by jphilo | Apr 19, 2011 | Family
Our son called yesterday, as he does every weekend. My heart swelled with joy and gratitude after we said our good-byes, and I thanked God for our resurrected relationship, our evidence of Easter in our lives. The world is crowded with hurting people who need the promise of resurrected dreams. But they live in darkness, hopeless and alone. My prayer for them hasn’t changed since a year ago when the post below was written. God, meet them in their pain. Give them hope. And give them laughter, too.
God, Give Them Laughter, Too
Most of the time, identifying with women in the Bible doesn’t come easy to me. I’m not queenly like Esther. I didn’t follow my mother-in-law to a foreign land like Ruth, and my chosen professions have been quite different than Rahab’s. My humility and faith fall far short of Mary the mother of Jesus, and I certainly didn’t raise a perfect child. (Sorry kids!)
I can’t dance like Salome, cut hair like Delilah, or sit contentedly at Jesus’ feet like Mary of Bethany. I can be as bossy and driven as Martha, but who wants to admit something like that?
Even with my rotten track record, one woman from the Bible made my kindred spirit short list about eight months ago when our son announced his engagement to a wonderful young woman. Sarah, wife of Abraham, is one chick I totally get. I get why she laughed when God promised she would bear a child, though she was old, old. old.
Two years ago, if God had said something like, “Your son will get married on April 11, 2010,” I would have laughed, too. See, back then my son’s career choice made no room for marriage. And after five long years of his stalwart resolution to pursue that course for life, I’d come to accept his choice. More than that, I’d found peace and a way to maintain a loving relationship with my son. I’d even learned to accept God’s will instead of demanding He fulfill my hopes and dreams for my firstborn.
After I made my peace, if God had dropped the he’ll-get-married-and-you-might-have-grandchildren-someday bombshell, I would have done one of two things. Either I would have gotten really mad and told God to quit raising my hopes about something I didn’t dare hope about, or like Sarah, I would have laughed at his joke. Sarah made the better choice, to laugh, drop the matter, and move on.
But God, in his infinite wisdom, didn’t drop the matter. He gave Sarah a son in her old age. In Genesis 21:6, Sara says this after her son’s birth. “God has made laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh over me.”
I totally get what she’s saying because what she describes happens to my family these days. When we tell people about our son’s upcoming wedding, everyone responds with joy. Smiles, chuckles and beaming grins abound. Sarah’s words come alive.
God has made laughter for me.
Still, in the midst of joy, I am aware of the suffering and sorrow of others. My laughter could mock a mother estranged from a son, a single person wishing for a spouse, an infertile couple unable to conceive. So in the midst of joy, tears fill my eyes. I ask God to comfort those whose stories are so painful they can’t laugh for someone else’s joy.
Help them find your peace in their current circumstances, dear Father. Give them hope to hang on until you bring laughter back into their lives. Give them a sweet story to tell, one that brings joy to their hearts and to the hearts of all who hear it. Amen.
by jphilo | Apr 8, 2011 | Family
My daffodils started blooming yesterday, their bright faces raised, impervious to the wind while they soaked in the sunshine. They spoke spring and warmth and light and hope into my winter weary heart. They made me smile.
Then the rain moved in, and everything changed.
These natty soldiers, who had marched beside my house erect and confident short hours ago, were bowed and bedraggled this morning. They shivered in the wind. Tears rolled down their faces and puddled in the dirt at their feet. Their burdens were heavy on their shoulders, so heavy they couldn’t lift their heads to see the clusters of clean, greening grass lining their parade route, cheering their arrival.
They have no idea that sunshine will return.
The daffodils were a gift from my mother the last fall she lived in her house. Before we suspected Alzheimer’s. Before her legendary strength abandoned her. When she still had energy to dig in the dusty, autumn soil for the daffodil bulbs that needed separating. Come spring, the news that I had planted the bulbs didn’t bring her as much pleasure as in previous years.
The first clue, as I look back, that something was wrong in my green thumb mother’s world.
Things moved more swiftly after that. The next fall, Mom moved in with my brother and sister-in-law. The next spring, her house was sold. Her passion for gardening evaporated along with her love of quilting, sewing, jigsaw puzzles, and ordering around her children. When my sister gave Mom an African violet for her bedroom, her response was, “I’m not sure I want that much responsibility.”
Can this be the woman who grew all the roses for our wedding altar arrangements?
“The daffodils are about to bloom, “ I told Mom during our visit two days ago. “The ones you gave me.” On our drive to the library, we saw some blooming beside a small house. “Look, Mom,” I pointed. “Aren’t they pretty?” Her eyes turned warm and bright. For the rest of the trip, and again on the way home, she watched for flowers.
“The daffodils are blooming.” She smiled and lifted her head. Briefly, the sunshine returned.
by jphilo | Mar 18, 2011 | Family
My husband is a wise man. He has yet to say a word about the four, count ‘em, four mason jars sitting in front of the east windows, hogging daylight.
He hasn’t commented about how the jars are crammed with geranium slips or how the wintered over geraniums, from whence the slips came, now look like skinned rats in their flower pots.
He never complained about the dozens of gallon milk jugs in the basement full of last summer’s rain water, some used to water the potted geraniums through the winter and much it now slowly evaporating from the mason jars chuck full of geranium slips.
Yes, Hiram is a wise man. He knows better than to editorialize when I go on one of my heritage horticultural tears. This month’s tear is all about Grandma Josie Hess’s heritage geranium, the sainted family flower given to Grandma Josie by her mother, Cora Newell. Grandma Josie gave slips to her children (including my mother), who gave them to her three children, one of whom (that would be me) has become slightly obsessed with propagating the sainted plant.
To tell you the truth, I’m pretty pleased with myself for remembering to cut down the wintered-over geraniums this early and setting the slips in water. Usually I think of it in late April when it’s too late for either the old plants to recover from pruning or for the new slips to root before it’s time to plant them outdoors. But this year I thought of it in March. A minor miracle considering how forgetful I’ve been this winter.
Come to think of it, Hiram hasn’t said a word about my minor memory miracle or my more normal forgetfulness. At least I can’t remember if he’s made any comments about either one.
In any case, my husband is a wise man. Almost a saint. Right up there with the sainted family flower.
Quiet.
Lovely.
Hardy.
Enduring.
Patient.
Faithful.
No wonder I love them both so much.
by jphilo | Mar 8, 2011 | Family
My husband Hiram is not the kind of guy who likes the limelight. He says his shyness is a natural response to life in Alaska way back in the homesteading days. He remembers being pointed to on the street by well-meaning parents who would say things like, “Sally, Billy, see those two little boys? Now you know what twins look like.”
But today is his birthday, and I think the world needs to know what a blessing he’s been to me and to many others. So here’s a post from March of 2008 which tells about a wonderful gift he gave to a friend of ours. Happy birthday, Hiram!
Good News at Our House
I don’t care that it’s snowing outside when the weatherman predicted rain. I’m not wearing sackcloth and ashes, though the latest news from Iraq warrants it. I’m not even fretting about our stocks and bonds, though the latest economic news is dismal.
In spite of those things I’m dancing because we had some very good news at our house yesterday. My husband Hiram, he’s the one on the right, had an appointment with his nephrologist (translation: kidney doctor) yesterday. He and the doctor were pleased because his creatinine (translation: amount of protein in urine which measures kidney function) was down from 1.9 to 1.6.
For those of you who don’t know, almost two years ago Hiram donated a kidney to our good friend, Brian. He’s the one on the left in the picture. Hiram passed all the screening tests with flying colors, though his creatinine was high normal, at 1.3. The Mayo doctors thought that was because Hiram has lots of muscle mass, which produces lots of protein.
The transplant went well, and Brian’s creatinine dropped to 1.2. However when Hiram went for his Mayo check up, three months after the surgery, his number had risen to 1.9. And the doctors told him that the biopsy done on the donor kidney revealed that Hiram had a kidney disease. Very surprising, because people with the disease exhibit symptoms before age 40.
So Hiram had to start seeing a nephrologist in Ames. The doctor believes that Hiram had a childhood version of the disease, now dormant, that affected his kidneys slightly. He predicts that Hiram’s remaining kidney will bounce back, just a little more slowly than expected. Yesterday’s numbers support that theory, so we are happy at our house today.
We’ll see if the trend continues after Hiram’s next check up in three months when the lab tech hands him another little cup. Until then, I’m focused on the silver lining accompanying this little cloud: since Hiram is a guy, peeing in the cup is a piece of cake.
by jphilo | Mar 4, 2011 | Family
Fourteen years ago today, my father drew his last breath and embarked upon a great
adventure.
After thirty-eight years trapped in a body weakened by multiple sclerosis, he found
release.
After fourteen years as an invalid who required total nursing home care, he was
independent once more.
After ten years of not recognizing his children, he could once again say our names.
After five years too weak to shoot the breeze with friends, his voice returned.
Fourteen years ago today, the man who modeled so many precious lessons about life
drew his last breath.
I remember
how he lived with dignity in the face of lost dreams,
found humor in a situation others defined as tragic,
refused to become embittered by his lost health.
I remember
how his twinkling eyes eased the discomfort of those put off by his wheelchair,
how his weak legs reminded others to cherish their ability to walk,
how his faith found confirmation in the sweetness of his spirit.
I remember
how peaceful his body looked as his breathing stopped,
how still it lay upon his bed.
I remember the truth that flooded my soul fourteen years ago today.
His grand adventure has begun.
My father is walking again.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929 – March 4, 1997.
by jphilo | Mar 3, 2011 | Family
Since Mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis two-and-a-half years ago, the runnyness of her nose has increased in direct proportion to her declining memory. So her announcement yesterday, “There’s only one tissue left in this pack,” shortly after we embarked on a long list of errands, was alarming. One tissue wasn’t going to go staunch the flow as we toddled from library to bank to restaurant to hair appointment.
“Not a problem,” I assured her as we pulled into the library parking lot. “I’ll get the pack from my purse and give it to you.” I quickly got out of the car and unearthed the tissue pack, then ran around to Mom’s side and helped her get out.
Mom’s tissue lasted clear through the library and the stop at the bank drive up window. But when we were finally settled into our booth at the Chinese restaurant, it was a soggy mess. She waved it like a sail battered by The Perfect Storm. “I need a new one.”
“Oh well,” I said, “you’ve got plenty in the new pack I gave you at the library. Use one of those.”
Mom searched her coat pockets. “It’s not here,” she said. “But I found an extra tissue.” She extracted the prize and put it to immediate use.
I checked my purse again. The pack wasn’t there. Plus, I could visualize the blue plastic wrapper in my hand as I took it from my purse. What had Mom done with it? “It must have fallen out of your pocket in the car,” I reasoned.
But when we got into the car after lunch, it wasn’t there. Thankfully, her hairdresser has tissue boxes scattered throughout her establishment, so Mom stocked up. She made it through the appointment, home, and into bed for her nap without incident. I made sure she had a new pack of tissues in her purse and then headed for home.
I mused about the incident on the way. When would Mom’s hand find the missing pack in the place she’d absentmindedly tucked it? How would my brother spin the discovery so Mom would laugh instead of be frustrated by her failing memory? Then I got home, got busy, and didn’t give the mystery another thought. Until yesterday evening, as Hiram and I went out the door, and I reached into my coat pocket for my gloves.
My hand closed around a soft, crinkling rectangle.
The missing tissue pack.
I must have slipped it in my pocket in my hurry to help Mom in the library parking lot.
I sighed.
Which one of us has Alzheimer’s?
