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

Otis' Friends

Found here

Last night I heard a hiss and a rattle, and looked up from the kitchen table to see Otis hanging on the screen door, about three feet off the ground. Shocked, I went over to the door and looked out myself. There sat two stray cats on the mat outside the door. They are both grey and white, both looked hungrily in the door. Actually, I think they're feral cats as I've seen them in the yard on several occasions and I've taken to feeding them every night in a little saucer on the back porch. One of them jumped up on my lap, purring and begging for a scratch under the chin. The other is a bit wary and stood off a distance. But there they were.
I don't know what to do about these cats. One of them appears to be a good candidate for being inside with us. But they're a team, those two. Probably siblings. Should I take them to the humane society in the hope that someone will adopt them? I think Otis will miss out on the entertainment value of having his friends come calling if I do that. And I will miss these little furry visitors. What to do?

Kids

Found here

Yesterday after work I ran over to Macy's to find something new to wear. I'm giving a seminar next weekend and there is nothing in my closet that I want to be seen in. So I browsed about in the women's clothing section, trying to find just the right thing: somewhat colorful, but also bit conservative and classic. There were all kinds of things that were drab, slinky, and that showed a lot of skin (and cleavage), but nothing that grabbed my attention. After walking through every section in the store, I finally settled back on the women's section. They put the larger sizes upstairs with the cooking pots. Go figure.

Just as I was getting ready to leave, I saw a manikin in the most beautiful green jacket and swirly, sheer overlay skirt. Didn't care much for the top, but I simply loved the skirt. It would look perfect with my black blazer, and I had just tried on the perfect black shell downstairs that would set it off. The ensemble pieces were hanging on a rack back against the wall. I needed a 14 in everything, but they only had 16s. What the heck. Maybe they run small. I scooped up the size 16 skirt. But the only jacket was an 18W. I would swim in that size. But you know, store staff usually put the smaller sizes on their manikins (have you ever seen a size 28 manikin?) So I went back over to the manikin and looked at the tag inside the jacket. It was a 16. That might do it. After looking both ways to be sure no one would question me, I lifted the jacket off the manikin and made for the fitting room.

Taking off my tired, old black pants and pink blouse, I put on the swirling skirt, and jacket. I looked like I had been dressed by a committee: nothing fit though everything should have (on paper). The clothes were pathetically huge. The sleeves hung down past my knuckles, and there was enough overlap on the front of the jacket to button it under my armpits. The skirt fit around me well if I puffed out my stomach. But that defeated the purpose of trying to look svelte. I'd probably do better with a size 14. But there hadn't been any out on the rack. Good grief.

Oh! Look at the skirt on the manikin! She stood facing the store entrance, looking out into the parking lot with vacant eyes and bland face. Her white arms jutted out from under the blouse that was half in and half out of the skirt. I had done that trying to get the jacket off her. I looked at the inside label of her skirt. Size 14. I would have that one.

The clerk was about 20 yards away helping another customer with a purchase. A table of sweaters stood between us, partially obscuring the manikin. No one was at the front door, either. Now was my chance. Unbottoning, then unzipping her skirt, I lowered it over her perfect hips and very long legs. I hadn't anticipated the heavy broad round base that she was attached to. The skirt wouldn't go over that unless I picked her up. Nope, I would be spotted. It needed to go up over her head. The clerk had gone the opposite direction to look for a size the customer requested. Up came the skirt, over the manikin's conservative little bosom. But wait--the skirt couldn't go over the arms. The clerk was coming back to the register and glanced my way. I tilted my head to one side as though I was sizing up an outfit. I was. I think the arms will have to go up so the skirt will go over her torso. But the clerk would notice a manikin with both her arms in the air. I started to move one of the arms upward and it came off in my hand. Horrified, I looked both ways and saw that still no one was coming in the front door. Down on the floor went the arm, and up went the skirt, over the manikin's head. Free at last!

A few minutes later I was taking my skirt downstairs to a counter in the jewelry section. "You don't mind if I pay for this here, do you?" I asked a woman so made up she looked like a Salvador Dali painting. "Oh, not at all!" she gushed. "It's fine!"

So I paid for my skirt and fled the premises. As I left, I turned back to see a mangled white manikin with one arm, dressed only in a blouse. An elderly woman coming in the door stopped short, staring at the manikin. "Hooligans!" she hissed aloud. "There's such a criminal element in this mall. I hate coming here."
I shook my head knowingly, "I know what you mean" I said, stepping outside into the sunshine.

A Real Hero

I've recently become acquainted with a woman who is the strongest, most determined woman I think I've ever met. When I listen to her tell her story, I feel like a rather weak-kneed, dilatory sap.
I could never do what she has done: escape from an abusive marriage, face her abuser in court over custody battles regarding their child, then live through the realization that he was abusing that child. This mother did what had to be done to protect her baby, even when that meant going to court 30 times, traveling across state lines, and being wanted for kidnapping her child. She fought a legal system in one of the darkest states in the country that was populated by good ole' boys who protected abusers because the laws did nothing for women or children in their situation. For several years, the courts notwithstanding, she had to watch her child struggle with the father's abuse. He told her once that he would wear her out with court visits and stress. Since this woman has Crohn's, and stress inflames one's bowels, she now has an unpredictable and very unhealthy GI system.

But she ultimately got her child away from her abuser.
Her child is happily married to a good man, and she has children of her own.
Her child is a church-going, good-hearted woman who is trying to recover from years of abuse by her father.
Her child has had a difficult time seeing beyond what happened. Had her mother not given up her money, time, energy, and even health, her child would not have survived childhood. But she thrives today--because her mother threw down her life to save the life of her child.

My friend has been hospitalized for her Crohn's too many times to count. She has had inflamatory episodes, gone on TPN (intravenous feedings), been unable to eat, had uncontrollable diarrhea and cramping, and thought she was going to die, over and over. But she never gave in. He couldn't kill her spirit.

This is only one of the several things that this woman has overcome in her life. She came from a difficult home situation. Yet she is not bitter and she worked hard to give her family a better life. She has a generous spirit, a happy-go-lucky personality, and is a very creative person.

She has worked for people who abused her and nearly ruined her, financially, socially, and spiritually. They are highly esteemed and have prestige and loads of money. No one would believe the hideous behavior of these people. And yet even though they threatened and tried, they couldn't kill her or take away her faith.

Why am I writing about this--about a woman only two readers would even know? Because she feels that she is a failure as a mother; that she is weak, small, and insufficient. She has been too busy doing the next thing that needs doing to be able to get the distance she needs to be objective about all that she has endured. But heroes are not made of stronger stuff than she is.

There is no greater love, and therefore, no greater person, than she who holds back nothing, but gives to ensure the life of her child.

Worse than I thought possible

At 4:30 this morning I realized that there are worse things than dead mice in the attic. We slept with the window open, it being quite warm in the house last night. In the midst of tossing and turning, hoping no one was climbing in the window, a third ingredient introduced itself to our unfortunate situation. We were visited by skunks. Oh Lordy...

Rats!

The other morning I woke up with Otis dancing across the bed. Opening one eye, I could see him running back and forth over our legs while looking up at the ceiling. Then I heard something being dragged across the ceiling in the attic. Gross! We must have mice or a rat up there, I thought. How disgusting. And I fell back asleep with Otis' little frolic continuing unabated.

This happened every morning around 5:00 for several days. No scampering sounds, just this heavy dragging sort of sound--a miniature ball and chain, in my fantasy. I heard some frantic leaping about over the kitchen ceiling one morning while I was cooking breakfast. Otis heard it, too, and started pacing the floor, looking up at the ceiling as though something was about to drop.

Last night, we heard two odd scraping sounds in the wall of the living room. Sam froze as his eyes rolled toward the sound. Yuck. We really must have a colony up there. It's pretty horrible to contemplate, but it surely is consistent with the quality of this house! Rats! I told Sam that we probably should put some traps up in the attic. But neither of us was too keen on going up there with flashlight to lay the traps down, much less bring them down with wriggling, terrified, chattering rats caught in the glue traps like hideous statues. To drown them in a bucket is even worse to contemplate. So we didn't do anything about them.

This afternoon when we walked into the house, an unearthly smell met us. It was like Sam's dirty socks, even ten times worse. It was in our bedroom, I thought. So I wrenched off all the sheets and the comforter and did a huge laundry. How could we have been sleeping in such a bed with such a stench? We must be more piggy than I thought. Sam came in the room and began sniffing about. He stopped short by the closet. "It's a dead rat in the attic, I think," he said gravely. Sure enough, I think it is, too. I pray that it is a mouse--the smell will be gone in a couple days.

My aunt called tonight and told me to put cups of vinegar around the room. "It will smell strong for a couple days, but it will absorb the odor." I'm prepared to hose it into the attic. But I don't want to go up there. Oh no...
Does anyone know how to get that smell out of the house?