Some Stuff I've Learned

My mom passed away in one sudden moment. My dad's passing was a more gradual, lingering journey. It may sound odd, but I have the privilege of having experienced both ways to lose a parent. Fortunately, my dad's lingering was really short compared to some--only a month. Through their deaths, I have experienced a few new things.

1.  There is a beauty in fragility. Pain brought out the sweetest trust in Jesus in my mom. She wrote this on a tablet by her chair, "Please Lord heal me. But if that is not Your will, then please Lord grant me the strength to accept it. Amen." With my dad, not eating caused him to lose a lot of weight. He was never a large man to begin with, and he'd already started to thin way down when he was still at home. His malnourished body and loss of teeth caused his cheeks to shrink. His vulnerability was exactly like that of an infant. Unable to speak or to even make minor body adjustments as he lay there, everything had to be done for him. That helplessness evokes compassion and the desire to comfort--both beautiful Christlike traits.

2.  There is no uniform way to grieve. The news of my mom's condition as my dad informed me by phone landed on numb ears. Even after I hung up and said the words out loud to Kev, I felt nothing. Can tragedy have an anesthetic effect? We all left her room when attendants came to disconnect the respirator. Afterward, I asked Dad if he wanted to keep waiting in that room or go back to Mom's room. I'll never forget the depth of despair on his face when he answered, "It doesn't matter. Nothing does anymore." I walked in and saw her still body and Wayneen's tears. I ran to her side and kept repeating, "My mom! Oh, my mom!" as I ran my hands over her arms and face, tears raining down. We were all crying silently as we left the hospital en masse. Grief would ambush me after that. I never knew when it would overpower me like a flash flood--no warning, no mercy. I still don't know how I completed her obituary or arranged for her memorial service. A picture, a note, a memory, or a fragrance could pull the trigger. It was the hijacking of grief. It was the hammer of loss. It was my way to mourn.

Grief over the loss of my dad came like a tsunami--crushing, devastating, and pounding. My cries were primal, and I was unable to do anything but cling to the kind, comforting soul holding me as I grasped for something solid to land on. My body tensed with the force of a seizure, and all I could do was ride it out and hope for dry ground soon. I spent the month after my dad's death exhausted, nauseous, and asleep. It was the sleep of sorrow. It was the fog of grief. It was how I mourned the last four years of investing in my dad's well-being and living with no regrets. It was my way to grieve.

3.  God's Presence is never nearer to me than when I am helpless. There was never one moment during these two experiences that I did not feel His Presence, save those blinding, deafening minutes I just described. Even then though, I never felt alone. I know I was cocooned by Love, enveloped in Tenderness, and cared for by Mercy, safe in the Rock.

4.  God's timing is flawless. I was able to ride into town with Kev or one of the kids the first week Dad was at Regency. It worked out that well. We had such a mild winter with fog instead of snow, so the roads were always good, not the norm for our January. Friends visited or wrote something encouraging just when I needed it. A song would play on the radio with lyrics written specifically for me. Kev received some really uplifting remarks from students who wanted him to come back. That was a 2-for-1 blessing for us both. Brett and Lydia were living with us at the time of my dad's stroke and decline. They took care of everything and everyone when we couldn't. Lydia had breakfast and dinner for us nearly everyday. They made three offers on three different homes, and they all fell through. That was the limit they set before deciding to rent, but Kev encouraged them to keep looking. As my fog began to lift and I began to feel human again, the fourth house became their new home. Lydia had been praying that I would be functional by the time they left, and indeed I was.

5.  There is a chance to encounter Jesus in every moment. When Dad started going downhill, I asked Him to "please help me eat and drink at this table He set before me, just as He has helped me with every other table in my life. There is food and drink and His heart to take up in this, no matter what my eyes and ears tell me." I saw Him caring for my dad in the hands of the nurses and aides. I heard Him in the warm words people offered. I felt Him in the many reassurances of love from friends and family. I smelled Him in our fresh country air, in the dryer vent with its clean clothes, in the sweetness of the hugs from my friends who all bear His fragrance. I even tasted Him--in the scores of meals Lydia made with such love, the ginger ale from Tina, and the coffees, gifts, treats, and sandwiches from loving souls. I wish I was always aware of encountering Him, but I forget. Thankfully, He never does, and the opportunities are always there.

6.  When people offer their help, they really mean it. We're so used to either going without or cramming it into our schedules, so most of the offers of help go unused. I decided to start saying Yes. The first things I asked for were lip balm and mints. (Thank you, Cheryl!) The second thing I hinted at was another necklace with beads and doodads. (Thank you again, Cheryl!) The next thing was ginger ale. (Thank you for both those times, Tina!) The next thing was offered to me so I didn't have to ask, but I did have to accept, and it was my first Jimmy John's sammie. (Thank you, Betty!) The next thing was also offered--a Ya-Ya visit at Regency complete with British fascinators (although I forgot mine... Thank you, Glenice!). They indeed fascinated wherever they went! Rosie visited my father twice, and both times I missed her. She read to him and left me the sweetest note. I couldn't have asked for a more thoughtful gift. Lydia and Barb both brought me coffee.

These weren't humongous things, but I wanted to start somewhere, and I will treasure every remembrance of them. (What I actually need is help cleaning my house! A month of sleep and five dogs have left it in desperate shape.) We truly do want to help someone going through difficulty, but most of the time we don't know what to do. Experiencing the other side of the fence opened my eyes to the opportunity that asking or saying Yes gives to people. We both win.

I'll learn more stuff as time goes on, but I wanted to list these while they're still fresh on my mind. I'm grateful for the insights and the garden of truth they are in this potential time of drought. How kind He is. Always.

To Strangle

Worry:  Old English wyrgan ‘strangle.’ In Middle English the original sense of the verb gave rise to the meaning ‘seize by the throat and tear,’ later figuratively ‘harass,’ whence ‘cause anxiety to’.

I did something foolish, something I know better than to do. A dear friend unburdened herself and shocked me with a terrible secret. I promised not to tell anyone, not even my Kevin. Instead of leaving it at lifting her up in prayer, however, I slung her on my back and started carrying her around. By the next night, I was a basket case. I couldn't stop crying. I was so bone weary that when I stood to get out of bed, I fell.  I have a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my hip with every color in it. I bruise easily anyway, so this is a doozy.

Kev reminded me of something I learned and practiced years ago--not to take on other people's burdens, no matter how dear they are to me. We were never designed to play God.  Only He can help her.  I can take up up His heart for her and commit to pray, and that's enough.   I did no one any good by worrying myself sick. I didn't make her feel better. I didn't solve her problem. I caused my husband stress. In fact, it ruined our evening and what could have been a really sweet time.

Okay, lesson learned.  Again.  I have an owie now to remind me.  Help it stick.

They're Just Things

We were cleaning out some stuff from my dad's garage the other day when my sister-in-law said, "This is exactly what you don't want to do to your kids."  My dad was the most resourceful person I've ever known, but part of that superpower came from never throwing anything away. Pieces of pipe, drawer handles, string, rug scraps, dowels of every shape and length, buckets, jugs, cartons, plastic edging, eroding lawn chairs, and don't get me started on nails and screws. They're all there in living color. We took three truckloads to the incinerator, but there's still a whole lot more to go. At least we cleared out most of the stuff in the camper over the last few years. At one point, Mom had it filled literally full of blankets, gallon milk jugs, stuffed animals, toys, and coolers. It's only one little corner, but at this point, even small dents count.

There have been fun moments though, like when Alan handed me a wee oil can to go with my rusty tinman.

Finding our baby books was especially sweet, although I've since misplaced them, so I hope to find them a second sweet time. Going through vinyl LP's with Terry was a hoot. Trudy volunteered to go through the pictures and organize them by family. I don't think she expected that we'd keep finding album after album.

The business of disbursing Dad's belongings has gone really well so far. If there's been something both Alan and Kev wanted, Kev always defers to Alan. As far as I know, everyone has gotten whatever was requested and there have been no hurt feelings. The kids haven't asked for much. Ryan wanted a tool, Jylle some kitchenware, and Brett has a brief list. Only two of Alan's girls wanted things, and everyone was in agreement. I know it's not always as great as this, so I am thrilled. Both Brett and Jylle said they were able to have a relationship with my folks like Alan's girls couldn't, and they count that as absolutely priceless. If my kids got nothing, they wouldn't bat an eye. In the end, they're just things.

In processing the loss of my parents, I can rejoice in the fact that nothing went unsaid. Saying "I love you" with hugs and smiles galore happened every time we were together. It was a running joke that we had to start leaving at least 30 minutes before we actually needed to in order to leave on time because of all the last minute gifts and affection. We encountered it every single time. The hospice pastor told us what an extraordinary treasure we have in having heard those three little words from both our mother and father. It can leave such a raw, gaping hole in someone's heart when that was never experienced. A miracle in itself, given that neither of my folks ever heard them from their own parents. It was my dad who taught me to say "I love you." I would say it to my mom, but not to him. I was about nine when he said those words to me one time. He hugged me, and he said, "Now you say it to me." I have no idea what my problem was, but I felt so uncomfortable. He urged me again, so I finally said it. He hugged me again and said, "I love you too." I still remember thinking That wasn't so bad!  Odd child.

We do have a lot of stuff to sort through, but how blessed to know it's the unimportant, tangible stuff. The "things". The gold and precious gems stored up in my heart would make a dragon jealous. They are the legacy my parents left me. Two hearts that were totally for me, who knew in their untaught deeps what the true treasures of life really are. The "realest" things.

Wooden Steps

My dad passed away on February 2. Now I'm an orphan.  No matter how old you are, that's a really weird feeling. I'm simply living one hour at a time, astounded... Like What the heck is this...  Just like my Jesus to be so very present in this though. There are gifts He brings me even as I turn my head aside, trying not to notice, trying to pretend this isn't happening... I can't stop singing about Your love. Your gifts are present, obvious, and extravagant. I just don't want this to be happening.

I was honored and privileged to be there for a neighbor friend last night. We had imposed on her earlier in the day to see their little calves, but she stayed on my heart. Lydia and I baked some scones for her and took them to her. She dissolved and told us about the great sadness she's been going through. My heart broke for her all night long. I can't stop thinking about her. My heart broke with blessing when Kev said this morning, "Let's get her in there! Let's just pay for her PT treatment!"  How profound is MY blessing in this...! How healing and satisfying for me to be able to show love to someone else in need right in the middle of my own! We were made for this. This moment is not about me--it's about Jesus, as is every other moment in all of forever.

I am learning of Heart as I step through this. Sometimes the steps are wooden, but sometimes they're light and free. I strive to see Beauty in all of it.  I know it's there, even in the fog of grief.  My dear, sweet, wise friend Susie told me to keep writing as I process this. There is healing in it for me, I know, even if it's twaddle to some... I beg indulgence as I write my heart and mind without edit.

When I was in college, I found a poem by May Sarton about her father. It touched me even then when my dad was all strength, clear mind, and hard work. I'd forgotten about it until I came across it as I perused my past posts. Except for the parts about him being unhurried, liking donkeys, children, awkward ducks, and then him being undiminished, it's a pretty good call.

Most of the time I'm okay. The times when I curl up and howl are what take so much out of me. But I know it has to be this way. This is the way I process. This is the way I'm made up. Anything less would be suffocating what I'm feeling, and I so don't want to do that. I learned this from my Jewelee when she lost her husband in a tragic accident--I want to do this right the first time because I don't want to go through it again.

I'm having a hard time losing my dad. He was really a wonderful person, even if only a handful of people ever got to experience that. My mom saw it. My brothers and I experienced it. And Jesus knows it. That's all I run with right now.

A Stroke of Bad News

We were out of town for New Year's, visiting Amy's family. I called Dad to wish him a happy new year on the 1st, and he just did not sound right. I called Alan, and he went over there. He found Dad with a skinned, bloodied nose and a bad gash on the inside of his left arm below the elbow. He cleaned him up and had him sit on the edge of the bed to have him change shirts. After he did, he laid back on the bed, exhausted, and said he just had to lie down for a bit.

We were all four there the next day, and Dad sat in his chair and slept the whole time. He opened his eyes and smiled, but said nothing. I'm not sure he ever went to the bathroom. The guys swapped out his recliner for the one my fake grandma gave us that lifts a person get up and out.  Alan took this picture. My dad never goes unshaven. It's not event the terrible scab that gets me about this photo. It's the measure of bewilderment in his eyes. My dad was always quick-witted, clear-headed, and certain, so this physically hurts me.

By late afternoon, we all realized he had to go to the ER. They helped him to Alan's car, and I rode in back to keep an eye on him. I remembered to grab the handicap placard out of Dad's truck first.

Because of the stroke symptoms, he was seen immediately. A CT scan revealed older strokes and some plaquing. He would have to stay the night for observation and more tests. We left about 10:30, and Alan stayed until 11, letting us know the room number before he went home.

The MRI showed evidence of a recent stroke, which made sense of the exhaustion and terribly slurred speech. He was cranky about having to be there and wasn't afraid to let us know.

He ended up at Sacred Heart until today. It was the most heart-wrenching conversation, but after many tears and prayers, Ryan and the PT were able to get Dad to the place where he was compliant. Dad's actually the one who opened the door when he said, "I don't want to burden anyone." They told him it would be a burden on Wayneen and me because we'd have to stay with him 24/7 if he went home. There was a look of resignation on his face when he said to that, "I'll do whatever they say." The PT emphasized that it'd only be for 7-14 days of rehab to get him strong enough to go home and get around safely.

The timing of losing his hearing right at this time is rotten. It makes communicating so much more difficult, and I think it leaves him feeling a greater sense of confusion and helplessness.  When we got to the nursing facility, he was still on the gurney when he looked at me and said, "Sure wish I knew where we are."  That's when I started using the speech to text feature on my smart phone. I held it up so he could read it. I wrote, "This is the rehab place where you'll get stronger so you can go home."  He wanly smiled like "Whatever."

As I said goodbye tonight, I told him I was going home to get some rest and to love on Ladybug. I would be right back in the morning.

Help me, Lord. This is completely new ground for me. I trust You to hold us tenderly and to lead us through this haze. Protect my sweet dad. Comfort him with Your felt presence.

My Auntie

On Friday, August 29, my cousin ZonZon texted me to let me know her mom went to the hospital the night before. She was nauseous and just didn't feel well. Aida said she kept wanting to take her, but Dara kept saying no. By Friday afternoon, the doctors had resuscitated her 14 times. The family finally said that was enough. (I found out from Wayneen later that they can break ribs doing that, and Dara was a tiny woman.) Zon was told that they were going to pull the plug, so she stepped out of the room to call me. She said I was the first person she called because she knew I went through this with my mom. I couldn't believe Dara was going the same way Mom did.

By Saturday morning though, she texted me again, this time asking me to call her. Monet arrived in town and called Zon to tell her, "She's still here! She's fighting!" It was unbelievable. She was amazing everyone around her. She made it all night with just an IV to keep her hydrated. Zon simply passed on to us the information she was given, and who knew after being resuscitated 14 times that her heart would still keep marching on! She felt bad for giving us news that didn't actually happen, but it was totally understandable.

I didn't sleep well, so I just got up before six and went to my lappy. There was an email from Aida, short and to the point. "Hi cyndicot, my mother passed at 0553.  Please tell alan and dad .  Thank you for all the prayers. Love you all." It broke my heart to think of my dear cousins' depth of sorrow, grief, and unexpected loss.

I kne

w her chances were slim, but I had let myself be so hopeful. Tears poured out, and I felt my heart breaking all over again, as if it was my mom all over again. I think it hit me so hard because she was the closest thing I had to her. They were friends from childhood, and for Dara to marry Mom's brother was too good to be true. She was one of THE sweetest, gentlest souls I have ever known. Her laugh, her delicious food, her overwhelming desire to be worthy of belonging to God, giving me the BEST cousins who are more like sisters, and the precious memories I have of her from childhood all came together and punched me in the throat. To lose that caliber of character and personality colored the world harsher and colder, and thoughts and imaginings of Heaven took over my thoughts.

I'll grieve this out on a keyboard whenever I need to process, and I'll try to be grateful for her life instead of focusing on her absence. We will never hear her voice again in this life, eat her wonderful food, or hug her slim, little body, but the greater tragedy would be to never have known her. There will be that One Fine Day though when all that matters is Jesus, and we will gather around Him in wonder, gratitude, and humility. And I wouldn't be surprised if she whips up some Shanghai lumpia for Him. Mmmm...

I love you, Dara.  Kalaguran daka.

VBS 2014

* So it all started innocently enough with a picture of this serious conversation about two Bibles and their origin. I talk with my hands, so here's one of them in the air, quite usual.

Then our crazy pastor (in that funny, delightful way) proceeded to continue in that vein. He was fairly insistent (in that 'nice uncle' kind of way), so I relented. He said the church secretary is served well when people are afraid of her. No big deal. I guess.

**

 ***

 ****

 So now there are these pictures of me being threatening, scolding, and at least suspicious.

Here, the tables are turned, and now it's his wife who's the bad guy. I do have to add, however, that it's not because he didn't try. She just would not give up the knife, so he had to be resigned with this compromise. He thought it would be especially funny because of my shirt.

First time doing VBS at this church.  It was a great opportunity to put names to faces and learn who goes with whom. It is so true that everyone has a story. I met three people whose biographies I would love to read. Yes, VBS is all about the kids meeting Jesus, and we had two in our group who did just that *party in Heaven*! I can't help but want to meet these people though who are going to be our church family. Its fearless leader and his wife are wonderful, and we love them already. Pretty good for a week's effort.

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*       The gal in the middle does missions. We share Asianness and has a fascinating life story. Biography #1.

**     The young woman who did crafts, sweet, talented, and fluent in sign language. Biography #2.

***   The leader I assisted. Loving, engaging, and invested. Biography #3.

**** Heavy lifting/moving helper. Musically gifted and able to teach with a nonstop sense of humor. He would probably be a great read too, come to think of it.

Much-Loved Quote

I read this years ago, and I considered its meaning for the longest time and not just once. I have found that people often react negatively to this quote, which was a head-scratcher for me after I processed it.

A fragile self-image due to abuse or being misunderstood and maligned can fog the message. I understand that people in survival mode may be too close to the misery in the first part to be able to receive the second, so to you, I give you all the grace in the skies.

We come to God with absolutely nothing to offer Him except empty hands to be filled by Him and a yielded heart that is willing for His anything.  He is Hand-Filler. He is Missions Director. He is Child-Guider, Singer, Dancer, Perfect Gift-Giver, and Lover Extraordinaire. I want my expectations, plans, and desires to be His expectations, plans, and desires. When they're not, my heart cry is for Him to change my want-to's. I am willing to be made willing. It is poverty of self and childlike powerlessness that will allow me to fully appreciate the endless riches and resources of Heaven.

May Your will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Let the music resume. ♫

Highlights and Afterthoughts

What did u get out of the conference?

That's what my dear friend asked me in an email after the Beth Moore conference. I had just finished entering my notes into a Word document, so the timing was perfect. This was my response. I wrote way more than I ever intended, but then, I usually do.

​It was keyed around Matt 25:14-30, the parable of the talents.

1. To him who has much will more be given.
2. Our common definition of "talent" is the natural endowments of a person. That’s exactly what talents are NOT in this parable.​ They are spiritual endowments entrusted to us by the Master. They belong to Him, and He will bring increase through us.
3. We’re this fabulous blend of dust and Spirit!
4. “Our talents are the Big Mac. Our abilities are just the fries.” ~Travis Cottrell (worship leader)
5. Talent + Faith = Increase
6. Tell Him, “Be something in me that I can’t be!”
7. We’re in a talent competition in this world (like American Idol). We’re twirling batons—instead of passing them on!
8. Applause is addictive—once you get it, you want it again. You can want applause, but it’s sin, and it stinks and bears rotten fruit. It’s about ego.
9. There is no way around the danger, but there IS a Way through it.
10. Ask God to show off so big for someone who needs Him and has never encountered Him, and flabbergast her!
11. She shared how at a call for healing one time, she went forward even though there wasn't anything wrong with her that she knew of. She started feeling guilty when they laid hands on her and started praying. she went up because she thought, "Whatever He's giving, I'm asking for! I want some!"
12. RISK.  That was the word He gave her for this conference. Don't bury your talent in the dirt. Don't hide it. Let it out, let Him have you without boundary, and let Him blow you away with what He'll do with it through you.

The worship was wonderful. "Never Once" and "Victor's Crown" were my favorites. There was another one, but I can't remember the lyrics. My favorite on the worship team was this big black gal who was beautiful in every way. Her fierce but gentle passion for Jesus came out in her voice, face, hands, and dance. You would've loved her too.

I went with my friend Tracy and three of her friends I never met before. They were kind, fun, deep, and real. She has her own Ya-Yas...  One of them lives kitty corner from Mae! She has cancer in her organs and is struggling with not just that, but melancholy, worry, and being strong for her family. She'll turn 50 in July and wants to make it to the birth of her grandchild. I wanted to cry every time I looked at her. I wanted to hold her and inject Jesus into her. I want her healed. I want to trust that He knows what He's doing, but my heart does that puppy head tilt thing. She's sad, and I'm sad with her. This is real life, not a movie, and there's no soundtrack, and I can't find the spoilers. My toe is absolutely nothing. This is a thing. Maybe I should've asked for prayer for her instead of me. I do want my fruit to be a fabulous blend of dust and Spirit...

Thank you for asking and thank you for listening. You're here with me right now, and your hand is around my shoulders. You come alongside me, listen, ask questions, tell me some truth, then make me laugh despite the tears. I love you so much. And I like you a lot too.

xo, ~c.

If I Only Had a Left

Sometimes I wish I was left-handed. Most of the left-handed people I know are wonderfully creative in at least one area. I seem to believe that if I was naturally left-handed, I would be the best kind of left-hander. I would:

• have a lovely singing voice
• beautiful handwriting
• make my hair be cute on even humid days
• dance like a ribbon on a breeze
• take stunning photos
• arrange my home in quite an aesthetically pleasing fashion
• remember personal preferences for people in ways that make them know they are special
• pull off sweats as pretty
• move gracefully
• know naturally what colors, patterns, and structures look great together
• whip up something deluxe on short notice with what's left in the fridge 
• notice things right-handers usually miss (to help, not to criticize)
• create A1 pictures in several media
• write captivating poetry
• see the beauty in every person

There is obviously some overlap into what right-handers would do, but this is what my left-handed self would look like. I actually have no idea if the things on this list are more often found in lefties, but I do realize that the most important bullet point is the last one. Whether Jesus wrote in the dust with His left or right hand, He saw the beauty in that woman, just as He sees the beauty in each of us. And that's the part of my brain I want to be dominant.