Author: emyloom

They Are Precious in His Sight

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Can I love all people without bowing allegiance to BLM?

Does it make me a racist because I do not agree with the precepts of that organization?

I will never support BLM. However, I do support my neighbors, friends and fellow human beings regardless of the color of their skin.

If you are hungry, I will help feed you; if you are homeless, I will help shelter you; if you need a friend to talk to, I will listen.

I will not follow the crowd for one day and think it will make a difference in the world. What does change the world is living every day with compassion and care for the others. I cannot help everyone in the world but can help the one in front of me.

At the same time, I will not apologize for the color of my skin. I was formed by God and although my skin color may have not been an impediment for me, I had my fair share of trials and struggles in my youth. Things, that although unfair, brought me to where I am today. Those experiences gave me a greater compassion for the weak and helpless. When I look at people, I try to see their hearts, the color of one’s skin is not a factor in how I feel about a person. I try to see them as God sees them.

The simple Sunday School song from my childhood taught me all I needed to know. Listed by colors the meaning is clear, every race, every person, no matter their skin tone… “they are precious in his sight…” All people are precious, all are valuable.

Finally, my silence or decision not to join the BLM movement does not make me a less accepting or a less compassionate person. I have never been a follower of popular movements and there just seems something unsettling about the hate being spewed with this one  

Love yourself no matter the color of your skin. Love your neighbor no matter the color of their skin. Listen to others, help others, love others.

My decision to not join, you label as silence and you say it is violence. My silence is not violence. My silence is living my beliefs. My silence is peace. My silence is love.

The Police

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This conversation started in 2016 after a  police incident when someone said they didn’t understand all the killings by police.  These are really tough times and there are some horrible incidents that are examples of police misconduct in the forefront.

So many views on this and I am not justifying any unlawful action by the police officers or citizens.  All life is precious but the fact is your doctor is more likely to kill you than a law enforcement officer.

Annually 400 thousand people die as a result of medical errors.  This year (2016) just over 500 people have died as a result of police shootings. The DOJ has a report out that shows that of complaints for all the police officer contacts, by all officers in the US, less than 1% are deemed sustained.

However, these facts don’t fit the agenda of the media and political policy.

Law enforcement like any profession have those who bring shame and disgrace to them all.  However, more than 99% of them are devoted,  caring and heroic men and women who serve an often very difficult public.

http://www.bjs.gov/content/pub/pdf/ccpuf.pdf

https://www.sciencebasedmedicine.org/are-medical-errors-really-the-third-most-common-cause-of-death-in-the-u-s/

When I made the statement comparing law enforcement to medical deaths, I was hit with a comeback that what is going on is not about medical malpractice.   No it is not, but when people say the police are out of control in causing the deaths of citizens,  in comparison to the deaths by medical error, it is minute.  I was using it as an example of how things are exaggerated and the numbers are really quite small.  Compared to other professions based on total number of contacts with citizens, and total number of police,  the police have a  less than a 1% level of sustained complaints.

I hear statements like “the police are out-of-control” they are targeting black young men, or that they are systematically racist; I do not believe the facts support that and it’s just hyperbole that adds fuel to the fire.

If the media started a campaign about doctors and telling people what the races were of medical error victims, if they injected how incompetent doctors were, and how they were targeting a specific group of people, I wonder would the public get all up in the arms about that too.  People rebel against authority and people don’t like the police and it’s a very tough job. But I don’t believe the facts support that they’re out of control.

There are over 750,000 sworn police officer in the US, if only 1/2 of 1% were corrupt, that’s 3750.  A huge number.  The police want to weed them out as well.  Even at that high number, I think it is astounding that there are not more incidents.  Demonizing the entire profession does not solve the problem.  It is sad.  All of it sad

Life on the street is really tough right now for officers. They go out everyday prepared to save lives and put their own lives on the line for complete strangers, often in very difficult situations.  I venture to guess that they never ask the race, color or nationality of the people they are going to help or or risk their lives for.  They are called to switch on and off their emotions from one call to the next where they go from performing CPR in a child pulled from a pool, to listening to people complain about where their neighbor parks his car.

Yes, there is and should be a higher standard for officers and for the majority of the nations approx 750 thousand officers that standard is met. At the same time, contrary to the media’s hype, the incidents of excessive force over all the 53 million contacts police have with the public, less than 0.0039% have been sustained. (From Bureau of Justice Statistics)

Please keep your local police officers in prayer, they present a tough exterior but have a calling to do a tough job that even their critics could not manage for a day.

ANEVER

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I saw recently where someone wrote, “I am and always will be anever Trumper.”  When I first saw it I read “AN EVER” … I thought that’s an interesting way to support the president reversing the phrase. Then I realized they were really saying “A NEVER” unless it was an interesting parapraxis.

What a difference a space makes. A space that can turn something positive into a negative. I was intrigued by this little typo and wondered if i was “an ever” or “ a never”

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I want to be AN EVER faithful friend, an ever hopeful person with an ever positive outlook, someone an ever joyful heart, with an ever song on my heart and be an ever believer in the living God.

I pray I do not fall into the A NEVER side of life, a never happy spirit, a never loyal friend, a never helpful person, a never kind word to say, a never respecter of life, a never believer in a higher power.

The space before the “N” or after the “N” may determine your fate. Decide before “the end” because after will be too late.

 

Watercolor Image by Stephanie Ryan from 2019 Gratitude Calendar

I Found a Nickel

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Recently the AC unit was replaced at our office; a very old unit it still chugged along but no longer efficient.  A80AD951-E1D4-407D-BBBA-06B6B34BAB26The new unit was relocated to the back of the building leaving a concrete pad on the side of the building. After the work was done and the unit hauled away, I walked by the pad and noticed a dark circle on the pad. I reached down to pick it up and found it was a nickel; an almost black discolored nickel.

I tried to rub away enough tarnish to see the date but it was not easy to read. Finally in the light I see it is stamped 1980.  I thought, not really so old for it looked like it had been there 100 years. Then I realized that although it did not seem that old it had been there forty years —- forty years just hiding under the AC unit as the world and time moved forward.

This nickel in it’s shiny new condition was cloaked from the light when Ronald Reagan was elected the 40th President of the United States, November 4,1980. There in 1981, when the AIDS virus was first identified. In 1982, when I met my husband of the past 37 years which was long before I ever set foot in this little town, it was there.

Unseen in 1985 when the nuclear reactor at Chernobyl exploded sending 8 tons of nuclear reactive material into the atmosphere.  It remained hidden in 1986 when the shuttle Challenger exploded shortly after launch.  There in 1988 when a PanAm 747 exploded from a terrorist bomb that sent it crashing  to the ground in Lockerbie, Scotland.

Concealed in 1989 when the Berlin Wall came down and in December when the Romanian uprising overthrew the Communist government just days before my youngest son was born at the University of WA Medical Center.

It had possibly lost some luster in 1991 but it made no movement as the Soviet Union broke up after President Gorbachev resigned.  In that same year my oldest son was nearly killed in a motorcycle accident.  In 1992 when Bill Clinton was elected president and when my middle son graduated high school just a few miles away it remained sheltered from sight. It was there one year later as the same son was wounded in Somalia during the Battle of Mogadishu, on October 3, 1993.

Fast forwarding through the rest of the 90’s – wars in Serbia, Croatia, and at home in Oklahoma City. OJ killed his wife and the president cheated on his.

When the world entered the new millennium this nickel was now 20 years old.  In 2000, I technically became the owner of this hidden coin as we purchased the building with it’s old AC and it’s hidden coin that remained safely beneath.

This nickel stayed in the dark through the darkest days of 9-11 in 2001. There as the younger Bush became president and we went to war in Iraq and Afghanistan.   It remained as as dictators were ousted from power or died… Saddam, Arafat, Milosevic and many other men who’s hearts were set on evil.

In 2009 Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th president of the United States.  In the middle of Obama’s years my world was rocked by my own personal tragedies as my youngest son was diagnosed with IBD, underwent 5 surgeries and spent weeks and months in the hospital and ICU after several life threatening events. Through all this, a nickel now tarnished and black lay hidden.

There have been many changes in the world in those 40 years.  I didn’t think this nickel was so very old but in the time it lay undiscovered under the AC unit it had aged and tarnished just as much as we had as we found our way through the last forty years.  As much as things changed they have stayed the same. There is still war and unrest in the world, people no matter how much they talk about peace can’t even make peace with their neighbors and fellow citizens. It seems there is a greater desire to be right than to find common ground.

I found a nickel and it spoke to me

If it were Possible Not to Forget

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What do you do when your mother forgets you?

Christmas 2016, I surprised my mother with a visit. As I stood at her door she greeted me with a simple “hello” and told me to come inside before her cat got out. Once inside, she looked at me and said, “Do I know you?” I replied…”I don’t know, do you know me?” Then she realized who I was and the tears began to flow. That was three years ago and I chalked it up to the fact that she had recently fallen, hence the reason for my surprise visit.

After this visit there were several more and one that included visiting her doctor with her. He had been telling my step-sister (who will will call my sister here on out because she is closer to me than biological siblings I have and I love her with every ounce of my being) and me that the time was coming she should not be living on her own. She was fighting for her autonomy with every bit of fight she had left. She avoided going out, she told white lies, she pleaded with her friend to not tell us about her memory lapses or drives in the night thinking it was daytime…she knew she was losing a battle with her failing memories and ability to know what was going on around her, to manage her finances and take her medications.

My sister and I visited several assisted living facilities and nursing facilities. We encouraged (begged and pleaded) with Mother to come with us but she would have none of it. She wanted to stay in her house until she died.

Fast forward 18 months, on a July morning she walked outside her house, tripped and fell. As a result of the fall she had fractured her pelvis and was placed in a nursing facility to recuperate. When it came time to make a decision to go home she was insistent that she was going home. I was torn because after her few months in the nursing home she seemed more cognitive of what was going on and seemed to be moving better as well. All this was a result of better diet, attention and care, consistent medications, lack of worries or stress from being in survival mode. Although it was difficult, with her doctors help, we did tell her she would no longer be able to live on her own.

note I live 2000 miles away and although I don’t she her every week, over the past year and a half I have been to see her eight times. The last several times, when I walk in with my sister she looks a me for a moment but pretty quickly realizes who I am. Last week, I traveled down and with my sister went to tell her that her step son had passed away. She had claimed Albert as her own when he was ten years old, the youngest of all of us he past away suddenly and unexpectedly at 59. When we walked in she said to my sister who sees her every other week, “Who is that woman with you?” My sister replies you don’t know who this is? It’s your daughter. Sister quickly reassures me that the reason she did recognize me was due to the fact my hair was up in a bun.  She says that Mother sometimes doesn’t recognize her at first if her hair is in a ponytail.

We held Mother’s hand and told her the sad news about Albert and his passing.  All in all she took it well,  but repeated the same questions over and over about how, where, funeral etc. We took her to dinner and when we left she was a little weepy but accepting. The next day we came back and took her to lunch with her friend. We had a good lunch, then went back to her room and put up valentine decorations and gave her some new sweaters and blouses we had gotten her. She was in good spirits although she still keep repeating the same questions, not fully grasping or remembering the answers. When we left she walked us to the door and we said our goodbyes.

Today, one week later, I called her to see how she was doing. It was my second call this week. The first thing she said to me today was, “Did you hear Albert died?’ I said, “Yes I heard. Remember Paulette and I came to tell you last week?” No, she didn’t remember me coming, she remembers my sister but not me. She asks again about Albert’s funeral, and then switches the subject  tells me she got new shoes but she doesn’t know where she got them or what they look like. Then she asks me, “When are you coming to see me?”

It is a little stab in the heart, she doesn’t know me but she does; she wants me to visit but she doesn’t remember. I dread the day she doesn’t know me when I come or doesn’t ask when I am coming back. Sadly,  I know one day my mother will forget me.

 

Patsy Cats

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File this under, “Crazy things you do.”

I am up at 2AM perusing Ebay for kitty cat pins.   My mom, Patsy, is/was a Texas cat lady extraordinaire. She always had a cat on her lap, in addition she had shelves full of figurines, teapots, cookie jars, bookends and every sort of ceramic cat thing ever made. Mostly all gifts from her friends, kids and grandkids that knew she would “just love them.”

Last year I shared about my mom’s dementia and fall which lead to her being unable to live on her own. I shared about the difficulties of clearing her house. Trying to treat her treasures with respect and knowing I could not keep everything. I took a few cats figurines, my sister took a few, I gave some “Patsy Cats” to her friends, I brought some back to Washington and gave to my friends who had met my mom.  “Patsy Cats” were re-homed around the country yet many remained that in the end we donated to charity. It was heartbreaking to dismantle my mother’s possessions and treasures but it had to be done.

When the doctor told her she would not be able to live on her own, my sister and I went out to her house and picked up a few treasures to decorate her room. A book shelf, pictures and several cats to put on the shelves. In addition to all the cats mentioned above, my mom also had a large collection of kitty cat brooches. She had them on her sweaters and blouses and never left the house without being adorned with a golden cat pin. When we were at her house, I found a small metal box, when I opened it I found full of all her brooches.  There were at least 20 in there plus all the ones we found still pinned on her sweaters she probably had 40 or more. I took them to her at the home, at least she could have all of these.

Now comes the sad and tragic bit. My mom has been in the nursing home a little over year now and all the pins are gone.  A few months ago my sister was going to put one on her sweater as she was taking her to lunch and she couldn’t find the box. She told the staff that her box was missing and they did a search. They found the it in a ladies room next door but only one pin inside. You cannot get angry because like my mom, this lady doesn’t comprehend what is going on.  Matter of fact, she insisted that the box was hers.  The pins? They could not be found. Are they hidden around the care facility somewhere? Did she give them away? We do not know.

8BA74499-CFE9-4BFD-A796-E8064664AAF5So here I am at 2AM searching Ebay for kitty cat brooches. I thought these things weren’t so much valuable as they were treasures, but apparently not. They are anywhere from 5-30 dollars or more. So I bought five, a couple were similar to ones she owned.  I am going to bring them to her when I go down to Texas next month. Whether she realizes she has lost so many is hard to say, but when she sees these she will “just love them!”

Journey of Faith

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Tomorrow: My youngest son’s 30th birthday. For over 10 years he has battled with several auto-immune diseases. Sometimes referred to as invisible diseases, as many suffer without external signs that are obvious to those around them, but for them they are more than apparent. His decline over the past year and a half has been heartbreaking to witness.

Prompted by a video made by friends regarding healing, where they visited the pools of Siloam and Bethesda and prayed, Chris and I made the decision to use our upcoming Israel trip to visit these places and pray for our son and pray for healing.

As time drew near I worried that my planned journey may have some element of superstition attached to it. That going there gave the appearance that those places held some sort of power that bordered on the mystical where I was expecting a miracle that God could only deliver from there.  I did not want that.

We talked about it and decided we would go as planned and pray; to go and be open to any message God had for us.

We started our day early and had reservations to stay overnight at the American Colony Hotel in Jerusalem. We made it to the American Colony about 12:30, as our room wasn’t ready, we hired a taxi and made our way to the Pool of Siloam.

The driver drove through the Arab neighborhood in East Jerusalem to find the entrance where our friends, who had made the video about healing, had gone. The man at the entrance sign near the street told us we had to go through the City of David to reach the pool. So the taxi took his back up the hill and dropped us off at the entrance.

When we got inside we paid the entrance fee and were told we’d have to walk through the Canaanite tunnel, a narrow tunnel from an earlier period of more than 1000 years older than Hezekiah‘s Tunnel, to reach the Pool of Siloam.

Oh my, what a walk, we ventured for 30 or 40 minutes through this long and narrow passageway — down old stone stairways, modern steel wire stairways, down and down more and more stairs — finally to reach a tunnel that looked more like a crack in the earth of less than a foot and a half wide in many places. It was dimly lit and had a stone floor less than a foot wide in places.  However, even though it widened higher up, I still had to turn sideways in many places to squeeze through. When we finally reached the end and exited the tunnel,  we were in the Arab neighborhood where the taxi had originally taken us.

We continued to follow the signs as they lead us through the residential streets and at last we arrived at a worn, rusted gate painted green with paint that looked like it had begun to peel years before.  I was so hot and tired and somewhat frustrated over the detour but it set me thinking.

That path through the Canaanite tunnel with ups and downs on a rocky floor, its twists and turns squeezing through narrow spots, reminded me of the journey we take in life when we have trials. We cannot see the end and we do not know what lies around the next corner,  or what it’s gonna take to squeeze through the next difficulty, however, we must keep pressing forward.

We walked through the gate that lead to the pool and down a steep stone stairway.  No one else was there; it was a rectangular space 360C348C-BA82-4E4D-9D3D-B1E32C233EE5enclosed with rock walks and the quiet sound of water trickling through the shallow pool.    

Chris and I said a prayer.  We prayed, “Lord we’ve made this journey to this pool not that it’s a mystical place where we would get special attention to our prayers but we came here as an act of faith, a reminder that you are a God that heals, a blind man was healed here and that you are still a God that heals.”

Thanksgiving

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I love Thanksgiving!

A truly American Holiday that transcends all beliefs. A day we can all participate in regardless of our background or religious affiliations. Being thankful seems like such an easy task yet so often fall short.

This morning I am remembering many Thanksgiving days past. Ones from my childhood with my Grandfather, Wallace Van Houten. He was bigger than life and made sure our plates were never empty. He also ate dessert first! I think today pie will be my first choice. Those dinners also included my Uncle Wm always loud and boisterous, he made us laugh, and my Aunt Barbara who I admired so much. She was the Martha Stewart before Martha. They have all moved to heavenly realms but the memories and memories of those special Thanksgivings,  will always live in my heart.

The first Thanksgiving Chrissie and I had together, Chris got up from the table and made a plate for Lucy my little dog. A tradition that went on for the rest of her years.

Multiple Thanksgivings over the past 20 years included many sweet friends that have all moved on to new places and stages in life. At home in Snoqualmie, one year we filled the dining room and living room with a super extended table. I think there were 17 of is that years from 2 months old to ninety. Although we are miles apart these days, those days, and those Thanksgiving memories, welded us a family that God organized and knitted together.

The grand to the simple. For several years when Josh was young, we celebrated in Hawaii at the Old Sugar Factory, warm breezes and the fragrance of flower leis around our neck did make us feel like we were in paradise. In 2014 our Thanksgiving dinner was a turkey sandwich in that same son’s hospital room. To say we were thankful for the blessings and miracles that year doesn’t express the full extent of our gratitude.

Finally, this year is the third year I am able to return to Texas and celebrate Thanksgiving with my mom and Paulette at the American Legion in Corsicana, TX.  Back in the day my mom and her husband could put on a spread fit for royalty. They were both extremely good cooks. I remember all the favorites my mom would make and I have never been able to duplicate; southern cornbread stuffing, ambrosia, sweet potato pie and the best squash casserole anyone ever tasted. Once, I reminded my mom of that casserole and how she made the best fried chicken fried on the stove in a cast iron skillet. She said, “Those days are long gone.”

Yes, those days are long gone, but the memories will last forever.

One day, I will look back on these Thanksgiving dinners at the American Legion and be thankful I had these days with my mom and create a new set of memories. Life progresses forward and the foods, scenes and people may change but one thing remains the same: We have so much to be thankful for.

A Man Who Can Teach Us Much About Gratitude

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“No onight2ane is as capable of gratitude as one who has emerged from the kingdom of night. We know that every moment is a moment of grace, every hour an offering; not to share them would mean to betray them. Our lives no longer belong to us alone; they belong to all those who need us desperately.”

~ Elie Wiesel

These words spoken by a Jewish man born in the Carpathian Mountains of Romania. He was deported by the Hungarian government to Auschwitz with his family at 15. His mother and youngest sister were murdered immediately while he and his father remained and labored at Auschwitz. They were later moved to Buchenwald where he helplessly listened as his father was beaten to death.  When the camp was liberated in April 1945 he was 16 1/2 years old.  

Elie Wiesel spent the rest of his life fighting against injustice and man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. In 1986 he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Along with the quote above in his acceptance speech he says:

“I remember: it happened yesterday or eternities ago. A young Jewish boy discovered the kingdom of night. I remember his bewilderment, I remember his anguish. It all happened so fast. The ghetto. The deportation. The sealed cattle car. The fiery altar upon which the history of our people and the future of mankind were meant to be sacrificed”

In his 1999 book “Perils  of Indifference,” he says;

“Gratitude is a word that I cherish. Gratitude is what defines the happiness and humanity of the human being.”

Full text of his acceptance speech here:

Artwork from Night by Elie Wiesel – 1982

Appointed Time

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4A403F71-69CB-412E-9EAF-F503AB6E5204Thankful that in this ever changing world there are some things that remain the same and bring balance to my life. It is demonstrated to me again this year in my Thanksgiving cactus. It is possibly 25 or more years old and it is large. It needed a larger pot years ago, I sometimes forget to water it, and yet every year it blooms at its appointed time  

On a larger scale the day and night rise and fall;  the seasons change,  sunshine comes after rain, young people still fall in love, children are born and the old pass away.  There is a rhythm and flow to life that encourages me to tune out the noise and remind myself I am not in control of these things but a never changing God is and He never forgets to take care of the details.

 

 

Intersections

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Warning.  Old ladies must be careful and stop at all intersections. I got a call this morning… someone asking me to take them to the ER in Issaquah. We got there at 9 by 11:30 the doctors had decided to do a test and they asked me to step out of the room. 

I came out and started down one of those long hospital corridors when all of a sudden BAM… I felt like I was hit by a bus.  I went flying across that 10ft hallway, landed on my arse, and hit the wall with my head.  It was not a big yellow bus, but it was a young 6’ something Justin-bus of the human male species.  

60E01375-A8F8-460E-9C69-FA202524CE58A lady came running out if the ER and after a few minutes and accessing everything, I got up.  She asked me if I wanted to see a doctor but my thought process said no  – they were swamped and other than my wounded sense of dignity, and a sore wrist, hip and head everything still moved.  I didn’t want to waste time for someone to say, “Looks like you got knocked on your rear!” Therefore, I declined.

I could make some comparisons here, such as, the other intersections in life that catch you off guard.  The loss of a loved one, a tragic diagnosis,  dealing with aging parents, aging and retirement. These intersections should also be approach with caution.  Take the time to look both ways and reflect on all possibilities  and outcomes.  Should you get sidelined, stop, take a deep breath, pick yourself up and move forward.  Life is a highway with many crossroads. Proceed with caution but stay on the road to the final destination. And…

Always slow down at intersections!!

Child of my Childhood

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just a young girl, a child
very meek and very mild

suffering abuse
of adult mistrust and misuse

desperate to escape
the next incident of childhood rape

summer of nineteen sixty-nine
appeared a tall hero and seemingly lifeline

not as much a child as man
together, young formed a plan

to many foolish though it seemed
somehow a life was redeemed

a child within the union set
left behind the evil threat

this child born of desperate time
a living doll that was mine

infant years held strong love
this doll of mine i write of

so many years between
understanding was lost… unseen

mother child in heart retains
regrets of youthful mistakes and pains

now this child of my childhood
long has left age of boyhood

starting now a fiftieth year
since child became a mother here

love, frustration, hope and despair
all have been a part of this pair

both older now and wiser still
overcoming lost good will

reaching out to understand
events that all the years have spanned

child of my childhood know
love was always there to bestow

to a child who forever changed
a life that needed rearranged

the years that life will here to span
know you were part of God’s intended plan

from a burden path a child was set free
heart full of gratitude forever for thee

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Why Old Ladies Wear Lots of Jewelry

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Something I remember from my youth, southern ladies draped in jewelry;  a ring on every finger, some with two, bracelets up their arms and three or four necklaces of varying lengths.  Gold, silver, diamonds and gems sparkling like a star filled night.

I’ve read, in looking at this phenomenon, that it’s possibly the flashy jewelry  takes away from the “wrinkles, thinning hair and double chins” Interesting theory, but no.

Back then, in my schoolgirl days, I wondered if it was just an exhibition of wealth.  These rich old ladies adorning themselves with jewels to show they’ve made it. Looking like a walking, talking jewelry store, jingle and jangling with every movement.

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However, now that I am hitting my mid-sixties,  I more fully understand. Each morning I get ready for work and put on my favorite daily-go-to-bracelet and I rotate a few favorite earrings and necklaces; three or four pieces and done.   I wear the same basic things every day.

The amazing thing is that over the 37 years of marriage Chrissie has given me lots of fabulous baubles. Some I have not worn more than a handful of times, on “special occasions.” They are safely tucked away in their velvet boxes. Occasionally I check on them, open the box and admire them but almost never wear them. Too much for everyday I thought, but I lately I am thinking, “How many more special occasions will I have left in my lifetime? “ I should wear them more than one every now and then. I need to stack up on bracelets… maybe four one one arm two on the other.  Either I am going to enjoy these baubles or they will just go to the next person down the line and to me they would have been just hidden treasures.

So here it is, the real reason old ladies wear lots of flashy jewelry is because we realize time is short and we realize there was no reason to save these baubles for special occasions. Everyday we old ladies wake up and put our feet on the floor and face the day, it is, a special occasion.   So here we come, love or not, we are going to sparkle and shine.

Texas Full Day and Full Moon

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On my home after another Texas trip. Two days with my Mom and all day Friday with Paulette for her birthday. Not a  fun night out dancing with with the girls but a day together reminiscing  about the past, talking about the future and appreciating each other and the blessings in our lives.  I found the lyrics to this song from the musical “Gypsy”. I think it should be our theme song.

“Wherever we go, whatever we do

We’re gonna go through it together

We may not go far, but sure as a star

Wherever we are, it’s together…

Wherever I go, I know she goes

No fits, no fights, no feuds and no egos

Amigos, together!

Through thick and through thin, all out or all in

And whether it’s win, place or show

With you for me and me for you

We’ll muddle through whatever we do

Together, wherever we go”

We started with breakfast at Denny’s, then massages in Athens ( the blackeye pea capital of the World) , detoured at pecan factory ( bought some jalapeño pecan brittle), steakhouse dinner, and a tour of the old Corsicana Opera House built in 1905. The highlight there, just so you know you are in Texas, was the disco saddle. Texas version of the disco ball.  The tour was suppose to continue around the old buildings in Corsicana with anecdotes, tales of the unexplained and history of the past. However Paulette’s shoe broke and after the underwhelming performance of the ghost in the basement of the opera house, we left.

AB962842-0A58-4694-A76A-0694A9EACE8EIt was beautiful out with a full moon and we went for a drink before calling it a night. I wanted to take her picture with moon in the background and every picture I took showed a cross through the moon. I was using my phone and have photographed the moon before but no matter how I tried to refocus it was there.

A good end to a Friday the 13th under a full Texas Moon.

Thinking About Life and Death

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Yes, both of these subjects are constantly in my mind. What is the purpose of life and what is like to die? Where do we go?

Perhaps these in my mind because I have an elderly mother who is slowly losing her memories. I know she is getting old and she won’t be with me forever.   I know she wonders about death because her friend has told me she has asked  her what it might be like to die.

I wonder what it will be like when I lose my mother. Will I cry? Did I do all I do  for her out of obligation or love? Will I have regrets?

What about when my time comes?  I have regrets now. Things in my life I wish I could do differently. When I die will my soul be at rest? Will I rest in peace?

Does our essence (soul) live on on another realm?  Do we convey messages to living souls through a cosmic communication line that we have not even an infinitesimal amount of knowledge or concept of its existence?

I often, as I wander in these deep sentiments,  question whether there are lessons around us everyday that can give some insight into the unknown. Lessons that help us understand and carry us through circumstances or periods of grief and sorrow we will soon face.

Several times in my life I have had what one might called premonitions.   One of the first that had a lasting impact on me was when I was only 18 years old.   I lived far away from my family and I had this overwhelming feeling of doom and that someone I loved was going to die.  This went on for several weeks and I was always contemplating who it might be and sadly always hoping it might be someone I was not so very close to… however soon I was to know. A sister of my step-father’s. Although not related by blood at all, she  was a woman who loved me through a very difficult time in life. She was a shelter in my storm. When she was murdered by a jealous ex-boyfriend, I was devastated.   I grieved for weeks. The experience left me puzzled by the purpose of the premonition because it did not ease the sorrow.

Today, I heard this quote from a movie, “Rumors of Angels,” and I pray that it is true. I pray to leave this earth with excitement and glorious expectations of what lies ahead.

“The soul leaves the body as a school boy jumps from a school door, suddenly and with joy. There is no horror in death.”

The F-Bomb

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Cursing, swearing and dropping the F-Bomb, something that was not really part of my make-up until… the past few years.

It start around 8 years or so ago.  I had a conversation with a person in their 30’s who told me dropping the F-Bomb was not as shocking in their generation as it was in mine.  Then true enough, I started hearing more and more.  I can’t really say how it start for me but once it did it grew until I couldn’t stop.   

The first time, I was upset, angry, frustrated and it just came out of my mouth.  I had an immediate guilt pang, disappointed in myself but it did seem to carry a release of some kind.  From there it went out of control, I still had that momentary guilt but it was accompanied with a feeling of justification because, after all, the situation (whatever it was) called for an F-Bomb reaction. Right?

Slowly, it became part of something I said but really didn’t like.  I would read posts and comments full of F’ing and flailing and I didn’t think it was civil or proper or edifying.  I made a decision to stop, I’d say a prayer for forgiveness every time I slipped but it seemed to have grabbed me, it was not going to give up easily and it was not going to let me go.

The more I struggled, the more I realized it was a controlling spirit that was destroying mine.   It no longer brought release of frustration; it only tore me down spiritually and emotionally.  The more I heard it, or spoke it, the sicker I felt.  It did not raise me up, it torn me down in my own eyes and in the eyes of God.

I was having dinner with a friend recently in a restaurant/bar.  The air was full of swearing, cursing,  F-Bombs and I was filled with sadness. The next day someone called me regarding a legal dealing with my mother, every other word was F this and F that… F it, F it, F it.   I kept my cool and after a while I said, “I am going to say goodbye now, as I see this conversation is going nowhere.”

It was then I knew.  No one had ever spoken to me that way before and that form of speech was not something I wanted as part of me, even occasionally.  I should never have accepted it as  a common form of speech.  If it is for the younger generation, it makes me sad for the generation that follows theirs.

I felt God was dealing with me and opening my eyes to this evil I had let enter my life.    I am ashamed and with God’s help, I am going to drive this spirit of destructive speech out of vocabulary, out of my soul, out of my heart.

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.”

Psalm 19:14 ESV

Patsy & Joe’s Castle

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There’s an old white house with blue trim out FM27 in Fairfield, Texas.  Even though it had aged and lost most of it’s glory many years ago, it was Patsy and Joe’s castle. A simple house in the country.

Before I left town I went by that old house one more time. I stood outside the back door for a moment and looked at the crape myrtle trees blooming on the edge of the porch.

It was warm but not hot, there was a slight breeze and after the overnight storm the air was fresh and clean. I noticed the birds were singing and the combination of all the things made me realize the peacefulness of this old place that they loved.

It was their home sweet home.

I took this small video clip with the flowers that were still blooming and the that birds that were still singing.

Just to remember. It will probably be my last visit here as well.

Lie or Cry

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My mother is now one year in nursing care.  She lived alone for the previous nine years since her husband passed in 2009. 

She had not been able to care for her old house that had been her home for the past 45 years. She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t allow anyone else do it for her. 

Every stage of this process has its own heartache. During that period of time it was hard to choose between allowing her to make decisions in her own life and watching her live in those conditions. 

After several minor incidents, and some we found out later she had hid from us, she fell and broke her pelvis.  She was sent to a nursing facility for rehab.  After physical rehab her Dr told her because of her dementia it was not safe for her to live alone. It was a sad, tearful, yet sweet moment.  There was few moments of mourning but she wiped her tears and went forward to this new phase in life. 

I thought telling her she could not return home would be the most difficult moment I’d face.  However, the tough choices come in stages. 

For the past six months, I have been trying to clear out that old house. I say I, but also a brother/sister-in-law and a sister, not my biological ones but the ones I gain through the marriage if our parents 46 years ago and they are ones that are closer than blood. 

We all live out-of-town.  At Thanksgiving last year, we converged on that old house and worked for days tossing five decades of things that our parents could never let go of. The WWII generation that knew rationing and shortages, never tossed anything out, because they may have needed it someday. 

Four trips later traveling from my home 2000 miles away, I have fine-tuned my sorting and clearing, shipped home more than I needed or wanted. I did it because my Mother wanted to make sure these things, many if which belonged to her parents and grandparents, stayed in the family. There were also things she wanted me to keep because, “I had those since before you were born…”. These things were her treasures, but I am finding hard to make the same treasured connection. However, I have honored most of her requests.  

My mother constantly asks what about this or that.   We discuss again and again things that I told her I have already safeguarded.  No matter how much I take, it seems there is always one more thing. 

Now, I find myself nearing the end of this process. Unable to find an organization in this final stage that can help liquidate what is left, I realize I must donate the remaining items to charity. 

This too, is a terribly difficult thing to do. I am dismantling my mother’s life and she is still living. I try to be as honest with her as I can.  I try to explain in a delicate and loving way what is happening.  She was always a person that helped those in need. I try to paint a positive outlook for her as I can, like telling her there was a person that needed a bed and dresser and I offered him one. Although, she says, “Good,” she starts to cry. 

Here is the dilemma, I either tell her the truth (maybe sugar coated) or I lie. Lies are not my thing, but the truth, even sugar-coated,  hurts.    

When we discuss the same things again and again, she will say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”  I’ll remind her that I did and she’ll reply “I don’t remember.”   I say I know you don’t remember and that’s not your fault. 

Sometimes I silently give thanks that tomorrow she may not remember today’s discussion that brought on her tears.  I think, after everything dementia takes, not remembering today’s heartaches may be the one small blessing in this disease. 

Dementia

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To Texas again and a free movie. Why does it seem there is always a movie with a lesson for me? ( See note May 2017 on “Collateral Beauty”) This flight’s movie was with Nick Nolte in “Head Full of Honey”. Besides the obligatory political snide remarks that were completely off track for the theme this movie, it has given me an insight to something I am facing, and a way to see the another side of caring for an elderly parent. A way to move past my childhood hurts and my biases, my history and frustrations.

It is about dementia and the toll it takes on families and the acceptance that needs to happen to overcome the challenges it brings as your love slips deeper into the disease.

Nolte plays an old man whose son brings him to live in his home as he can see he is not caring for himself. The son is in major denial about his condition; he just thinks he’s old and forgetful. The wife sees that something more serious is going on; she cannot cope and is angry. Then there is his 10 year old granddaughter; she sees both of those things but is filled with love and compassion for her grandpa. She has no past hurts or grudges, she is non-judging, she listens to his tales and plays along with his delusions.

As he deteriates she reminds him of his life and what was important to him. She overlooks his outbursts and takes him on an journey of love to the Italian city of love.

I am always listening to hidden messages. I have been in all these places the past few years but I need to concentrate more on loving my mom where she is now. I need to not react to things that are triggers, maybe in the past I saw it as manipulation and maybe it was, but I need to accept that this is where her mind is now. I have taken her on many journeys of love and taken her on many trip to beautiful places… perhaps this last journey will be the hardest for us both.

Pot or Not

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My great little town is again in a rabid debate, this one over whether a Marijuana shop should be given a license to open a shop in town.  As per the strong opinions that live here, the discussion has resorted to name calling and insults.  It seems as with many things civil discourse is a thing of the past.

My thoughts:

I am of a certain age and generation that has lived a lifetime of hearing warnings about the evils of drugs including marijuana. Because of this and a perception through media or  the entertainment industry that puts marijuana in a category with seedy areas of town, when I hear “pot shop” I envision Aurora Ave… strip joints, bars, pot shops and yes, even tattoo parlors.  All those things that have been ranked in the “there goes the neighborhood” category. 

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I grew up in blue county in small town America that didn’t even sell alcohol.  I have lived all over the US and abroad. I have to say comparing my childhood home to Colorado 30 years ago where there was a liquor store on every corner with a big red sign,  leaves me yearning for the former. 

When I moved here in 1983, I found it refreshing that there weren’t private liquor stores filling every strip mall. 

So old indoctrinations are hard to overcome but as with everything there is a balance. Certain medicinal benefits from Cannabis is widely accepted and I have often wondered, “ Why is not sold and marketed by licensed pharmaceutical   companies?” Because having to go to little shops in the seedy areas of town to get it seems to stigmatize it further. 

All that said, it leaves me with mixed feelings about it’s use, abuse, benefits and  harms. 

Generally,  I have felt it was no worse than alcohol, however, it was illegal in the past.  Being an employer, over the years I have seen the bad side of both and how they affect lives in a negative way.   Some can use both socially with no negative effects and for others it leads them to poor choices that can destroy their future.   We often have jobs in the construction industry and they drug test employees, like with LEO members, there is a zero tolerance drug use, even marijuana since it has become legal and we have been forced to dismiss long-term employees because they choose cannabis use over their job. 

In my heart, I long for the old small town America but I know times are changing and, as in all things, not always for the worse.  

Que Sera Sera