for two months, undetected), she hit the ceiling. I suppose it was the adolescent crowing that she heard once at the crack of dawn, coming from my bedroom. It was a long rant that she made that morning over breakfast, about disease from chickens, the unsuitability of having “birds” in the house, the scandal of being my age and having a chicken in my bedroom. It all fell on deaf ears, whilst my brother and I chuckled under our breath and rolled our eyes at each other behind her back.

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Mother has suffered tremendous pain in her life—pain that was never addressed in a way that helped her. She lived in the fear that her TB would reactivate and she feared leaving four defenseless children without a mother. As a result, she was extremely careful with her diet and worked hard to stay healthy—more than the vast majority of people. Some of the “healthy concoctions she made could turn the most settled stomach. Indeed, her “health cookies” could sink a battleship, as they contained every seed known to man. She snuck carob into everything that should have been chocolate. But she did her best and we were extremely healthy kids. Incidentally, she would not approve of serving cookies at her service today, even though she usually ate quite a few cookies and always seconds of desserts when she came to my house.

Because she herself had suffered in life, Mother always reached out to others in whatever way she could. She used to tell us to watch for the elderly at church who came in by themselves. We were tasked with inviting them home for lunch after church. Mother was generous and giving, even when she had little to give.

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When my father died, I did not think my mother would ever recover. Part of her never did. She simply did not want to be alive for much of the last seven years. I was therefore not surprised one day in May of this year when she told me that she had asked the Lord to take her life. But that was her prerogative: it was between her and God. She was diagnosed with lung cancer only a month later.

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As I’ve considered what to say today about my mother, I’ve realized that her death is too fresh in my mind, to be able to give a clear headed synopsis of her life. I see her suffering in the last three months, the behavioral changed, the confusion, and yet remember the softness of her skin, her kisses on my face, her reaching out to greet and kiss her caregivers. I also think of the sadness I felt as I watched her disappear day by day and the helplessness I felt as I tried to help her stay anchored in the here and now.  The sinking heart as I went to see her every day, only to notice that she looked worse, had more trouble breathing, and was more confused.

But there is hope in the story of my mother’s life, even though it started off poorly and ended sadly.

1)     When we invite God into our lives, He comes in. My mother had many faults—as we all do. She drove people from her. She didn’t think anyone loved her. She had a sharp tongue. But when I look at where she started in this life and what she was able to do to raise four children, without an example, making it up as she went along, praying her way along, encouraging in us a faith and steadfastness that comes from knowing God—I am reminded that God uses very human instrumentalities to work out His plans in the world. The hope for me in that is that if He used Mother, He will also use me, as imperfect as I am.

2)     Mother often said that we all do the best we can, even when it falls short of the ideal. We can be assured that people have good motives for the most part—that they are trying to do well by us. Of Mother, I can say that she certainly did the best that she could and I know that whatever she has said or done that has been less than the ideal was not because she had bad motives.

3)     God gives ample opportunity for healing. Mother’s time here at Linda Valley Villa was nothing short of a miracle for many reasons. The friendships she had here were healing for her. She had so many people here whom she told me were just like sisters to her—and since her relationship with her sisters had not been positive, the fact that she had women here who loved her, meant the world to her. When in the hospital being diagnosed with cancer, she told me that she had learned what love really is by having so many friends at the Villa who had expressed their care for her in many different ways. So to you who live here, thank you for helping with the healing of my mother’s spirit.

When my mother comes up out of the grave on that great resurrection morning, not only will her body be perfect and whole, but so will her spirit and her mind. My sister wrote my mother a beautiful letter that I shared with her last Sabbath. In part, she wrote,

I am looking forward to seeing you in heaven.  I know you’ll be there.  Then God will heal both our minds and bodies.  My wish for you now, is just to go to sleep in Jesus.  Then the next thing you’ll see is His face.  You’ll be whole.  No pain and the bad memories will only be dust.  You’ll have joy from seeing daddy, old friends and family.  No more sadness.  Only the knowledge of how special you are to God.  I plan on seeing you then.  I’ll be with the lions and singing in the choir.  We won’t have to talk about the past, but will know and finally understand it all.  I’ll hug and kiss you and it will be like we were never separated. 

There is victory in my mother’s death. Her story on this earth is over. She will never have to suffer again—physically or emotionally. She will never again experience depression and wonder if her life meant anything to anyone.  She will soon know as she is known of God; feel love unbounded; and experience the peace and security of being safe forever with God.  Meanwhile, I embrace the sparkling aspects of my mother and look forward to the day when we can be together again in heaven.

What a wonderful God we have.

 

It was meant to be a friendly exchange--a panel discussion--at a local ethnic church. I had previously lead a panel discussion about single parenthood and it had gone so well that I was invited to come back and participate again. This time, as a panel member.
The topic was Public Safety. In our planning meeting earlier in the week, we discussed the possibilities of what could be covered under this topic. One point that the moderator made was that it might be interesting to ask how the racial segregation in churches can be problematic. I asked how this was a public safety issue and didn't get a satisfactory response, but in fact, felt shot down for asking. I pointed out that I had grown up in Jim Crow Mississippi during the sit ins and all of the issues that arose during those awful years, that our parents didn't allow us to stand up during the singing of Dixie, and that those were terrible experiences for us who weren't even major targets of discrimination. I pointed out that I am very interested in the topic of segregation in churches, but that I can't understand the connection to our topic. I did say that I would certainly follow the moderator however.
There were a couple of what I would consider to be non sequitor responses, and then some that felt like a rebuke to me. After a few more comments we wrapped up the meeting very cordially.. I couldn't explain what it was exactly, but something was terribly wrong and it wasn't possible to articulate what it was in any clarity when I tried to explain it to Sam that night. "I just didn't like something about the way we talked about things. Something isn't right."

It wasn't right.
In fact, I was so unsettled and confused about the way that public safety was to be discussed that I couldn't mentally prepare to contribute anything of substance. In thinking about public safety issues, I thought about the role of domestic violence and victimization, how these influence the safety that we experience in the family. In turn, this leads to a more violent community, particularly when we don't protect our vulnerable members. There is also the issue of labeling people as different than we are and subsequently becoming unable to relate to them as people and more prone to be discriminatory, exclusive, and abusive. I struggled to think of anything that was germane to public safety in the way that it was being conceptualized by the moderator.

I should have known that my intuition is almost always correct.

Yesterday's panel was an unmitigated disaster. After a rambling introduction, in which the moderator tried to make some points about public safety, he asked me to start off with some brief comments about public safety and quality of life. I briefly mentioned the victimization of individuals in the family. It was a cursory comment designed to get the others to speak up and share their comments. Instead, the moderator turned to the other individual and asked him to weigh in on an area of his interest. He did, too, at great length. Then the second panel member asked the question, "Why do we have segregation in our churches and why is that okay?"
It was asked so quickly and in such a low tone of voice that it was difficult to even hear what he was saying. There was a man at the microphone who had stepped up to ask a question who was recognized at that moment. He said quickly, "Well, I'm not going to address that but I did have a comment about a point that was raised earlier."
The moderator thanked him for his comment and things turned back to the topic of church segregation. I was thunderstuck. How could this be a public safety issue? It seemed as if this was the topic of interest and choice, but there was nothing of substance that I could contribute since I hadn't prepared anything on this issue. I tried to make a couple short illustrative comments, but everything felt like it fell flat, particularly since the moderator made very little effort to include me or ask my opinion about much of anything. Nor did he have the grace to thank me for my comments or to even attempt to tie them into the larger discussion. It turned into a conversation between the two men, with me sitting on the sidelines and making silly comments as we went. Whilst I sat there I was thinking of the cooking show, "Iron Chef". The original version of it is filmed in Japan, where the panel is made up of two or three very serious men and one silly acting woman. While they make comments about things like, "The piquant flavor of the chestnuts compliments the fondue beautifully," the woman gushes and says stupid things such as, "Oh! Look at how pink the onions are!" and she gasps appreciably. Totally idiotic and irrelevant.
What a sham and waste of intelligence.

But more than feeling stupid and uncontributory, it seemed an inappropriate situation and time to be discussing segregation in churches. There was no attempt to link it with public safety concerns. It took on a life of its own. Why was this "dead horse" chosen to be beaten at this juncture? Was this the only venue that they have to voice their ideas and concerns? Did they not see how confused the audience was? Did they not realize that they had completely excluded me from weighing in on the topic in any sensible way? What was the point of hijacking the conversation to what felt like rehearsed material? The problem was that it went on for nearly 45 minutes of an hour panel discussion that had been planned. I had very little to say or share. At the end of it all, the moderator turned toward me to ask for my thoughts, but the floor manager was signaling that we were out of time. I whispered that we were out of time and the moderator stumbled to a close.

At the end of the presentation I left as quickly as I could. The moderator and other guest hugged me goodbye and seemed quite pleased with the whole thing. But I was not.
OMG--Sam was beside himself with outrage. In the car, on the way home, he steamed about how I had been marginalized the whole time, I was the token White person and token woman, that what I said hadn't even been recognized and on and on...
I like when Sam is protective of me, but this was just an awful lot to take in.

After sleeping on it, I realized that there had been a complicit agreement to discuss racial segregation in congregations, and it almost seemed that I had been set up to be in the place of either someone who would argue back, or who would be silenced.
I don't know what drove these two men to do what they did yesterday. I almost expect to get an embarassed apology from the organizer of the event, or perhaps, one of my students who attended. But I woke up very disturbed by being put in that position.
I will certainly not participate with either of those two men again in any professional or personal activity and I have diminished interest in ever being in that particular congregation again.
The whole thing could have been avoided had these men gone with what the topic was to have been: Public Safety Issues and our Young People.

A larger question for me is whether or not I have ever marginalized someone the way I was yesterday. I am wondering if I have hurt someone, or if there is anything that I do in my current line of work that overlooks people whose ideas are vastly different from mine, or whom I don't understand. It would be crushing to think that I might do that to anyone.

So licking my wounds today, angry, reflective, exasperated (and listening to Sam blowing smoke about it). I'm deep in thought and observing my every comment to be sure that I am not behaving as those two men did yesterday. It wasn't a good thing and it felt even worse.

A big breath and life changes

Life has taken a major shift since I posted anything on this blog last. I was asked to create a new position at our local medical center called, Director of Physician Vitality. I politely declined when asked to apply for the job. After all, I really loved my students and seeing the lights come on for them as they connected ideas to practice, was the highlight of my experience. But one guy didn't let up and asked me to apply more than once. So I did.
Within two weeks I was asked to interview for the job. I thought that I just might, just for the experience of going through interviews in various settings.
As a courtesy, I told my Chair that I was going to go through with the interview saying, "This will be just a lark." He narrowed his eyebrows and suggested that I take it seriously.
My heart sank and I wondered if he wanted to get rid of me from the faculty. Had I really been so much trouble to him?
But he said, "Barbara--in this life you must keep only a few things in mind and in this order: God, family, and your future. I suggest that you consider whether or not the new job wouldn't be just right for you. I think it has your name written all over it."
So I went through with the interview the next day and was sold on the idea of it very quickly. We had narrative interviews, which consists of being asked questions such as, "Tell me a story of a time when you were very disappointed and how you used the disappointment for your good" or, "Tell me about a time when you realized that someone wasn't acting ethically and what you did about it." I talked up a storm and loved the process--these are the best interviews ever! Two of the three interviewers told me that I was their top pick and that they would go to bat to get me into the job. All three of them kept me almost 30 minutes over the hour that was allotted for each interview.
During lunch there was a group of physicians who discussed why they felt my position was needed. Three of them were choked up and tearful in telling me very touching stories from their practice that illustrated how much they previously have needed someone to help them debrief after awful patient deaths, etc. I might not know much about physician vitality, but I do know how to help people process their feelings around loss.
The rest is history.
I've now been in this new job since July 11th last year.

When the new job started, I didn't realize it, but I was horribly burned out from teaching. Linear, organized thinking and acting is not part of my behavioral repertoire. I am disorganized, don't like having to do thing by the clock, work at about 10 projects at the same time, want to do things my way, and become unbelievably frustrated sitting in committee meetings. All of those deadlines and timeframes when one has to get lectures prepared, put together syllabi, grade papers in a timely manner, and hammer away at dissertations at two week intervals. It just wasn't apparent to me at the time, that it had been very hard to keep up that kind of structured pace for 5 years.

I cried every day for two months.
Every day.

Ten months later I am doing well: thriving and thoroughly enjoying the creativity and pace of this new job. I get to do things that are more akin to my bent: hang out with physicians who need support, create a website, write articles, feed residents--all of these kinds of things that are fun.

I'm back now. Hope to see how productive I can be now, both in life and here.

Update on the Boys

Our boys are growing up and doing quite well these days. At 11 months, they are nearly full grown and we hope they will start becoming a bit more mellow soon. Baxter is shown here, lying on my stomach, on the couch, looking rather serene. This is not the typical pose, but the sweet face is typical of him. He is the most cuddly and loving of the two dogs. We have found that when he is reprimanded, he will go into his kennel and refuse to come out. If he misbehaves, or worse yet, if I shout a threat at him, he will go in there and pout. Baxter is also the emotional one of the two. He hates to be bathed or have his ears cleaned. When it is time to clean his ears I ask, "Do you want to get pretty?" No, he does not. He runs immediately to his kennel and puts his head into the blanket so I can't see him. When I need to give him a bath and I run the water in the upstairs bath tub, I will allow him to run up the stairs and then when he sees the bathroom door open and hears the water, he goes flat on his belly on the floor. I have to pick him up and carry him into the tub. He is a very funny and sweet little guy. If any dog was ever made to be a therapy dog, it is Baxter. He is a snuggler who loves to be close, have his ears stroked, and back patted. He is an overall wonderful little guy.

This is our Charlie. He is getting smarter every day. He is however, also the more naughty one of the two. For example, yesterday I was making a cake and had to run to the store to get more sugar. As I returned to the house, only 15 minutes later, I saw little bits of chewed paper all over the floor by the couch. Coming into the den, it was clear that he had helped himself to Mother's tax return paperwork, that had originally been in an envelope and readied for my review. After banishing them to their kennels (where Baxter pouted because he probably didn't do it and still got scolded), I was able to piece together some of Mother's paperwork so I can make out the numbers to enter when I do her taxes. Good grief.

Charlie is the more anxious of the two dogs. If he gets scared, he pees on the floor. It doesn't happen often, thankfully. When we go walking outside, he is so anxious that he'll bark at anything and twirl around to be sure no one is coming up behind him. I'm not sure why he is such a scaredy cat, but he is. Getting him to heel is a real challenge. Baxter trots right along and doesn't pull on the leash too hard, probably because he is rolly-polly like a Cocker Spaniel and just can't keep up a very fast pace for a long time. Charlie, on the other hand, has springs in his heels and can run very fast and jump quite high. When it's time to feed him he comes over to the counter where we are putting food in his dish, and he will bounce up and down so he can see on top of the counter. He probably clears a couple feet when he does this.

Charlie is getting more affectionate as time goes by. He often braces his feet against my chest when I pick him up and put him next to me so he doesn't get too close to me. But when I pull him closer, he goes limp and really loves the attention.

So we are quite happy with our little guys. They bring a great deal of pleasure into our lives. In spite of the teeth marks on the coffee table and Mother's tax papers. Overall, they're good boys.

Beautiful Places

Well, here we are in beautiful Dorado, Puerto Rico. The sky was gorgeous, as were the various sections of the water in the ocean. We could see clear to the ocean floor since it was so clear and clean. Titi Cuchi took us out for a day at Luquillo Beach, which is a gorgeous and famous recreation place on the island. I think it was the most beautiful beach I had ever visited.

Later that night, our cousin Linda took us into Viejo (Old) San Juan to look at the sights. The streets were fairly quiet since it was mid-week. A few people were out doing minor shopping, lovers were in the plazas talking quietly on park benches, and tourists were winding down and walking back to their hotels.

This is the major cathedral in Viejo San Juan. Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony were married here. It seemed to be a lovely stop on a breezy, warm night.

Linda took us out to El Morro, the fort built by the Spaniards that walled in most of San Juan back in the late 1400s and early 1500s. This fort was manned by Allied soldiers during World War II, as they kept a lookout for the Japanese and Germans. When we got there, the wind was howling up off the beach and we were hit by huge raindrops at great velocity. It felt wild and untamed there that night.

Here we are in La Plaza de Delicias (The Delicious Plaza) in Ponce, in the South central area of the island. Apparently, to say something is delicious is like saying that it is delightful. We loved watching the blackbirds bathing in the fountain behind us.

This is the cathedral in Ponce. A lovely building, not unlike other cathedrals on the island.

This is the old firehouse in Ponce, built by the Spaniards. It has been maintained for over 200 years and was used for many years until it became a tourist stop in the 50s. It houses the old fire rescue vehicles. It also has a number of the hideous masks (below). I believe that these kind of masks were first created by the African slaves that were taken to Puerto Rico to work in the sugar cane fields. Their native religions were melded with traditional Puerto Rican indian religious ideas, and these masks were one of many results. It looks frightening, doesn't it?

Here is the fountain and cathedral in Mayaguez, on the West of the island. We enjoyed an evening there sampling maiz (corn) and guanabana ice cream at an ice cream shop just down the street. The plaza gave us a wonderful place to relax and watch other people come and go. Families came out and mingled with other people from the neighorhood, lovers met, and children slipped their hands into the fountain. It was a balmy and warm night with a nice breeze--just perfect weather.

We went from Mayaguez over to the city of St. German (pronounced, "Hermann"). This is the home of the very famous Porto Coeli--Window of Heaven--cathedral. It is the second oldest church in the Western Hemisphere and was built in 1606. In 1949 the church gave permission for it to become an art museum. The view above is from the steps of the church. The house on the right belongs to a cousin of my mother-in-law's family. The church with the original ruins at the left of the building are shown below.

When my mother-in-law was alive and when Sam was small, she used to tell him that he needed to one day visit Puerto Rico because it was a place where it rains when the sun shines. Sure enough--here is the sky over Vega Baja, right after a downpour.

This is what I think is one of the nicest verandas I saw in Puerto Rico, at our cousin's home in Vega Baja (which people there pronounce, "Begha baha"). I spend some lovely, restful time on this veranda. It is situated at such an angle that it catches the breeze from both sides and creates a cool, comfortable rest area in the house.

We ended up having a red snapper lunch with Tio Freddie on la Isla de Cabras (Island of the Goats) that is a thin peninsula that looks across at the ocean to El Morro in Old San Juan. It is a beautiful, beautiful place.

On the Menu

You might be interested in seeing the food we ate in Puerto Rico. These are all pretty common dishes, and are quite exotic to our Stateside palates. But Sam grew up with his mother making several of these quite often. He felt right at home and I loved the food. Except....no vegetables! These (above) are called tostones. The Puerto Ricans drop the first s and say something that sounds like "to-tone-es." They are plantains that you hit with a hammer to flatten. Then they are fried and sprinkled with salt. Very starchy, very good.

This was what our Titi ordered: seafood salad. It had octopus, squid, and I'm not sure what else. It didn't look appealing, but it is typical seafood. Interesting, since Puerto Rico is an island, that there is lots of seafood. You can see that the tomatoes are served as pale pink and unripe. It doesn't seem that anyone grows vegetables on the island--tomatoes, etc. But there are lots of places in the island where you could easily grow them and have gardens. There are tons of banana groves and mango trees, but no tomatoes that I could see anywhere. Hmmmm...maybe if we ever live there I will try to have a huge garden with these veggies in it.

This vile looking concoction (above) is sliced, candied papaya con queso--with cheese. Not sure what the call for cheese is, but this is a common native desert.

This is red snapper that we ate on Isla de Cabras (Island of the Goats) where we had a wonderful view of El Morro.

More tostones. They are everywhere! Some are better than others: these were wonderful.

Here is more fish, from a meal at La Parguera--over on the West Coast of the island. It was a fishing village where the specialty is red snapper or cod. I never could get past the eye looking up at me. So I always ordered breaded fish and tried not to look over at Sam's plate!

We were introduced to these little fried breads by Titi Cuchi. They were wonderful, fattening little things that we slathered with some kind of sauce from a bottle (tasted like Russian dressing). I can't remember the name of them, but they were very tasty.

This is my favorite dish in Puerto Rico: Mofongo. It is made from pressed plantain with garlic, onions, and I'm not sure what else. Inside is the most tender chicken I've ever had. You can see that these tomatoes were more red. Not bad for imported tomatoes! We were treated to this lovely meal by Sam's cousin, Pachito.

Thought the food pics would be interesting. I came back about 6 lbs. heavier. Although the food was great, I missed my vegetables and fruit.

Mi Borinquen

Well, here we are once again in Puerto Rico. We have longed to come back after being here last spring break for 2 weeks. A year later, we find ourselves back in the house with Titi Carmen and Uncle Chici (pronounced "Cheeky"). This year we have brought Sam's 87 year-old father with us so he can visit his sister for a couple days and see his brother, neices, and nephews. He couldn't have been more thrilled. In fact, before he left Texas, he got very dizzy every time he contemplated coming. It could have been his heart medications, but I have a hunch that he was so excited that it just leaked out of him in that way. His plane touched down 10 minutes after ours did, here in San Juan. Off we went to the car rental, him talking all the way about how the language has changed and how different his country looks now. He is quick to add however, that he dislikes many things about life here including "la hora Latina" (Latin time--about an hour late to everything), and the way the language is spoken. These comments did not stand him in good stead with family members still living here!

So we have been rattling around the house here, trying to get our legs under us. I slept a total of 6 hours in three days, so was utterly spent when I arrived. The A/C didn't work in our room so we woke up the first morning in a bad mood and with swollen faces from the heat. However, we were so exhausted that we slept in that room for over 12 hours that night. We are now in another room with the A/C rattling and roaring over our heads. The little coqui (yellow frogs) are shrilly singing outside and we just enjoyed a rainburst while the sun shone brightly. There is nothing so enchanting as this. We are staying in a gated community that has a mountain rising straight up behind it. It is really more like a tall hill, actually, but it is covered with so much lush foilage that it looks bigger than it is. I'm told that there are a few snakes on this island but none of them are poisonous. Neither are there any wild animals that present any kind of danger. So it is the perfect place to go camping. It's just that it's too hot down here. The mountains in the central part of the island are about 15 degrees cooler than it is here.

We are being fed to death. Today we had bacalao for lunch along with rice and beans, potato salad, avocado, and yam root. The bacalao was briny and served with onions on top. It is some sort of cod fish that is dry and awful. The locals pour olive oil over it. I just puckered up and passed it along to Sam. Notice that aside from the avocado, no vegetables are served here. The yam root is a vegetable, I suppose, but it is grey-white, lifeless and fibrous. I need a salad and plate of carrots and broccoli pretty soon.

Tomorrow we are going over to the East Coast to a village called Fajardo (Fah-hardo) where we will spend some time in the ocean and then have Mofongo: a delectable mixture of plantain, garlic,onion, and shredded chicken and tomatoes. I think it should be good.
If I can get my salad.

Love sucks

Two years ago Sam and I celebrated my birthday by going to a fresh fish restaurant in of all places, Beaumont, California. It has always been a little bend in the road, albeit the 5000 new homes that went in there recently. The restaurant stands on the "old" side of town right next to the Mexican meat market whose pictures on the sign outside makes me want forever to be a vegetarian. But this particular evening, we went there for fresh salmon, rice pilaf, and broccoli--a meal that we especially like there. Afterward, as we drove the 20 minutes back home, Sam asked if there was anything I needed at Walmart. We didn't really want to go straight home, so we ended up strolling, hand in hand, through the store, looking at things that we might want to get someday but really didn't need.
Then we came to the vacuum cleaners.
When we moved into our present home we brought our old Hoover with us. It was on its last leg and spewed out a fine layer of dust every time we used it. I hated how it smelled and I really doubted that the carpet ever got clean. This was an important issue since our foreclosed house had stood empty for eight months before we bought it. So goodness only knew what kind of germs, dust, and dander resided in the carpets.
We hovered over the new models in the Beaumont Walmart. I had hoped to get a new vacuum cleaner at some point, and now might be a good time. I steered Sam over to the Dysons. They were a bit more than I had paid for a vacuum cleaner, but we were tired of breathing in the dust in our old carpet. It had been problematic what with Sam's asthma and my newly acquired dust and cat dander allergies.
As I lingered over one Dyson model, I noticed that Sam seemed quite interested in it--much more than I would have anticipated. "Let's get this," he ventured, running his hand over the smooth yellow handle. The machine had all sorts of levers and moving parts. I hoped that I would be able to master it.
We paid the sale price for it and carried our Dyson home. Sam was triumphant. Funny, he had indicated that it was MY birthday present. But as soon as we got home, he carefully assembled it and began vacuuming the living room carpet. Then the guest room downstairs, then the stairs.
"Honey!" he shouted excitedly. "Look at all the stuff that came out of the carpet!" And he removed the collection cannister from the front of the Dyson and held it up for me to see. It was full of hair, beige dust, and all sorts of little bits--but mostly silty type stuff. "We've been breathing this!" he yelled over his shoulder as he ran down the stairs to the garbage bin outside.
I was exhausted from a long day, so I took a shower and climbed into bed.
Could I sleep? No. He vacuumed under our bed, in all the corners of our room, and then the ceilings and curtains, using the special attachment. All along, he admonished me about the excellence in that machine: how well it swiveled, the extremely strong suction, the special accoutrements to get in crevices and to use on the couch.
It was about 10:30 when he finally stopped vacuuming. The whole house had been cleaned and I marveled about how thrilled he was about it all. In fact, I joked the next day with my secretary about how you can get a man to clean the house quite easily if you have machines involved that have (a) lots of bells and whistles, or (b) contain an element of danger. We had both laughed knowingly, and I felt very fortunate to have a clean house and a husband who was obsessed with the vacuum cleaner.
In fact, Sam's enthusiasm didn't end on my birthday. About every couple weeks, he goes on a vacuuming frenzy, cleaning everything in sight and being sure to suck all the dust out from under our bed and off our bedside tables. I've teased him about how he sometimes chides me for not using a particular attachment if I'm cleaning up after my flooring work. He seems to think that he is the one who can and should master the vacuum cleaner. My efforts have not seemed to be terribly critical, as far as I can tell from his appraisal of my work.

Although I have made a mental note about Sam's eagerness to keep the house vacuumed, to do the laundry, and recently, to keep the kitchen scrubbed, I hadn't thought much about it. Until yesterday.

We were watching a television program about an individual whose loved one had cancer. The caregiver was trying to do whatever he could to cure the sick one who obviously was close to the end. He was doing something like painting her toenails and straightening the bed covers, fanatically. I happened to glance over at Sam just then. His eyes were brimming with tears. I'm so glad I married a man who wears his feelings on his face, I thought. We watched the program to the end and Sam muted the television as the credits rolled.
"I know how that man feels," he said softly. "You see, when my mother was dying of cancer, I didn't know what to do. So I drove for two days to her her house and took along my Rainbow vacuum cleaner. It had a strong filter in it, and I vacuumed the whole house. It was all I could think of doing to help her. Maybe it would make a difference, so I did it." His eyes filled again. "I know how it is to do whatever you can hoping that your mother won't die. That's how desperate I was." His voice trailed off and tears brimmed in his eyes again.
Suddenly I realized what it meant when he vacuumed the house, our bedroom, my bedside table. "Honey, when you vacuum the house like you do, it's so I'll stay well, isn't it?" He nodded gravely. "It's not much, but it makes me think of how much I loved my mother, and I want you to be healthy, too."

I have teared up several times since that conversation, just thinking over what it means to Sam to vacuum our house. It is an expression of love that I would never have understood, had we not had this conversation. I don't get flowers from him very often, nor fancy gifts for holidays. But he loves me through his vacuuming, and that is something I get almost every week.

I love you, too, Sammy.

New Life

This is my friend "Olga" whom I have written about in previous posts. I thank all of you who have prayed for her as she has faced rapidly declining health in recent weeks. This picture was taken last month on the day that her friends moved her belongings out of her apartment and into our guestroom. I had made a big pot of curry and put out dinner for Sam and her son, who had just set up her computer in our downstairs room, when I had a very strong impression that I needed to go see her--IMMEDIATELY. I told Sam that I'd be back later and drove over to her apartment, about 9 miles away. Olga was on her bed, and her friends from the Romanian church were trying to help her get comfortable--rubbing her feet and hands. She told me that her kidneys were no longer working and she felt horrible. Her hands and feet had excruciating cramps, probably from her electrolyte imbalance. Olga was too tired to talk much, and was short of breath. I did manage to get this picture of her with me, and we chatted a few minutes before I prayed for her and her friends, and went back home.

I had such an ominous feeling when I saw her: gaunt in the face but bloated in her belly. "I look 10 months pregnant!" she'd exclaimed, looking down at her fluid filled belly.

That night she went into the hospital and has not come out since. After nearly dying in a Los Angeles hospital, she was stabilized and transferred over to UCLA, in the intensive care unit. She was immediately placed on a respirator and stabilized further. We've been able to go see her three times since she's been there, and each time it's been really hard. I can only imagine how her sons must feel. Her middle son has texted or called me every day to tell me how she is doing and to ask questions about medical things the nurses tell him.

During the time Olga has been at UCLA thus far, she has received eight offers for a liver. Each time, she would be told that there was a liver available, and that the doctors would be examining it to be sure it was "a good one." Based on that, they would get back with her. But in the meantime, her nurses would start her on a regimen of IV medications, pills, and blood product infusions in order to get her body at peak capacity for the 8-10 hour surgery required for a transplant. Seven times she learned that the liver wasn't good: fatty livers, too small, too large. Finally, she got her transplant last night. Her son sent me a text message at 2:30 this morning to tell me that she was in the ICU and doing very well. Today she is extremely stable, on a ventilator and mildly sedated. She is following commands and relaxed. She has the very best care there is for liver transplantation, I am convinced. Her surgeon wrote the textbook that all medical schools in the country use for transplantation education. Her nurses have been nothing short of angels, every one of them: so knowledgeable, personable, and accommodating. Since I am on the list of individuals who is allowed to have information about her condition, I have spoken to most of them over the last few weeks. They have all been wonderful to me, but more importantly, to Olga.

Tomorrow she has another short surgery to "clean her up inside" as the doctor explained it to her son. Apparently, transplantation is a two-stage process during which the liver is attached during the first surgery, and the bile duct and surgical debris is removed during the second surgery. So she has that in the morning.

Meanwhile, we are so very grateful to God for giving her this second chance at life.

Olga now legally resides here, even though she is in the hospital. I don't know if she will be allowed to convalesce here since we have a cat and two dogs. But if she is, we will have church ladies staying with her here around the clock, since I will be working and Sam will be involved in other things. Those Romanian ladies have been absolute saints: massaging her feet, cooking for her, cleaning her house, taking her to the doctor's office and hospital, running her erands and giving her money. I have never seen such wonderful friends before. It will be a real honor and blessing to us to have her--and her friends--with us.

It's a new life for Olga. We are grateful, and hopeful that her new liver will "take" and that she will have more good years ahead of her. That will by far, be a great miracle. Thank you again for your prayers. She still needs them, if you can remember to pray for her still.

Waiting and Watching

This afternoon as I loaded up the dishwasher, "the boys" rushed over from their bed to what I have started calling "the tasting station." Charlie took a couple licks at a knife with butter on it, and Baxter tried to lick the edge of a bowl with soup drippings left in it. (You will be relieved to know that we sanitize our dishes!) They did not want to miss the opportunity to get in a few licks of something good.

Then as I was makinc soffrito (Puerto Rican liquid seasoning for rice), they came right over to sit at my feet. Their eyes followed my every move, and they trotted behind me to the fridge, and back over to the blender on the counter across the kitchen. When I moved to the stove, they both came closer so they wouldn't miss anything. Maybe I would give them a bread crust, or a lick of the cream cheese wrapper. I do this occasionally, much to Sam's dismay...
If they are particularly good and my heart can't take not giving them any tastes of human food, I offer them puppy bisquits.
"Want a bisquit boys?"
Baxter yips in excitement and Charlie leaps up and down as if he has springs in his heels.
"Dancing, dancing!" I sing out, and they jump up on their back legs, dancing furiously in front of me.
I give them half a bisquit each.
"Now...." they look at me expectantly, Baxter trying to sit in front of Charlie so he can be closer to me.
"Now... lie down." They go flat to the floor in unison, and look up at me through their eyebrows. I can hardly bear how darling they are--so in earnest, and so eager to please me.
"Good boys!" and I give them another half bisquit.
I clap my hands together several times to signal that we're done with their tricks, and tell them what good boys they are. They wag their tails and nuzzle against my legs. Even though I know I'll have to wash my hands (again!) before I resume cooking, I rub their heads and cheeks.
"Good boys! What precious boys!" and they wag their tails before sitting down just out of range to see what I'll do next in the kitchen.

What strikes me is how vigilant they are. Watching and waiting. Just like Christians are supposed to do. Don't miss an opportunity for gifts from above. Be available for every chance to move in and take advantage of what is being offered. Watch and wait. The right thing will happen at the right time, and if you're not sitting there waiting eagerly, you'll miss out.

We Christians have been told to be ready for Christ to come back. We are to watch every development and with unflinching dedication, be ready for whatever opportunity there is. If you're anything like me however, you have spiritual ADHD. It's hard to focus on spiritual things for too long and difficult to avoid being sucked into other activities that grab at your attention more than sitting and waiting does. And yet there's Christ's command: "Be ye therefore ready, for the Son of man commeth at a time that ye think not." Like Baxter and Charlie, I hope to be steadfast, near at hand, and waiting for the Lord's blessings and most of all, His coming.

Good Night, Dear Friend

This morning I received a phone call at 5:45. Could I please speak to Betty? She had been taken to the hospital at 3:30 a.m. and it appeared that she had an intestinal obstruction with necrosis (dead bowel). She had refused surgery, and indeed, she was an extremely poor candidate for surgery as she has had numerous mini-strokes and back surgeries. Betty needed pain medication and had been told that this was a fatal condition that would end her life within hours or days. Before she was medicated could I please have one last conversation with her?

Betty, this is Barbara.
Oh, Barbara....Hello Dear
Are you having a hard go of it?
....yes
You've had a rough night already.
....Yes
Betty, I'm told that this doesn't look good for you.
...No, it doesn't.
Are you afraid?
...No
....Do you feel ready to go?
....Yes...
Betty, we will soon be together in heaven and we can talk together forever. Won't that be wonderful?
...Yes, yes.
I'm going to be there, and I'm eager to see you there, where you won't have any of these problems.
Oh yes. Me, too.

Are you having some trouble breathing now?
............yes........
Betty, I love you dearly. We've had so many good times over the years, haven't we?
Yes, wonderful ones.
But it's time to say goodbye and I'll see you soon in heaven.
..........yes.........(wheeze)


Betty passed to her rest at 11:00 this morning. Her young friends were at her bedside holding her and loving her right to the very end. They told me that she had been smiling right up to the last.


She would have been 87 years old in nine days. I have loved Betty for many, many years now. She has been like a second mother to me. There have been too many conversations and activities to share and I hesitate, because it would be hard to capture the essence of what she has meant to me in just a few words. But there are several things that must be mentioned.
Betty called me every single day for four years while I was alone in Minnesota, getting my doctorate. I knew no one there and it was a quite lonely experience but for her phone calls: "Hello Lovie, tell me what have you been doing today?" And we would launch off on an animated conversation, punctuated by lots of laughter. We had a wonderful friendship and I couldn't have gotten through that experience without her warm support.

Betty knew what it was to be middle aged and single. While my life went in a different direction than hers did in terms of me getting married eventually, she was a tremendous comfort and role model as a woman who had a full life. She was independent, full of pluck--"a brick" as her neice called her. She knew that I struggled financially just as she had, and as a result she provided things for me that I could not have had otherwise. For example, she bought me my first laptop computer when I went back to school, and she sent me to France to a Gestalt Therapy training institute one summer. She also was a constant source of encouragement and spiritual strength to me, which I have written about in an earlier post.

But perhaps what I loved most about Betty was that she was spontaneous and young at heart. One Christmas Eve when I was alone, I called her around 9:30 at night and told her that I had a yearning to drive up to the mountains and smell the pines. "I'll be at the front door in 10 minutes," she said without hesitation. And so off we drove, 30 minutes up into the mountains, chatting happily all the way. Once we were at a good elevation on the Rim of the World highway, we pulled off onto a turnout and shut off the car. With the windows open, we inhaled deeply of the crisp, pine laden air for several minutes. We were exhilirated as we drove back down the mountain to home. I was unprepared for an obligation the next day, but it is the memory of sharing this wonderful experience with her that is so much more important.

We howled with laughter so many times. Once she invited me over for lunch after church and as we were waiting for dinner to heat up in the oven, she complained that the oven door didn't shut very tightly. Seeing a latch under the door handle, I shoved it to the right until the oven door was snugly closed. "See?" I had proudly said. She was horrified. I had just started the self-cleaning feature of the oven which locked it, preventing us from taking out the food, whilst the temperature soared up to 500 degrees. And yet, the caserole and Boston Cream Pie survived it all. We laughed about that for days.

Betty was the eternal optimist. Even though she had struggled with many things during her lifetime, she had never given in or given up. Some people thought she was quirky, but I loved her. Since my own mother is quite negative, it was medicinal for me to be with her.
While I loved my mother, Betty was able to do things and provide for me emotionally in ways that I could not get from Mother. The many shopping trips we took, the laughter, the way she listened to me and cheered me on, the warmth and kindness in her generosity--all of these things were incredibly helpful to me.

I know that Betty is sleeping until the resurrection morning, and I am glad. Her life had become very limited, living in a board and care facility for the last few years. Her speech was garbled almost beyond understanding, and she was starting to experience minor confusion at times. But she always loved my phone calls and an 11 x 14 photo of me hung right over her bed. I know I was loved and as I examine my attitudes and feelings about many things in life, I "bump into" her influence. She was really a gift from God and I am so grateful that I have loved her and been loved by her.

Good night, Betty. Thank you for who you were and what you did for me. I'll see you in the morning, my dear, dear friend.

Wood Floors

We have wanted to put laminate flooring throughout the house for a very long time. This vacation provided just the opportunity to do that. So here you see Sam after he's placed the moisture barrier/underlayment down on the cement livingroom floor. This is the phase of work after the carpet and padding comes out (and after the flooring is leveled).

It goes in pretty well, but that right arm of mine got awfully tired, not to mention my knees.

This is what I was able to do in about six hours. I will definitely not give up my day job yet!

It's looking pretty good now. Just have to put in the baseboards, which we tore out so we could install 4-inch molding. Can't wait to get rid of the "moving look" that we've had in the house for weeks.

Hopefully, the job will get done tomorrow and my muscles can go back to normal again.