Goodnight, Etta

Etta slipped away this afternoon. We got the call this morning that she had become unresponsive yesterday afternoon and was admitted to the hospital for palliative care. I dropped by to see her this morning as soon as I found out. As I smoothed back her hair I told her that I was there. She made a sound and became a bit more active but her eyes weren't tracking. She wasn't responsive to anyone. I don't know if she heard me or not, but it was the last sound she made.
Jack's great-nephews came by around 11:00 and I sent them off to the cafeteria at noon to get some lunch. Jack didn't sleep much last night and he failed to have breakfast. After they left, I pulled the chair up to Etta's bed and told her that it was time for her to go to sleep--the boys and I would take care of Jack. Then I sang to her, probably for about 30 minutes: Safe in the Arms of Jesus; Amazing Grace; Jesus Lead Me All the Way; Just a Closer Walk With Thee; How Firm a Foundation. She became very still and her breathing dropped way down. When the guys came back from lunch, she was barely breathing. I told Jack that I didn't think it would be very long. She stopped breathing altogether 10 minutes later. It was very peaceful. It was time and she was ready.

It is very hard to see an elderly man cry for his wife of 71 years. Their 72nd anniversary would have been this Sunday. Etta told Jenny, her caretaker, what she wants to be buried in, what to do with various of her personal effects. She knew she was dying but she made ready the best she could by giving instructions and sharing her heart with the woman who cared for her day in, day out, for eight years, missing only one day. Jenny is a devoted, loyal saint.

So Jack's great-nephews are with him this weekend--I am ever so grateful. I will stay in touch but I feel quite sad for him. He is 94 years old. Determined to stay in his own home (and he should), but the woman he has loved for so long, and for whom he has cared faithfully for the last 8 years, is now resting in peace.
Please hold him close in your prayers. He is a dear, dear man. A tired saint who has given much, as did Etta.

And I am without one of my surrogate mothers. Etta always "got" me. I could walk in the door of her house and call out, "Hi Sunshine!" and she would reply, "There's no sunshine here!"
"How are you today, Etta?"
"Well, I'm still alive."
"That's a step in the right direction!" And we would both laugh.
Etta could size me up in just a glance. She could tell if I was irked about something, tired, or going too fast in life.
"Barbara, you need to go home and rest. You're doing too much."
One day she made me promise that I would take a siesta for 30 minutes every day after lunch. I did a few days and she was thrilled when I reported back to her that her suggestion worked like a charm.

Etta was a saucy soul. She had a sense of humor that was unflagging. She often asked me, "How's Tall Dark and Handsome?" And full of zip. I told her that Sam woke me up one day from a nap. She replied without hesitation, "I hope it was with a hot kiss!"
"Etta!" We both laughed. "It was. How did you know?"
She just smiled.

There was never as generous a soul as Etta was. The few times when I told her about students who were in need she always asked, "How can we help?" If I had asked for money she would have had Jack write a check immediately. But I never asked for anything except to pray. She did, tirelessly. There were many times when she'd call me to ask how I was, or my students, or stepchildren, or mother. Etta seemed to recognize the burdens and responsibilities I have carried and her cheery phone calls blessed me.

She always saved her magazines for me to read. She'd dog-ear the pages with blue and white decorations and write next to it, "Blue" so I wouldn't miss it. Sometimes she'd circle recipes and make editorial comments or substitution suggestions on the side.
As I would leave the house she would tell Jack to go out and find me the magazines she had set aside for me. He's slip a mango or two into the sack and I'd go out with more than the food I'd brought in.

Etta was a kindred soul. I loved her grit, naughtiness, tender heart, and warm spirit. Few people in my immediate circle have connected with me the way she has or given me the gift of being so fully understood and loved. I shall miss her more than I can say: sitting up in her recliner, holding court and grilling me about what was going on in my life. How she stayed positive for eight years, unable to walk for the last nine months of her life, is beyond me. I only hope I can be half of the woman she was and I thank God for allowing us to cross paths. I look forward to seeing her in heaven, where we can be friends forever.

Good night, Etta.
I can't wait to see you in the Morning.

Safe in the arms of Jesus,

Safe on His gentle breast;

There by His love o’ershaded,

Sweetly my soul shall rest.

Hark! ’tis the voice of angels

Borne in a song to me,

Over the fields of glory,

Over the jasper sea.

Safe in the arms of Jesus,

Safe on His gentle breast;

There by His love o’ershaded,

Sweetly my soul shall rest.

Jesus, my heart’s dear Refuge,

Jesus has died for me;

Firm on the Rock of Ages

Ever my trust shall be.

Here let me wait with patience,

Wait till the night is o’er;

Wait till I see the morning

Break on the golden shore.

Safe in the arms of Jesus,

Safe on His gentle breast;

There by His love o'ershaded,

Sweetly my soul doth rest.

KFD-ville

Found here

I once conducted a very interesting research project. Working with 8 and 9 year-olds, I asked them to draw a picture of their family, everyone doing some action. Not stick people or cartoons. Oh, and include a picture of God (these were Christian children who didn't think it was blasphemous to depict God, unlike other religions). So they would turn the paper round and round, then begin drawing. The picture above is a typical Kinetic Family Drawing (KFD). You can see each family member labeled, and doing something or another. Fascinating, I think.

Well, I remember one young girl who started drawing. She became very silent as she drew, most intently. But almost every other line got erased and she would painstakingly recreate it--perfectly. Every line was redrawn by the time she had finished the drawing. She had taken five times longer than the other students to do this, and I had to eventually stop her from continuing. She was worried because there were still mistakes in it that needed to be corrected. I promised her that she could come back and finish it up the next day. She did--another hour. I was stunned. Poor little thing: nothing was good enough for her unless she had prevaricated over it, erased it, redrawn it, looked at it, erased part of it, and then moved on to the next miniscule line. I was ready to scream after sitting in silence for that length of time, watching this little girl with a budding case of OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) agonize about the perfection of her picture.

There are so many of us who are like this but in different ways, I realized over the weekend. Take me, for example (!). I was so worried that my talk wouldn't be as good as the others and I agonized over it, rehearsed it, reworded it over and over, obsessed about how bored people's faces would be as they had to sit and listen to me, etc. But it was a good-enough paper. It was better than good enough--it was really quite good and I was delighted by the reception. But for several hours I was near tears, had stomach upset and catastrophized myself into a real state.

I hope that one day before I die I will realize in a deep way that I am human and that as such, the best I can do is good enough. Even though I am a wordsmith and love putting together sentences meaningfully, there is no need to create perfect talks, perfect phrases, seamless presentations. I can only do the best that I can do, given the time. And that is plenty.

As I was leafing through my KFD pictures a week ago, I remembered this little OCD child and wondered where she is today. I wondered if her parents caught on to what her issues were. I had sworn anonymity and as a researcher I couldn't identify her to anyone or refer her for help. That would be unethical. I have never forgotten her determined little face, frail frame, and busy eraser (I think she used up two pencil erasers during those two hours and we finally went to a large pink eraser.)

I am enough. The way God made me is fine. If I am doing my best and aiming for the highest that I can do (without killing myself to accomplish it), then that is good enough. Good reminder for today.

Nerves

I just returned from a long weekend of meetings. It was an historic meeting that several of us planned for the last 10 months. We brought theologians, mental health practitioners, and educators together to discuss how our religious tradition and mental health practices can be supported, integrated, and encouraged. There were about 25 of us who went out to Rancho Palos Verdes to a convent that is adjacent to some of the most expensive homes in the country (I was later to learn).
I have to say, our accommodations were rather austere. When I swept into my suite, a gasp escaped my mouth. It was a veritable cell with a single bed, a dilapidated lamp, a desk and chair, with an attached bathroom that was almost as big as the bedroom. Oh, and a built in clothes storage system at the foot of the bed and a chair. I'm not sure why one would need two chairs in there. For a visitor? My friend who was in an adjoining cell (and whom I could hear breathing during the night!) frequently knocked on my door and plunked down in the chair at the foot of my bed. But had I not been in bed with my legs pulled up and her legs on the foot of the bed, we could not have fit in there at the same time.

Anyhow, we had a most stimulating conference. It was called, "Symposium on Christian Worldview and Mental Health: Seventh-day Adventist Perspectives." We had all sorts of presentations. George Harding, great-nephew of President Harding, and son of the founder of the Harding Hospital in Ohio, gave the first presentation about the history of Adventist psychiatrists in this country. Fascinating. The majority of this man's male and female forebearers were physicians, mostly psychiatrists.
We heard from a theologian from Andrews Theological Seminary, who presented, "Christian Epistemological Foundations for Behavioral Sciences." This was followed by a Fuller Seminary PhD (marriage and family therapist) who reported on her dissertation entitled, "The Sabbath as a Resource for Marriage." Very interesting empirical findings that indicate when a couple has a high level of intrinsic religiosity--that is, religion that comes from a desire to serve God rather than to merely do what is required--along with the desire to spend time together, these couples reported a much higher level of marital satisfaction after observing Sabbath for 24 hours each week.
A clinical psychologist gave a paper entitled "Clinical Implications for the Practice of Psychotherapy from the Seventh-day Adventist Tradition: A Summary." Now, I don't know why, but I could barely follow this speaker. Some people love to use big words and take a sweeping approach to covering topics. He covered every major Christian doctrine plus some.
An Australian psychiatrist presented a paper entitled, "A Personal Integration of God in Psychiatric Treatment--Alcoholics Anonymous as a Paradigm." This was a wonderful paper in which the quite charming speaker pointed out the parallels between AA and the verse, "As ye have received Christ, so walk ye in Him."

Harvard researcher David Williams, who holds an MDiv, MPH and PhD, and who is the 6th most quoted scientist in the country, gave a paper entitled, "Scientific Research on the Study of Religious/Spirituality and Mental Health: Lessons, Positive Affirmations and Disquieting Questions." The stats just roll off this man's tongue. I've never met such a bright and also engaging man in my life. He has been part of many of the epidemiological studies on health and religion, health access, and lifestyle issues in the United States.
Then we were hit by a philosopher who gave an interesting talk that was way over my head: "The Science of Psychology and the Ethics of Freedom: An Adventist's Perspective." I hope we have a good perspective on it because I just couldn't take it in. But everyone else loved it. It was about how we are responsible even though we are free, and he quoted people like Polkinghorne and Stuart Kaufmann. As I listened initially, I was envious of his brain. But I think I'll stick with what I've got because I can understand mine at least.

A theologian gave a most fascinating talk called "Mental Health and Human Wholeness: Implications from Biblical Anthropology." We then heard an excellent paper by a psychologist that pointed out the psychopathology that occurs when Christians get all caught up in legalistic practices. His paper was entitled, "For as He Thinketh in his Heart, So is He: Maladaptive Beliefs and Compensatory Strategies in Psychotherapy." Some of this was about how conservative beliefs (read prudery here) about sex can set people up for the need of therapy. Another concept, which I and others call "Worm Theology" (Oh, what a worm am I in God's sight!) can reduce a healthy self esteem to nothing which we all knew but were interested in hearing his take on it.

It was so wonderful to be with top-notch mental health practitioners who were also devout Christians--people who are serious about forwarding the healing work of Jesus Christ through mental, emotional, spiritual, and relational healing.
Oh, and I gave a paper. That's why I entitled this post "Nerves." It was extremely well received but I was a weeping, tottering wreck only moments before I stood up to speak. Here's why:

There is an unfortunate pecking order in mental health disciplines: psychiatry is top dog, then clinical psychology, counseling psychology, social work, LPCs (licensed professional counselors--in states other than California) marriage and family therapists, and drug/alcohol counselors. Being down toward the bottom of the list doesn't feel good, especially when the others elbow you, cast aspersions, make disparaging comments about your life work, trivialize your skills, etc. I tend to take it personally. Now, this never happened at the conference this weekend because it was a collaborative group. But it has happened to me a number of times in horrid ways.

The first day that I worked for a group therapist practice, a senior social worker called me into her office and said (I still remember it exactly), "I just want to tell you that you are at the very bottom of the totem pole in this group. You will only be allowed to take whatever clients no one else wants to work with, and you will not take any capitated [insurance-paid] clients. Are you clear about that?"
I wasn't clear at all.
"Why is that?"
She glared at me. "Because you people don't believe in medications and these patients are really sick." She said "you people" with the same pathos as though she was cursing.
"Who doesn't believe in medications?" I was incredulous.
"MFTs. You."
"How do you know that I don't believe in medications? Do you even know me?" I was angered but respectful.
"I know how you've been trained and what Minuchin taught and if you believe that then you're a danger to clients."
"That's quite an assumption you're making." I was really mad now. "Did you know that I am also an ICU nurse?"
She just stared at me.
"Do you know any ICU nurses who don't believe in medications?"
She said nothing.
"What makes you so sure I'm a danger to clients? You know nothing about me or my training, and you obviously haven't kept up with Salvador Minuchin's work or else you would have a different opinion."
She wasn't going to back down. "You are going to be questioned repeatedly about this" she said with a very icy voice. "Do you feel that you can stand up to that?"
Very evenly I replied, "Do I seem to be having trouble right now with you?"
I know I didn't storm out or anything like that, but I can't remember what else happened. I just know that I left her office soon thereafter, determined to show her that she was wrong. I did. I had clients coming out my ears and a waiting list in two months.
That was a really rude wake up call. My graduate program director had painted a picture of the world on bended knee, waiting for us to just finish up our degrees so they could benefit from our superior work. She had failed to warn us of the elitism that can exist in the mental health field.

There have been other people, too. My own dear therapist, who is a psychologist, never did like MFTs. It's all about turf. He liked me and admired my work. But he had nothing good at all to say about my discipline. He even made a disparaging comment once about it in therapy and I very swiftly responded to that.
I also taught group therapy to a class composed of clinical psychology doctoral students and counseling psych students. Because I was an MFT, ABD (all but dissertation), and a new professor, those students had at me the entire quarter. It was truly awful: horrible course evaluations, students beligerrant in class, challenging anything I said. Just awful. I felt incompetent, bewildered, angry. So any time I'm around people of these other disciplines and they seem to be less than inclusive, I go to a really bad place in my head. "I'm bad--I can't do anything right--Why can't I be as smart as X, Y, or Z?" I get panicky and feel yucky.

In many ways, I suppose MFTs are analagous to the wild olive shoot that was grafted into the main tree (psychology) just like the book of Hebrews in the Bible. We need to hold our roots in esteem. The roots just have trouble with us and it is painful to be hacked at from time to time.

The redeeming grace is that the folks I was with this weekend--theologians, philosophers, psychiatrists, psychologists, church leaders, therapists, medical directors--all were respectful and delighted with the work and papers each of us presented. And I lived through my presentation by telling stories of training students and putting a human face on the theoretical paradigms and theoretical web spinning that they did--as good as it was.

So I have returned home with a head full of ideas, third editor for a book composed of these papers after revisions, and delighted to belong to a group of people who are serious about mental health services being as closely supported by our church leadership as we try to make vital connections with clergy, clients, parishioners.

I'm tired and glad to be home.

Prayer Request

My friend, Etta, is going downhill fast. I don't think she will live beyond another couple weeks at the most. Etta is 95 years old. She had a stroke 8 years ago that left her unable to move her left side. She was able to walk to the bathroom with her walker until earlier this year. She's recently been sitting in a recliner chair during the day and put to bed around 8:00 at night. She stays in bed for 12 hours and is in the chair for 12 hours. Since she hasn't been able to walk, Etta has developed three small bedsores. One of them got terribly infected and she was in the hospital last weekend with a systemic infection. After a couple days of IV antibiotics, she improved. But at her age, she couldn't manage being away from her familiar settings very well, and she got very confused.

I took Etta flowers on Monday. When she saw me, she asked me how Otis (the cat) is. She thanked me for letting him come over to her house and told me that he was in the cupboard at the foot of her bed. I reminded her that she was in the hospital and that cats aren't allowed. Otis in fact was at home in his bed. She said in a loud whisper, "I've got Alzheimer's, I think!"
"No, Etta," I told her. "You got mixed up while you were here in the hospital. You'll get back to normal once you're home again." I had no reason to think she wouldn't. She's been as sharp as a whip, mentally. And funny!

Today I called Jack, her 94 year -old husband. He didn't sound too good. Etta had to have an indwelling urine catheter placed, which she hates. And she's having trouble swallowing her food. She can no longer feed herself and she chokes even on water. I didn't like the sound of that. She will probably inhale some water or food and give herself a nasty aspiration pneumonia. That will be the end of her. Jack sounded tired, but when I told him that I could bring by some soup for her he told me that he already made some. He's quite the cook--makes his own gluten burgers from scratch! But I also know that Etta isn't wild about his cooking or his meal combinations. I thought that maybe I could help by taking over some homemade cream of broccoli soup or something. No, he has everything he needs. But he was so grateful for the offer.

I hung up the phone feeling very sad. Two weeks ago on the day Etta went into the hospital, I dropped by to take her some blueberry scones. She was delighted. But she looked awful. Etta was sitting up in her wheelchair and was pasty-white in her face. "Barbara," she said with sincerity in her voice. "I'm tired. I can't go on like this."
"I know you're tired, Etta. I would be too."
"I just feel so weary. It feels like too much."
"Yes. I think it would..." I waited for several minutes just to give her room to collect her thoughts and to let her know that I was listening.
"I don't know what to do."
"Do you think there is something you should do, Etta?"
She looked at her hands in her lap. "No. I can't think of anything."
I wished I could have done something for her then--anything that could have helped her. Perhaps my listening and being someone she could say that to was enough. "Etta, you've done so well for such a long time. And it has to have been very hard."
"Yes, I did do well for a long time. But now I'm tired."
"I know." I cast about for something to say and stopped myself from saying something trite just to alleviate my dis-ease. "I don't know what to tell you, Etta. But I do know that God knows when it is time. We can be sure that He knows when to take you and we can trust Him to do that at the right time."
"Yes, I know that Barbara, and I'm glad we can trust Him that way."
She caught herself suddenly. "But I don't like being blue. Here--you tell me about you now." I took her cue and regaled her with stories for the next 10 minutes, giving her something to laugh about. She was so happy to see me and thanked me repeatedly for dropping in to see her. "It means so much, Barbara."
It certainly means more to me than she could ever know.

I am soon to lose a dear, sweet friend who has been an inspiration to me. Even with having to sit in a recliner chair for the last 8 years, I've only twice heard her make a negative comment about it. Mostly, she laughs when I see her and say, "Well, I'm still alive!" I always say, "Well, that's more fun, isn't it?" and we both chuckle.

Please say a prayer for Etta. She is such a dear soul and I will be very sorry to see her go. But I also know that it is time and she is ready. It comes to every single one of us. We just each need to be ready and live in such a way that we will be fully alive until we die. Few people live that way. Etta has.

Do you really care?

There are people in life who are carers. We typically like to be around these kind of people. They ask you if you're comfortable when you visit them, attend to you to be sure you have what you need, and follow you to your room as if to introduce you to the wallpaper or something. They just want to iron out the wrinkles, reduce awkwardness, help you ease into being in an unfamiliar place. Their warm, kind presence makes any unfamiliar room feel homey.

And there are people who are not carers. You enter their home with a "Welcome!" on their lips that quickly fades as they sit down and turn on the television, their backs to you. "Make yourself at home" you hear as you wander down the hall toward the bedroom they told you was there. Or they are on the computer, or talking on the phone, or reading and you are left alone in an unfamiliar place trying to figure out what to do, to find where the bathroom is and wonder what towel you are to use, or what is expected of you. Obviously, it is not to talk while your host is watching television. So you try to pick up a magazine and leaf through it or look out the windows at the view. You can make a couple general kinds of comments and receive a comment over the shoulder of your host, but that's where it ends. Until the commercial.

I remember a weekend I had once with a friend who is not what I'd call a carer, although she thinks she is tremendously caring and attentive. It was really hard on me because I come from a family in which when we get together we are all talking together, laughing, just enjoying hearing the other ones talk. We didn't grow up with a TV and so we know how to communicate together without having to watch a ball game or something. And we weren't the kind of family who all got together, picked up our individual books and headed to different corners of the house. We were the family who, once upon a time, all clumped together on the daybed on the front porch of the house--all four of us kids, with Mother and Daddy in rocking chairs--and one of them would read aloud to us for a couple hours sometimes. Or we would laugh and talk together all evening there. People used to remark about how much love and togetherness we had as a family. Sad to say, that is not the case between my siblings and mother now. But most of us kids are good to be around and we bend over backward to be hospitable because we all genuinely like people and enjoy chatting and just being with them. But back to the weekend with my friend. It was a really hard visit off and on over the weekend. She didn't say a whole lot and seemed to be intent on reading a book that she had just gotten. It was expected that I would have a book and sit across the room reading my book while she read hers. For the entire weekend, I think. Very few things to do together. When I left after two and a half very long days, I didn't ever want to go back again.

What is it? Why are some people so oblivious to the needs of others? It is as if they are in a world all their own, or they lack the ability to see that the other people around them need some sort of entertaining or at least conversation.
I remember one woman I roomed with once, years ago. On a weekend trip with a third friend, she fairly exploded at me. "Why does it matter whether I'm comfortable, too warm, too cold, happy, sad, or anything else? You're driving me crazy!" I was stunned. I hadn't hovered over her firing questions about her wellbeing: I had just asked her a couple questions over the weekend to check and see if I could somehow add to her experience. In my mind, that is what gracious, mannerly people do. But she came from a family of people who were all in their own worlds and she rarely felt cared for. When she did, it was such an unusual experience that she didn't know what to do about it except let fly at me.

I suppose it is also related to the fact that some people are givers and some are takers. There are groups of people that exhaust me because I know that while I am around them I will be asked for things, requested to do things, and it will all be about those people. They tell stories that are about them, steer the conversation to their topics, lose interest if we wander to something I'm interested in, and simply put--they tenaciously adhere to their agenda. There is no room for considering my needs or how they come across. I really dislike being in their company for any length of time.

Other people are such a delight to be around. I have a couple friends of whom I never tire. We have "inside" language, meanings, stories. We've been friends for 20 and 30 years respectively. They are closer to me than my own siblings. And they are both givers. They elicit stories from me and I listen while they tell theirs. We both give and take. True delights to be around. Because in addition to being creative, smart, humorous, they are also capable of seeing the world through my eyes. I guess that is what a soulmate is: someone who can see the world through your eyes and therefore goes the second mile to be sure that your experience is the best it can be in their presence.

Givers and takers. One gives of themselves and takes note of the needs and experience of the other person. The other is consumed with their own needs, feelings, wants. To be around a taker is to feel like you're drowning. To be around a giver, your heart swells and you feel like you just drank an ounce of warm brandy when you have a cold and it's time to go to bed--good, smug, happy, comfortable. I know what kind of person I'm happiest with.

Ugly Story Lines

There are people in this world who have an awful story inside about themselves. It may have come from not getting the affirmation they needed, or living in the shadow of a beautiful, bright, winsome older sibling. Or it might be because they have a mental illness or grew up in a hostile environment where every incoming comment had to be internally screened for vicious barbs. So the tools they used to fend off assaults to their emotional integrity--tools that worked at the time and for the right reason--later become obsolete but still utilized and a definite hindrance to their ability to relate in a healthy way to people who aren't hostile or vicious.

What seems to happen is that because these folks are on the lookout for words that are a threat to them, if they even hear a "trigger" word, or you say a word, give a look, or make a gesture that has the elements of an insult--but actually may be positive comments about something good--these can be taken and somehow fed into the ugly story line they have about themselves. It becomes twisted to support their worst fear about themselves. As they consider this over time it grows exponentially until the innocent word of a well-intentioned friend or mentor becomes a cruel assault. A focal point of defensive, rageful protection.

Today I became the brunt of such an individual. At least there were witnesses. To be blindsided by accusations that are diametrically opposite of one's efforts, even prayers on behalf of that person--this is really hard to absorb.

As the vitriol began being hurled in my direction, my heart raced, blood pounded in my ears, and I felt my face throbbing. Two of my colleagues sat there and took it all in. I had no idea what was going through the mind of one of them. They later told me they were absolutely stunned at the shocking allegations made that could not be substantiated or explained in a cogent manner by the accuser. The other was also under attack and unfortunately, I knew too well what he felt like. I worked to stay matter-of-fact and unemotional in response to the harshness. It was really hard to even know what to say that wouldn't be misconstrued. Some of the comments completely blindsided me: I had no idea this individual had any dissatisfaction with me whatsoever. And here we're almost having to deal with a federal case about it.

After an hour and a half of exercising the strongest restraint, I was relieved to go my own way. But I was enraged and my body was hijacking my brain by sending a gush of adrenaline through my system. I could have gone to the moon, given the restlessness and impotent rage I experienced. I knew on one level that no matter what I did, this individual wouldn't be able to differentiate between my good intentions and the words, glances, posture, or combination of the three that would feed her negative inner dialogue. I could have just screamed, but I realized that nothing I could do would change anything. I had to let it go, walk away, pray for peace and the ability to forgive this person, and focus on part of my life that I can impact.

There are people in this world that give us a run for our money. I am convinced that God wants us to be pure and harmless in a very deep place. To be able to trust Him, see the soul of the person while being lambasted, maintain a kind demeanor because that is how God is living through me--this is what is required. This experience taught me that I'm obviously not there yet. Deep breath. Life goes on and I continue to pray to be more like Jesus no matter who I'm with, what they say about me with the greatest conviction, or how it makes me feel. These are people for whom Jesus would have died, even if they were the only one on earth. I have a long way to go.

91.5 FM

I listen to a classical music station most of the time. I love early chamber music scored for string and winds. A nice change is medieval music with sackbuts, viola de gamba, and crumhorns. Ah crumhorns: wonderful reedy instruments that sound like a cross between a basoon and the Aflack duck. A terrific piece of music with this gaggle of instruments is the Terpsichore (pronounced "terp-sick'-or-ee") of Michael Praetorius. You can hear one of my favorite dances here.
So while I love this music on the radio, there are times when the announcer is so irritatingly smarmy that I have to turn it off.
Here's what I mean. One guy in particular, seems smitten with the sound of his own voice. He carefully and slowly enunciates every word as though he thinks the English language is above and beyond the hearer's comprehension. Then at the end of a carefully crafted sentence, he pauses as if to reflect smugly on his comments. After a slow breath, he starts in again. I just happened to tune in the other night to hear this series of remarks:
"...a concerto for Jew's Harp. That's not a mistake, it's reality" (he gives the word reality a bit more air through his vocal cords as though singing it), "and oh my...it is quite a work by Johan, Georg, Albrechtsberger" (he pronounces each word carefully and discretely).
"Now" (his voice inflection goes up and then down with this word), "here's a musical vignette that evokes quite another setting. Although I must say it has never inspired me to punch a cow" (he chuckles a low, melodic gurgle), it is music by Thompson who wrote the score for the motion picture, "The Plow that Broke the Plain." "
We are immediately accosted by a somewhat atonal opening by strings and clarinets. I turn the radio off in disgust. As if this guy could even recognize a cow in a lineup.

Why do people have to talk like this? This announcer knows everything there is to know about music, composers, conductors, performers. But he talks about them in such a superior way, as if that is all there is in life which merits attention. As if I need to be concerned whether Alfred Brendel plays in a more spirited way than say, Murray Perahia. As if it is more important to know the name of Glenn Gould's dog and the odd way Glenn spoke to him, than to hear the music and be either cheered on or sent off on on a cloud of reflection.

Robert Fulghum wrote once that America needs more bad singers and piano players. In the evening when we all gather together we should be creating something of our own, not merely listening to perfection that was recorded after repeated takes. Something that comes from our own souls and helps us transcend our surroundings. Forget the bad notes, cracking voice and slurred fast notes. If it makes you smile, stand taller, and have a glimpse of grandeur, then singing is the best thing for you. The product that comes from this enterprise will not have a sniveling program host making a windy pronouncement about it. This kind of singing might make some people laugh, but not those who see and listen with their hearts. It is soulful music of the common man that we need to hear more of.
When I was in graduate school at the University of Minnesota, I used to listen to Minnesota Public Radio every morning on the way to class. There were two hilarious program hosts named Dale Connelly and Jim Ed Poole, as I recall. They played music with soul, right from the center of all that creates Americana. Songs like, I go out walking after midnight by Patsy Cline; 99 1/2 Just Won't Do by the Sabathani Gospel Choir; Waltzing with Bears; and a delightful song called Baby's Got the Car Keys:

Daddy put the keys in his pocket when he walked into the house
Or did he put them on the table by the telephone.
He thinks that's where he left them. He really isn't sure.
He knows he had to have them just to get inside the door.
Mom's in the kitchen, lookin' on the shelf,
She says this kind of panic is a hazard to her health.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.

Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
She puts them in the toy box and rattles them around,
Drops them in her diaper, now they can't be found.

Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Digging in the sofa gets a dollar, fifty cents,
A toothpick, a candy bar, a dozen fountain pens.
Chaos in the living room, disaster in the den,
Sister says she saw 'em but she can't say when.
Tick-tock the car is locked, Daddy's going into shock.
Smelly, dirty diapers on the breeze.
Dad says he'll change it but baby's got to wait
Until he finds those dad dadgum keys!

Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The baby starts to giggle, there's something in her hand.
That booger drops a wallet in the garbage can.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Mom's on the telephone trying to call a cab,
Daddy's changing baby's diaper in the living room.
The baby's on the table with a bottle in her mouth.
Daddy opens up the diaper, he begins to shout.
Treasure in the diaper, treasure in the muck,
It sure looks a lot like the keys to the truck.
Time to go to work, time to go to school.
And everybody's looking like a fool.

Baby's got the car keys and she had them all along.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The party isn't over, they're about to find out,
Daddy threw away his wallet when he took the garbage out.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.

These are the kinds of songs that make you laugh right out loud at the unexpected when you're stuck in traffic on the bridge over the Mississippi River, or are backed up at the Grand Avenue exit. Long commutes are a delight when the music pulls you right in to sing along, laugh and gasp at the lyrics, gives you a surge of endorphins.

Yes, we need to have conceptions of performance perfection, and we are fortunate to hear samples of this on the radio whenever we are interested in turning it on. I love to hear a flawless rendition of the Nocturne from the Borodin String Quartet. It can make me go helplessly weak. But most of the time, we are all languishing for need of more primal, simple music. More people need to be singing over the dishpan, in the shower, and out weeding the garden. We don't hear people singing very much any more--they all listen to other people do it when they themselves are the ones who would receive the greatest benefit by singing. It doesn't matter if it is off-key or if you run out of breath before the end of a line, or can't remember all the words. More of us need to crash through Chopin's Revolutionary Etude on the piano, and more need to conduct invisible orchestras playing Brahm's First Symphony, no holds barred. We need to cultivate personal cultures that are full of life, tapping into something much deeper than the stagnant, canned accompaniament to life that many tolerate.

I am reminded of a visit I made to a tiny rural church in Ballinacrow, County Wicklow, Ireland. I was asked to sing several songs, and a couple other individuals played instruments and sang as well. The audience was most appreciative, as many of them were farmers and were not trained in music. Then a man named Tommy stood at the front of the church. "Come on then, Tommy. Let's hear ye sing" his friend in the back called out. Tommy cleared his throat. He was wearing ill-fitting dark pants and a soft brown shirt. He looked awkward and a bit apologetic, but he did not flinch. His wife was dying of cancer, he had just learned. He looked out the window past the cows grazing in the church yard. "I first heard this song back when George Beverly Shea sang it on the radio" he said deliberately. "And oi loved it." He drew in his breath sharply as the Irish do when they are making a point. "Oi use ta sing it out in the field walking after the cows. Oi sang it day and night. It's still muh favorite song."
Tommy's rough voice broke in singing then:

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

O love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints’ and angels’ song.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

Oh Love of God!
How rich and pure;
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints' and angels' song.

A deep sense of tearful contentment and a reaching out for God was what I breathlessly held to my heart as he finished. There is not a time that I hear this hymn but that I see Tommy singing loudly, untamed graying hair tumbling over his collar, his hands held rigidly at his sides, eyes gazing up at the ceiling toward the back of the tiny church, the music coming from deep within him. It was just Tommy and God that afternoon. We were blessed to be allowed to listen in. The soul he shared with us that day was the most precious musical gift I've ever received.

My wheezing, affected radio announcer knows a lot about music. There are times when I appreciate his interpretative genius and delicate sensibilities. But I wish sincerely that we could hear more music that rises spontaneously from the hearts and souls of men like Tommy on that wonderful summer day in Ireland--music which needs no introduction and no interpretation.

Writing in Flea Heaven

Found here

I spent 10 hours today writing an article, sitting at the dining room table. It is an article that was prompted when a graduate student in the Midwest called out of the blue and asked if she could be part of my research team. Since I didn't have anything for her to help with, I suggested that she start gathering articles for a critical review manuscript. She is the most motivated young woman I've met in awhile: good writer, hard working, eager to learn. After a couple months she sent me a list of articles. After telling her how to proceed, she then produced a rough draft of an article that was quite good, given her lack of professional writing experience and gaps of understanding about research. However, what this has meant for me is that since I'm first author, I'm responsible for the final writing, editing, and submission to the journal. She wants to use this article as part of her portfolio that needs to be ready for application to a PhD program this fall. Since this student has been very patient with me, I decided to take a week of my vacation and hammer this out.
The topic is one that would leave many cold in their tracks. It is entitled, "Mixed-Orientation Marriages: A Critical Review of Peer-Reviewed Empirical Work." Mixed Orientation Marriage (MOM) refers to marriages between gay or bisexual individuals and a heterosexual person. Suffice it to say, I'm just about sick of the topic after summarizing 15 research studies that pertained to it today. Particularly when a very scary movie came on that Sam was watching, and that I couldn't help following as I tried to focus on a particularly badly written study (It took two hours to summarize that one!) The movie turned out okay. I think it was a Mission Impossible movie with Tom Cruise. I remarked to Sam that if any two people experienced the extreme degree of psychological trauma the two characters did in that movie, they would not be able to live a normal life afterward and would probably lose their marriage. He agreed sagely, and I returned with a vengence to my studies of marriages that struggle to survive.
Perhaps the worst thing about my writing experience today is that I suddenly started scratching my ankles and legs. There's nothing to see--no bites or anything else. But I itch all over. I noticed it the other day when Otis started scratching like a monkey. After a visit to the vet it was determined that our house is probably flea infested.
"Flea eggs lie dormant until they feel vibrations. So if a house has been standing empty for awhile, it is probably full of flea eggs." The implications of that statement are truly awful.

So Otis has had worm medicine and isn't allowed to go out into the garage until we spray flea and tick killer there and all over our property. Because the vet also informed us that our yard and garden are probably full of fleas, too.
Meanwhile, we have an appointment to have the carpets steam cleaned and sanitized, and I'm hopping into the shower with the paranoid hopes of drowning whatever little characters are leaping over my body. Not that I've even seen a one, but the power of suggestion is pretty strong.

Tomorrow I will have completed this article. Tuesday I return to work. By Friday, our house will be new and improved inside. Tonight I'm putting up our pictures and rearranging some final items upstairs. Time moves on. I hope the invisible army of fleas will, too.

Vacation

Still on vacation: writing like crazy for a Friday deadline. Two books that need editing yesterday. Two other articles sitting in the wings. Dealing with emergency student issues even when I'm supposed to be sipping a drink out on a quiet beach this week. Still living amidst boxes and pictures that need to be hung up. I can't get Otis' pills down him--never saw a cat who could spit out pills like he can.
On the good side: I love my house, my husband, my job (most of the time), and writing. I love writing at home in my recliner with my cat begging for handouts. I love hearing Gil's key in the door at 5:30, and rushing to meet him. I like making cookies when Stepdaughter #1 comes in, and seeing her carefully guarded nonchalant face break into a grin when I hand her a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies.
I'm tired. Going to bed.

Bad Day

Found here

I have several interesting and unique blog posts in mind that I wanted to make this afternoon, but this was a wretched day. As I sat at my computer in bed, writing a talk that I have to give on Friday night, I suddenly got terribly dizzy. With my head spinning like a top, I lay in bed clutching the side of the mattress so I wouldn't roll off onto the floor. Sam had just gone out to mow the lawn and within five minutes I was sick. Separation anxiety? I hardly think so. Lying down didn't help. Sitting up didn't help. Covering my eyes so I couldn't see the whirling ceiling fan didn't help. Hugging the bowl with dry heaves did help some, though I couldn't guess why.

My concern was that it came on so quickly. Being a retired ICU nurse, I wasn't thinking stomach virus or inner ear inflammation. I was thinking the worst case scenario: brain aneurysm, stroke, brain tumor, or some sort of virus that would send me into a persistent vegetative state like an atypical Guillian-Barre type syndrome. I was very frightened and horribly dizzy. For awhile, closing my eyes helped. Then when I opened them, that seemed to help. But neither one really did much for me. I felt my way down the stairs and out into the garage. I needed to get Sam's attention because I felt so horrible. He was listening to his iPod, edging the grass. He is as deaf as a stone with his earbuds on. So I stood in the garage and weakly waved my arms to get his attention. I was in my robe and didn't want to make a spectacle of myself out on the lawn. (what if I barfed out in the yard before God and the neighbors?) He blissfully continued edging with the most intense focus on his work that I've ever witnessed. I slunk back into the house.

Sitting in the recliner seemed to help me feel a bit better. Otis was worried and had trailed me all morning, trying to help by licking my hand and gazing into my face. He shouldn't have been at such close range when I suddenly started feeling sick. Suffice it to say, he'll probably not be as solicitous again in the same way. Cats can fly...

After a three hour nap on the couch in which I never moved once, I think I'm feeling a bit better. I still feel like I've been hit by a truck and my stomach feels a bit secondhand. So much for writing brilliant blog entries.

Interesting--some people want to be left alone when they are ill. Others want to be hovered over. I get scared and fear dying. After so many years of being my own nurse when I was ill and alone, my need is great for having someone experience my worst times with me. I don't want anything to disrupt the way my life is now. I would hate to say goodbye to this life just as I am experiencing so much that is overdue. But even as I lay in the recliner today, I prayed as though I was dying. I certainly felt as though I was. What I said to God today still stands: my concerns for friends and family members whom I love. My regrets that I haven't been able to be closer to some people, couldn't correct some disrupted relationships, haven't had the wisdom to know how to do certain things in life. And overall, I felt ready to go if that was my fate.

It wasn't.

I'm still here.

Thank God.