RESPECT

 I've been pondering what it is that has kept Robert and me happy together for over 10 years.  It isn't enough just to say we love each other, which we do.  But looking at how we relate, I've decided the key is respect. That doesn't sound very romantic.  But ever since we fell in love, we've committed ourselves to acceptance, allowance; we are who we are and that's OK.  We have seldom expected the other to become someone else; to change to suit our desires; to fill some fantasy of who or what our lover should be.  Would more exercise benefit my health?  Could he shave a little more often?  Why aren't each of us ready to leave on time?  Why doesn't he like mushrooms?  Why doesn't she like avacados? Does it matter?

I realize when I was younger, I was much more likely to criticize my partner, picking at him about things that didn't really matter--like why don't you get a haircut?  Are you going to the party dressed like that?  I hear it all the time from married couples, even in public.  The comments are demeaning, often humiliating, disrespectful.  Of course men do this, too, but I'm particularly aware of how I and other women give in to this temptation, trying to change the person we fell in love with into someone we find acceptable.

A major piece of respect is the willingness to listen, to really listen.  Sometimes I have my "retort" all ready before he has finished stating his side of something.  Occasionally he needs to say "hear me out", which can result in a clearer understanding of the other's point of view.  When we do occasionally "have words",  after a cooling off period, one or both of us apologize.

Another aspect of respect is choosing words with some thought.  Rather than being accusatory, we can state how we feel.  "I was really hurt when you said that" rather than "you always hurt me."  After all, we hope our partner isn't an enemy out to get us, but rather someone who is human and sometimes careless. Trusting that we are truly loved helps a lot.  I once read a helpful suggestion in thinking about things that irritate us.  "He/she is a good person and doing the best he/she can."  That seems to take the edge off.

I know there's nothing new in what I'm describing.  It's my experience of love late in life, which can be practiced at any age.  By the way, old people don't always seek a "companion".  We do fall in love.  Stay open!

Advent/Christmas

 In this holy season, I'd like to share a couple of things I've written about Mary and Joseph and Jesus:

“Away in a manger, no crib for a bed.  The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head.”  I guess I’ve been singing that Carol since I could talk.  The music is so soft and soothing, isn’t it?  Yet Jesus’ birth is often described as the ultimate in poverty, humiliation, filth, degradation.  I’d like to put forth a different point of view.

I grew up “in a barn”, so to speak.  The youngest child on a family dairy farm, I had many hours of freedom to explore.  And what I remember about managers is very positive.  Mangers were where we put hay in box stalls.  To explain: box stalls were used for cows who were giving birth, for young calves not yet old enough to go outdoors, or for other unusual needs.  Normally, all the cows lived in the barnyard. The animal in the box stall wasn’t tied, just confined to that area. We kept the manure cleaned up from the straw-strewn floor so the animal could lie comfortably and not become wet or soiled.  The manger was like a trough at one end of the stall and it was always clean and fragrant.  

I remember sitting in one sometimes, when a stall wasn’t in use, playing with tiny kittens or talking to a young calf to whom I’d just given milk in a pail.

I like the idea that Jesus first saw kind animals, first smelled the earthy naturalness of a stable, first heard the contented lowing of a cow or the gentle clucking of hens, first touched the firm, soft hay.  And probably his first taste was of his mother’s sweet life-giving milk.  What a natural connection with the planet earth!  What a way to begin new life—safe and secure amongst all that God created and loves, safe and secure in a manger.  What a way to remind us that life is not just about us.  God chose to be born in a place that blessed all life.  We are called to do nothing less.

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

 Do you value your ability to hear?  What do you most enjoy hearing?  A robin's song? A baby's laugh? Beethoven? The voice of your love?

I have learned to value my hearing more and more as I am able to hear less and less.  We speak about hearing but not really listening and this is often true.  But I've learned it's very hard to listen to you if I can't clearly hear you.  My seven year old hearing aides need to be replaced.  I know that.  Even with the aides, however, it is often hard work to understand what I'm hearing.  Music, for instance, often sounds to me like a radio station that isn't quite tuned in.  There is static, an interference which distorts the sound so much I often can't identify music which I've known well for years.  Masks, of course, have added to the frustration, since most of us lip read more than we realize.  It isn't just that the sound is muffled, but being unable to see your mouth limits my ability to understand you also.

All of this is to say how frustrated I was the other day when I attended a memorial service at the funeral home across the road from here.  I've been to several in that beautiful facility.  And every time I had trouble hearing.  The kind of mic they have is mounted on the podium, but is the type one almost has to swallow to make themselves heard.  Very few people are brave enough, or physically able to get that close to it.  So the other day, I heard almost nothing of the lovely service.   Others around us couldn't hear either, so it wasn't just my hearing loss.  How can they offer this facility to people in their most vulnerable state and not be sensitive to the inadequacy of their sound system?

And to add my social justice two cents worth, how can many people afford hearing aides?  Why can't they, as well as dental and visual care, be part of Medicare?  Costs too much, you say? What cost is it to countless Americans who go without that significant care--care that affects their lives physically, emotionally, relationally, spiritually--because it is simply too expensive.  I know how isolated I often feel when I'm in a group of people and can't follow what's being said; can't join in when others laugh, don't "get it" when things are being discussed.  It's lonely and depressing.  So that's my sermon for this time.  And I think I'll call the funeral home and complain!

I'M TRYING AGAIN

 It appears I haven't written a blog for three years.  Did I run out of things to say?  Me?  Never.  Instead, my spirit ran out of motivation to share my thoughts.  Here I am, a 78 year old woman, unable to walk alone, spending much of my life in a lounge chair.  I felt useless, used up, with little to offer to anyone.  

 I am blessed with a beloved partner who watches over and encourages me; a very special daughter who does the same.  Though their love and concern is deeply appreciated, being waited on and worried about, also results in feelings of being an invalid. Does that mean I'm now in-valid? I had been used to being capable, independent, a spiritual leader.  Now I don't drive, I can't walk, I sit and sit and sit.  I don't pursue hobbies.  I read; write emails and post on Facebook.  The political, social, and environmental issues swirling around feel overwhelming and despair is frequently close to the surface.  Well, as with my frequent falls, though I'm full of fear, I get up and keep on trying.  And so I will try to write, fearful though I am.

Recently I've been increasingly aware of white privilege, my privilege. Living in Santa Fe the past few years, where at least 3 classes and cultures co-exist--Native American, Spanish, and Anglo, I have felt it often. Each time we need something repaired at our house, the workers are Mexican or from further South. Spanish is spoken perhaps more than English in this community.   The workers speak little English and I know almost no Spanish.  I sit in my lovely home watching, as they work and sweat.  I feel guilty.  Can they afford to hire help?  Do "anglos" come to fix their refrigerator? 

 I attend a church which proclaims its inclusivity, which is sincere.  Almost no non-white people attend.  We use Spanish in some of the rituals anyway.  There is a small number of Native Americans, no black people.  Actually, there is a very small black population in Santa Fe.  Of course, people from other cultures have their own ways of worship.  Why should they want to attend a white protestant liberal church, anyway?  Do we attend their churches or houses of faith?  So no matter how well-meaning our efforts, white people remain at the top, intending to be "helpful", instead of examining within ourselves how we have participated in creating and perpetuating our own superiority.  Racism is not a black or brown problem, it is a white problem and only we, if we humbly examine our assumptions and attitudes, can make things better.  I'm sure I'll be writing more on this topic.

Thank you for listening!

Carol, Song of Joy

GOD IN THE DARKNESS

“Out of the depths have I cried unto you, O Lord!” Psalm 130:1

“Life is difficult”is the first line of Scott Peck’s classic book “The Road Less Traveled”. The acceptance of this reality is one of the great challenges of western culture.  The pervasive assault of advertising and marketing add to this challenge.  From birth to death it is nearly impossible to avoid messages persuading us of just the opposite.  Of course you can have “the good life”.  All you need do is: buy our product,  pay for the right school, drive a late model car, buy a large house in an upper class part of town, join clubs (including church) for maximum social exposure, dress for success, shop till you drop.  The messages that life is fun, sexy, beautiful, and easy seem ubiquitous.

Yet, life is difficult.  We slip-slide into this world from the safe and cozy womb, crashing smack dab into garish lights, irritating noise, cold air, and the first of countless stuffy noses.  And it doesn’t get a whole lot easier, in spite of the awesome wonder and joy of it all.  We bump our heads, we get nose bleeds, we cry in fear, want, loneliness, pain.  And even when life seems to be going pretty well, there are no guarantees.  Something will happen—a death, an illness, a fight, a misunderstanding, a job loss, a betrayal.  I was about  50 when I finally realized: this is the way life is.  Period.  There is no magic wand, though I have desperately wished for one countless times. No amount of wishing will change it. Perhaps my most significant experience of that occurred some years ago.

It was the fall of 1993.  My husband, Norris and I had gone to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for a few days. We were reveling in the exquisite fall colors.  Then one evening our daughter called to say doctors had discovered cancer throughout most of my sister Ann’s body.  We were stunned.  I visited her in the hospital as soon as we got home.  Her face looked haggard and colorless.  She hugged me tight.  It seemed she would never let go.   She said she loved me.  She was afraid and so was I.  And our mother was afraid.  When we talked, she didn’t say much, but I could hear the strain in her voice.  I called our other sister Sandra, Ann’s twin, in Wisconsin and suggested she come.  She did.

A few nights later, at 4 a.m., our phone rang. It was my mother’s neighbor.  She had found Mother on the bathroom floor.  She’d had a stroke and was being taken to the hospital, the one where I worked as a chaplain.  

I staggered around trying to put on my clothes, but was soon lying on the bed, shaking and hyperventilating.  I couldn’t move.  I can not do this, I heard in my mind.  Norris asked how he could help.  I didn’t know.  Suddenly a voice within told me to eat a banana.  He brought it, I ate it, and soon  was revived enough to finish dressing.  Where did that knowing, that voice, come from?  Somehow I was not alone in the dark.

We drove to the hospital and found her in the ER, an unfamiliar image of her usual self.  Her voice was weak and wobbly, bloody abrasions covering one side of her face.  How could this shriveled up old woman  be my mother?  I remember asking Norris, quite sincerely, “Are you sure this is Mom?”

She had suffered a stroke affecting the left side of her body.  Mother was 84, had been a well adjusted widow for several years.  Again we were stunned.  Sandra, still in town,  arrived. Over the next few days we took turns visiting Mother in one hospital and Ann in another.  Mother couldn’t swallow at first and an NG tube through her nose and throat was threatened, followed ultimately by a feeding tube if the swallow didn’t return.  She adamantly refused both and within days began swallowing.  Her speech was clear, though she had difficulty expressing herself.  She could read only from the middle of a line to the right edge of the page.  Still, it looked like she would survive and perhaps have some quality of life ahead. 

The stroke was on Sunday.  Early Friday morning the phone rang again.  This time is was my brother-in-law.  He simply said, “Ann just died.”  WHAT!!!  They had already decided the cancer was too advanced to treat and she would go home with Hospice.  Again Norris and I drove in stunned disbelief to the hospital.  I looked at her body. It didn’t seem real.  She was only 56 years old.  I haltingly gave her a blessing, something I had done countless times before as a hospital chaplain.  But this was different.  This was *my* sister.  How could she be dead?  After a time of weeping with her family, we headed for the other hospital, stopping to phone a friend, an Episcopal priest, who agreed to meet us there.

How was I going to tell my mother that her precious daughter was dead?  Where would I find the strength, the words, to give her news that would break her heart?  I participated in this sort of experience with others frequently as a chaplain.  It was never easy.  But this was different.  This was *my* mother and a debilitated mother, at that.   As I sat beside the bed, my friend behind me, her hands on my shoulders, Norris beside me.  Somehow the words came out and then I laid my head on her body and sobbed.  Mother patted my head with her one useable hand.  Typical of her, she presented little overt emotion.  She, too of course, was in shock.  Later in my office we called others,  first reaching my remaining sister who had just returned home to Wisconsin.  Again, I had to give the news that would change her life forever.

Sandra returned immediately and somehow the words were said; somehow we lived through the days; somehow we had Ann’s funeral, a funeral our mother could not attend; and somehow the day after the funeral we sorrowfully admitted Mother to a nursing home—a place where she would be “incarcerated” for the next five and a half  years.  We’d had the presence of mind to add my name to Ann’s as Mother’s Durable Power days before Ann’s death.  And so in less than a month I lost a dear sister and was given full responsibility for my mother.

Where did I find the wherewithal to go through this?  Where do any of us find it when the dark times of life come?  And they do come!  Some of us don’t make it, can’t find that inner strength, and through no fault of our own, are broken by life’s tragedies.  

Still others, somehow find what is necessary to go on.  Such is the story of our friends, Joyce and John.  Joyce  was heavy with her first pregnancy when tests showed the baby had Down Syndrome.  She and her husband, John,  struggled with this awareness, but came to some measure of peace and acceptance prior to his birth.  When Bud was born, however, he had three heart deficiencies too serious for him to survive any corrective measures.  His parents brought him home with Hospice, aware that he could die at any moment.  Their hearts were broken.  How could they bear this agony?  What could they do other than sit and hold their precious son until he took his last breath? Months passed and Buddy still lived.  Finally, Joyce and John began to realize they could make a life with this child and they plunged into it full force.  Buddy couldn’t have been more cared for, more doted upon, given more access to resources to help him grow, more encouraged, more enjoyed.  He spread joy everywhere he went with his clear blue eyes and sweet smile.  All of us who knew him were thrilled at each new breakthrough in his development.  Buddy took a lot of work and effort.  Joyce and John made tough decisions.  Joyce would not return to work.  They would make do with John’s income.  Somehow they found the strength and courage to do it.  They also found a whole new community of friends, people who had children with DS.  They became involved in fund-raising for DS research and gave of themselves for the cause they passionately believed in.

Just before his 2^nd birthday, Buddy became ill with respiratory problems.  His parents decided against treatment measures that might not work and would be torture for their little boy.  On Valentine’s Day, Buddy breathed his last.  Joyce and John were devastated even as they gave thanks for the two years they had been privileged to be Buddy’s parents.  How did they go on?  Where was God in all this?  Why! The unanswerable and perennial question, why?  

God doesn’t use a magic wand, though we would probably all wish for that.  Yet somehow God seems present and offers guidance and caring even when we aren’t aware of it. God offers a Home in the darkness.

The Theatre and Me 

One of the questions my adult daughter has asked is why I was drawn to theatre. This really makes me think and wonder, looking back over the years--so many remembrances. 

Was it the smell of the grease paint? Or the magical transformation of a bare stage into an intriguing set? Was it the teamwork required in order to bring a production to birth? Or the excitement of sexual temptation? To this day, when I enter a legitimate theatre, the odor takes me back and my heart beats faster. 

I began college, in 1960, having only turned 17 the winter before. I was woefully unsophisticated and unprepared for being away from my parents’ strict control. Raised on the farm, I had never lived in a town, let alone a city. Central Michigan University had 4,000 students, which seemed huge to me. I felt terrified, lost and alone. 

Early on I had to register for classes. There wasn’t time to get my parents’ approval. The mail took too long and I couldn’t afford a long distance call. My decisions about everything had always required their permission. Now I was on my own. 

Unfortunately,my first dorm assignment was with three upper middle class girls from affluent Detroit suburbs--Gail, Barb, and Ann. “Your hair’s not right. Your shoes aren’t right. Your clothes aren’t right.” I felt their disdain from day one. Having no money, I couldn’t change even if I wanted to. All three belonged to Alpha Sigma Tau, an elite campus sorority. One day I heard Gail state, “Of course Carol isn’t AST material”. Well, I never wanted to be part of your snooty sorority anyway, I thought, wishing now I’d had the courage to say it aloud. 

At Elk Rapids High School, a small school in northern Michigan, I had been class salutatorian, earned several academic awards, and won a couple of beauty contests. When I left Elk Rapids, I felt pretty good about myself. But this college situation popped my balloon almost instantly. 

Feeling deflated, lonely and out of my element, at some point I found myself sitting in the back of Warriner Auditorium watching a rehearsal of “You Can’t Go Home Again.” I was transfixed. Later, when Tom, my first college sweetheart, performed in a small play, I knew what I wanted to do. 

Little by little, as I hung around on the edges, the drama students began to notice and befriend me. I felt like I had finally found a place where I belonged.  Most of the kids were more sophisticated and knowledgable than I was, or so I thought. I did a lot of listening, trying to understand what motivated them to be passionate about theatre. 

Before the year was over, I had changed my Major from English to Speech and Drama, much to my parents’ concern. They felt my choice wasn’t practical and they probably worried about the decadent atmosphere, real or imagined, of the theatrical world. There was some truth in their stereotype. Casual sexual liaisons, lots of drinking and partying, accompanied our hard work. 

Because CMU didn’t offer a comprehensive theatre program, I was limited in terms of actual stage work. Feeling I had little talent, I was reluctant to try out for parts in yearly productions. However, I  did perform in the chorus for, “Carousel” and “Finian’s Rainbow”, as well as being prop master for “Kiss Me Kate”. I also learned about costuming, makeup and direction. One of my proudest moments was when I was initiated into Alpha Psi Omega, the honorary drama fraternity just before I graduated. 

We definitely had some unorthodox relationships as Thespians. For instance, there was a student named Keith, very talented actor, singer, artist, writer, and charmer, who played most of the leading roles. 

Though Keith was married, most of the girls, including me, had crushes on him, which he didn’t hesitate to exploit. Somehow this attribute failed to bother us. While I wanted to be one his groupies, that never materialized. 

However, when he wrote an elaborate pageant about Native American history related to the Europeans’ arrival on the East Coast, he asked me to be his assistant, writing and editing along with him. I was delighted. We developed a real friendship, which lasts to this day. Incidentally, he cleaned up his act and is happily married to his second wife. 

I spent the summer of my junior year (1963) as secretary to the producer at Houghton Lake Playhouse on, what else, Houghton Lake, in north central Michigan. Gene was my professor at Central, I was in love with him and thus was deleriously happy when he asked me to help him start the theatre. Looking back, I realize I had an outstanding talent for attracting and encouraging married men with questionable morals, being flattered that they found me worth pursuing.  

That summer was a revelation to me. I experienced both beauty and kindness, exploitation and cruelty, and witnessed quantities of amoral behavior, sexual and otherwise. 

The theatre had a resident company and a “star” each week, as the plays changed. A play was performed in the evening while next week’s play was rehearsed during the day. This meant that all of us were exhausted most of the time. There were 8 performances a week and Monday was our only day off. 

And then there was our home, the lodge, which was about 3 miles from the playhouse. It sat large and impressive on the shore of Houghton Lake, as though important people had once summered there. I could imagine women having cocktails on the wide screened-in porch and children frolicking in the lake. But now it was abandoned, a weathered gray. Seems like everything about it was gray. Who knows how long it had sat deserted, a haven for mice, bats and all manner of creeping creatures. 

This was just the answer for Gene’s dilemma--where to put twenty-some apprentices, students and other staff like me, the playhouse secretary. And it  was dirt cheap. 

The Lodge had three stories, with bedrooms on the 2nd and 3rd floors, At one end of the main floor was a huge stone fireplace, surrounded by a motley assortment of worn living room furniture. At the other end was the kitchen--not that bad actually. 

Our first task was to clean, clean, clean, removing piles of debris, animal feces, spider webs, and grunge. Then we chose our bedrooms. None was elaborate, but I chose one of the few that was private. It reminded me of a monk’s cell, only not that nice. 

There was a small bathroom down the hall. The tub was so terminally filthy, none of us could bear to clean it let alone bath in it. It was definitely a summer of sponge baths. My mother-in-law used to describe these as washing down as far as possible, up as far as possible and finally washing ‘possible’. 

The lodge was well below road level and driving in at night you could see what seemed like hundreds of bats flying around. It was like something out of a horror movie. “Oh, my God, there are bats everywhere!” we girls screamed. 

Often when entering my bedroom I spotted one hanging somewhere in the room. I was terrified. The guys had told us girls that bats loved long hair and frequently got stuck in it. And we believed them! So I stopped each time I entered the room and checked for bats in every upper corner. Usually none were there! 

One night I went to the bathroom and found one hanging on top of the door jam. I would have to go under it to relieve myself. I froze. What could I do? Finally, nature’s call was so insistent I darted under it into the bathroom. Of course, it being a harmless bat, just hung there. 

In the beginning, we tried to organize our eating in order to have nourishing meals and stretch our meager funds. I made an elaborate chart, so we could share responsibilities. It seemed like a good idea at the time! 

However, being busy and often irresponsible young people, this system lasted about two weeks. After that, we fended for ourselves, meaning lots of fast food, erratic eating, and moldy leftovers in the refrigerator. I can’t remember who cleaned it, most likely me, but I’m sure it didn’t happen until the odor was nauseating. 

Putting 20 hormone-rich young people in the same house with no supervision meant there was lots of bed-sharing. One young man, the youngest of the group, managed to buy a bottle of cheap wine, discover an old candle and drag an ancient mattress into one of the unused 3rd floor bedrooms. He failed to seduce one girl after another, including me, until finally one came along who was impressed. Unlike many of us, those two stayed together the rest of the summer. 

For some reason, maybe to save our sanity, we decided to celebrate “Christmas in the Summer” on July 25. We fashioned some crude decorations, had a roaring fire in the fireplace, and sang Christmas Carols. As the caroling ended, Edward Everett Horton, that week’s star, sat in a rocking chair, wrapped in an old shawl, and told stories of his long career. A number of us sat on the floor at his feet, drinking wine.. He was elderly by then, but he had been an actor in films for years. We knew him as the voice of “Fractured Fairy Tales”, a regular feature of the Rocky and Bullwinkle TV show. Later, as I trudged up the wide staircase to bed, with a record playing “The Party’s Over”, I wept with joy at the beauty of our “Christmas”.

 Down the road was the Family Bar, where we often went for cast parties after performances. In that warm and friendly atmosphere, we ate, drank and played pool till all hours. 

Back to the theatre. It was in the round, bringing the audience close to the stage and to one another. Our first production, “Seven Year Itch” starred Cliff Norton. It was hysterically funny. The first night I laughed constantly. I attended subsequent performances, laughing throughout. Finally the frustrated director took me aside and explained that since I knew the play so well, I was laughing so loudly on the punch lines that they were drowned out for the audience. So embarrassing. From then on, I toned it down. 

Those were some of the good times. 

And then, well, there were other times. I remember when Gene sent me to the motel room of that week’s star, Hugh Marlowe, to help him rehearse his lines. Or so I thought. Hugh soon made it clear he had other expectations, which Gene had encouraged. I cried in embarrassment, explaining I knew nothing of this arrangement. Hugh comforted me, apologized for his behavior, put his shirt back on and took me to a bar for a quiet drink. That drink (which was actually illegal) helped to assuage my humiliation as I sat and talked with a kind and repentant old movie star. Naively, I remained loyal to Gene in spite of his cruelty and continued use of power over me. 

Another star was a “young old” movie star named Charlie Ruggles. I had met him a few years earlier when he crowned me Harbor Day Queen in Elk Rapids. Based on that brief connection, we built a relationship during his two weeks at Houghton Lake. It became clear early on that he would prefer a more intimate liaison, but I saw him as an elderly grandfather figure and we retained those boundaries. 

Finally the summer ended. Amazingly, I came home in one piece, to my parents’ great relief. 

A year later, when I was about to graduate from college, Charlie and I exchanged letters, in which I expressed my desire to move to New York, work as a secretary and hope for a career on Broadway. He wisely counseled me to stay in Michigan, become a teacher, get married and have a family. A little sexist by today’s standards? 

He said I’d be eaten alive in NYC, which was undoubtedly true. I followed his advice and got a teaching job at a Jr. High in Lansing, a city which seemed glamorous to me. My assignment, though, was teaching speech and drama to 9th graders, an appalling thought in my opinion. I reasoned that I could get involved with a local theatre group and that would be my saving grace. 

However, soon after moving to Lansing I fell in love with Norris Ingells, a reporter/photographer who knew the theatre world well. After we married I pledged to him, though he never would have asked, that I would avoid the theatre. Its demands on time and energy were too great. And with my history, I feared I might have an affair and ruin our marriage. 

Hard as it was, it felt like an authentic and appropriate decision. I never regretted it, but I never lost my love for the stage or that rapid heartbeat when I notice the unmistakeable odor of grease paint. 

“Hope is a state of mind, not of the world. Hope, in this deep and powerful sense, is not the same as joy that things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously heading for success, but rather an ability to work for something because it is good.”
Vaclav Havel quote

I heard this quote yesterday and thought of it after I read a FB quote decrying Trump's dictator-like idea of a military parade. Happened to glance at the comments and was so disheartened. One woman said that was why she never listens to the new anymore. The other one said she pays no attention because there is nothing she can do about it anyway.

Friends, this is exactly the attitude Trump wants from us. Of course there is something you can do. You can send letters, you can speak out where appropriate, you can protest, you can VOTE. But you have to extend yourself a little and not just hide in a world of pretense. You must fulfill your RESPONSIBILITY as a citizen if you care about this country and want this democracy to survive.

Why I Smoked

Did I ever smoke?  DID I ever smoke!  Did I ever smoke!  Did I EVER SMOKE! 
Why?

Although there were several reasons, the most significant and ridiculous was I was my anger at Tom, my first college love. We had made a deal. If he would see a Dr. about the boil on his leg, I wouldn’t start smoking.  He didn’t, so I did. Thus with my very grown up 18-year-old logic, I paid him back.  He was so offended, he broke up with me.  Years later, I learned that he had also become a heavy smoker. 

And so began what became a thirteen year addiction.  I choked and coughed.  My throat was hot; my mouth tasted awful.  It seems like a sane person would immediately give up.  But I persisted.  I learned how to inhale and not cough. I became accomplished at it.  I soon learned how pleasurable smoking was.  What a faithful friend I had found. Was I frustrated?  Smoke a cigarette.  Was I lonely or sad or elated?  Smoke a cigarette.

For the next thirteen years, those little suckers were my constant companions.  No matter what else life presented, as long as I had the money, I could count on the comfort of my Pall Malls. Money wasn’t much of an issue.  In the 60’s, a carton cost less than $3.  That’s 10 packs.  That meant I was taken care of for 8-10 days.  Did I notice I was addicted?  Of course.  Did I care?  Not in the least.  Nor did I care that my habit was dirty, made others uncomfortable, and came before anything else.  Did I have a lovely sexual experience? Yes, but the best thing was that cigarette after.  Was I thrilled to be pregnant?  Absolutely ecstatic.  But I still smoked.  Was nursing my baby the most precious, sacred experience ever?  Yes, but I smoked my way through it.

And so it went for 13 years.  Gradually, I began to regret my habit.  My little girl made it clear she detested it.  My husband patiently said nothing, even after I dropped a lit one in the front seat of his car; even after I burned a hole in my winter coat while driving; even after I dropped a lit one on our friends’ couch one New Year’s Eve.  I was mortified by these accidents, but still I puffed on.

Our pretty white curtains became a light shade of brown.  The walls were dingy.  I always smelled bad. I began to regret this thing that owned me.  I prayed almost nightly to be free.  Next morning, I could hardly wait to have my first one. I switched to low nicotine brands.  I smoked more.  I remember the muscles in my cheeks aching as I struggled to get a good lung-full.

And then one day, when I least expected it, I smoked the last one.  I had gone next door to pick up my daughter and sat listening to my good friend and neighbor.  She was devastated by news that her beloved 56-year-old mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer.  I still remember hearing the news as I smoked yet another cigarette.  And deep inside, a little voice said, “You will never smoke another one.”  I finished the cigarette, smooshed it out in the ash tray, and never smoked again.  That was 44 years ago.

Those first months were agonizing.  If I hadn’t fully realized my addiction before, I sure knew it now.  My stomach hurt, I was grouchy and sluggish.  My family was afraid to ask me anything.  I gained weight, partly because of all the chocolate bars I ate to assuage my longing.  Nearly a year went by and one day an older friend at church, herself a reformed smoker, said she didn’t think I had really “decided” to quit, that I just went from day to day and didn’t smoke.  I took her seriously and in my heart I decided.  From then on, I felt better and better.  One night, driving alone down Grand Avenue in Lansing, Michigan, I shouted, “I am free!”  It was the greatest feeling in the world.  Many times since, I have thought if I can quit smoking, I can do anything.

I’ve learned that in life the things that bring suffering can serve as blessings, too.
So it has been with my smoking addiction.  I never felt that others should do what
I had done.  It was not my place to lecture or feel smug.  What happened to me was miraculous.  I couldn’t take any credit for it.  I always understood how hard it is to let go, how painful, how unsettling, how anxiety producing.  Being around other smokers never
tempted me.  I did feel sorry for them.  As it happened, most of my smoker friends quit in those next few years.  I was happy for them.

Years later, I became a hospital chaplain.  I encountered many smokers, both patients and staff.  Perhaps because of my chaplain’s listening role, many shared their concern and mixed emotions--knowing they should quit, but not wanting to either.  For some patients it was a matter of life or death.  My heart ached for those with lung disease, never able to take a deep cleansing breath, grabbing short breaths, feeling frantic and frightened.  Yet even then, some of them continued to smoke.  When it seemed appropriate, I shared my story.  I never knew if it helped anyone else quit.  I hope so.

There is a Crack in Everything

I have been stunned,violated, abused, bereft, inspired, hopeful, amazed, grateful. All these feelings and more have lived in me this week of painful revelations in my city--Lansing, Michigan. This city, dominated by Michigan State University, was my home for 50 years. This is where I taught school, was married, bore and raised a child, where I was involved in innumerable ways. This is the community I shared with my passionately dedicated writer/photographer husband for 40 years, sometimes feeling I came in second to his love for the community, the newspaper, his camera. This is where my husband, my sister, and my parents died and where my partner, Robert entered my life.
This week 150 young women screwed up their courage, came together and testified in court to the on-going molestations of a supposedly renowned doctor. 150 girls! Not only were they molested, but no one listened to their stories. Their agonies were ignored as though they didn’t exist, weren’t valuable human beings. The “renowned doctor” was believed, protected, enabled.
Trust has been broken. Hearts have been broken. Not only because of the truth, but because the “highly respected” leaders of a great university would not face the truth; cared more about protecting the school and their own reputations than about the destruction of young lives. And what has it led to? Rage. Shock. Disillusionment. Grief.
The athletic department of MSU is implicated. The School of Osteopathic Medicine is implicated. The school’s President of 13 years, who was highly respected (and highly paid), has resigned. The Board of Trustees’ role is questionable. An over-all investigation has been launched, a special prosecutor appointed.
So why did I add inspired, hopeful, amazed and grateful? Because these young women have connected, bonded, supported one another in a beautiful way. Because the judge, a woman, allowed, encouraged, and listened as each one told her story. Because the university students rallied around them, thanking them and cheering them on. Because maybe at last women are claiming their birth right, one that has eluded them for thousands of years. Because whatever humiliation, anger and grief Lansing has to suffer, maybe this city will come out the other side more honest, more compassionate, more whole. “There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” (Leonard Cohen) 

This tribute to my late mother-in-law is my last submission to the class on Creative Non-fiction I've been taking through the Story Circle Network.  I've really enjoyed the work and I offer it here as a testimony to the power of love.

THE AMAZING LIFE OF LILLIAN EDITH

How could she know, that petite pig-tailed child, as she waved to her father and watched the train vanish, its sound growing faint?  How could she know that for the rest of her life the sound of a train whistle would evoke such pain within her chest that breathing ceased for a moment? How could she know she would never see or hear from him again?

To back track a bit, the journey of this little girl, rather like Anne of Green Gables, began in a frigid January, 1894, in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The journey would not be an easy one.  For reasons she never knew, her parents divorced shortly after her birth and  Lillian was “given” to her father by her mother for the sum of $100.  It was all very official, a typed page signed by both parents. Why?  She never knew.

Those first few years, she lived with her paternal grandparents in northern Michigan, seeing her father only when he came home from the railroad.  Much of that life was carefree and fun, as she played on the inviting beaches of Lake Michigan.  She adored her grandparents and they, her.  Occasionly she visited her mother in Grand Rapids.  “Mother” was stiff and formal, never giving her the least bit of affection.

At some point, Walter, her dad, remarried and she went to live in Muskegon with her “wicked stepmother”, who made her work like an adult and frequently beat her when dad wasn’t around.  That union produced a son, the apple of his mother’s eye, which didn’t help Lillian’s status.  It was a few years later, when she was maybe 10 or 11, that Walter deserted the family.

Grudgingly, her birth mother, who had married a
stern and hard-nosed German man, took her in, moving her back to Grand Rapids.  These “parents” were financially comfortable and lived in a pleasant neighborhood, but their rules were harsh and demanding, at least they seemed so to Lillian.  And no affection was displayed.

In her old age, she liked to tell how one day at school she talked in class and was sent to the cloak room as discipline.  When the teacher came to check on her and put her arm around Lillian’s shoulders, wondering aloud what she was to do with her, it was the first time Lillian could remember anyone putting an arm around her, ever. Thereafter, she would work to get sent to the cloak room, longing for a repeat of that affection.

Life was soon to improve, however. Following 8th grade graduation, she took a job at the telephone company. One particular day she had terrible menstrual cramps and left work early.  After walking the many blocks home, she found no one there and in misery and some desperation, she went next door. Clara Norris, a tall, thin somewhat severe-looking woman in her mid-20’s, warmly welcomed her and soon she was tucked up on a couch with a heating pad on her abdomen.

Clara, whom everyone called Daisy, was quite alone. When her fiance’ didn’t return from WWI, she never married. Instead, she nursed her grandmother till her death and now lived alone in Grandma’s large, brick house. It seemed Daisy and Lillian were meant for each other.

They spent countless joyful hours together.  Daisy introduced Lillian to culture, music, art, dance and  St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, a venerable old parish in downtown Grand Rapids.  It was there that she had her first taste of God, of unconditional love and acceptance. She hungrily devoured it.

A few years later, with financial help from the church and the support of Clara Norris, she set off for St. Faith’s, a missionary training school for women, on the grounds of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City.  Imagine her sense of awe and inadequacy, moving alone to that great city, studying with young college graduates, she with her 8th grade education, attending one of the largest and most beautiful cathedrals in the world.

Characteristically, she worked hard and excelled during training, also volunteering at nearby St. Luke’s Hospital.  The record of the 47th Annual Convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Western Michigan states that “Lillian Minhinnick, having completed two years’ study at St. Faith’s School, has been sent to China.”

And so, with the love and prayer support of Clara Norris, she set sail from San Francisco in 1920, a small, attractive, feisty and warm-hearted envoy to the people of Soochow (now Suzhou), a large and beautiful city 100 meters northwest of Shanghai.  Over the next six years, she learned the language, befriended missionaries of various denominations, helped to eliminate eye disease, loved and was loved by the Chinese with whom she worked. Her  name there was Ming Ching Ling.  Her closest friends called her Ming the rest of her life.

We must stop here, though there are countless stories of Lillian’s life adventures.  She came home in 1926 to marry Cliff Ingells, a widower with two young children.  In 1933, much to their surprise, she bore a son whom she named Norris, after guess who?  That son was my husband for 40 years, his mother my delightful mother-in-law, Daisy his surrogate grandmother.

Once, years later, I watched Lillian stand wistfully in front of a steam engine at Henry Ford Museum, the train’s whistle playing over a loud speaker.  She stood there quite a while, maybe remembering the day the train took her father away forever. Then she sadly turned away, a stoic look of determination on her strong and care-worn face.

On Being a Hospital Chaplain

I was a hospital chaplain for almost 15 years.  My mother didn’t think I’d last; not the right temperament. Somehow I did.

Chaplains don’t evangelize or preach at people.  We are just there.

I was frequently amazed at the outpourings of gratitude from folks--patients, family members, and staff.  Why, I wondered.  I didn’t do anything.  In some cases, I said a prayer, but often I just sat, holding hands, listening if they wanted to talk, being quiet if they didn’t.  I always smiled and wished them well.  

One of the mysteries of life in the hospital is how little interest the ill have in controversial subjects--politics, religion, etc.   Is it the basic human desire to live? Life definitely takes on a different perspective.  We sort out what is truly important and basic to survival.

My colleagues and I were Christians--an Episcopalian, a Lutheran, a Methodist, a Roman Catholic.  Seldom did anyone--patients, family members, even staff--ask our religion or our denomination.  I prayed with Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, atheists, Christian Fundamentalists, even Wisconsin Synod Lutherans, and they don’t normally pray with anyone not their own.  

The Catholic church had local parish priests assigned to each hospital in town.  Our priest, Father Ray, ministered with a gentle, no nonsense, attitude. I admired him.  His work load was horrendous, yet he always smiled and seemed at peace.

As I remember it, once when we appeared simultaneously at the bedside of a elderly Hispanic man, whose large family was fiercely protective, Father Ray explained to them that he couldn’t come back for a couple of days.  He put his arm around my shoulders and said, “But don’t worry, you’re in good hands with Carol.” That family welcomed my presence even as their father was dying.  

A few years later, I was privileged to sit with Father Ray as he lay dying.  We shared an easy closeness and comfortability.  When it came to life and death, the “oughts and shoulds” melted away. We all worked together.

Often there is little a chaplain can offer in the way of comfort or reassurance. After surgery, beds in ICU are raised up, allowing nurses and others to easily work with patients.  There is much to attend to following major surgeries. I remember standing on tip toe beside elevated beds, assuring recovering patients that they were still here.  On a respirator, unable to talk, the patients were uncomfortable, frequently anxious.  I reminded them that the tube down their throat was temporary;  it would come out soon.  And I smiled. I smiled a lot, often thinking how grateful I was that tube wasn’t down my throat.

One of the most poignant experiences came one late afternoon when I was called to ER.  We’ll name the “players” Lois and Roy.  Lois, an elderly woman, had a burst aortic aneurysm and would bleed to death unless it could be closed. Doctors decided to try, though her chances of survival were slim.  However, family wanted to wait until Roy, Lois’ boy friend, could get there. He was coming from out in the country, several miles away.  We waited and waited.  Finally we could wait no longer.  The surgery must happen, now or never.  

I decided to stay in ER to await Roy’s arrival and let him know the situation.  No sooner had the elevator doors closed, taking her up to the OR, than an elderly man, nice looking with a head full of beautiful white hair, hurried breathlessly into ER.  Oh my, what bad timing.  

Without giving it any thought, I quickly introduced myself and told Roy to come with me.  As we went up in the elevator, I let him know what was happening and that things didn’t look good.  It might be too late for him to see her. He looked shocked and bewildered. The OR staff also looked shocked as we charged into the holding area.  I frantically told them who Roy was and asked if we were too late.  Well, no, they hadn’t started.  We’ll ask if Roy can go in.  The answer was yes, as long as he wore all the protective clothing--gown, gloves, shoe coverings, head covering, and mask.  Well, said Roy, chuckling, I’ve never done anything like this before.  He seemed rather excited as he donned all the yellow paper clothes.  

You can go in, but only for a moment, he was told.  I followed him to the OR door and as I peeked through the small window, I saw the surgical team stand back respectfully as he walked to the operating table, bent over Lois and gently kissed her.  

Had I not intervened, Roy could not have delivered that final good-bye.  I walked away, tearfully, grateful to my core for the privilege of being a “healer” in that healing place.

This is my first post in a long while.  I like my essay, written for an online class I'm taking in Creative Nonfiction.

(A couple of caveats:  I have changed some names and locations to protect privacy and to make the essay work better.

Also, I know the part about "old black ladies" may seem politically incorrect, but it is true that I often sought and found solace from older African-American women and I tell this story with the intention of deepest respect.)

I MOVE ON: Life as a Hospital Chaplain

Rag socks and Birkenstocks

I wear to work each day

I come in and I smile

I sit down for a while

And before I exit, I pray.

This way of poking fun at myself developed as I entered

hospital chaplaincy in 1991 at age 48. I introduced myself to each unit, new to everyone and everything.  I was a lay person, not officially trained, bringing a new discipline to a mid-sized hospital which had never had a pastoral care program.  The staff had no clue what a chaplain should do.  Neither did I.  In time, we all learned.

* * * * *

Surgical ICU

I sit quietly in a small, darkened room, hearing beeps and gurgles from machines, tubes, and monitors.  There’s the stale, familiar odor of illness. This patient has been here for weeks, the chances of her recovery growing slimmer by the day.  Suddenly, not knowing why, I get up and move toward one corner of the bed.  I lay my hands on the blanket-encased foot for a few moments.  I move on to the other foot, then each hand.  As I caress her extremities, I imagine healing energy flowing into her body.  Will it make any difference?  I’ll never know.  

I move on.

*****

Cardiac ICU

Jessie is only slightly responsive this morning.  His heart is worn out.  I hold his hand and gently caress his bare chest.  “Jessie, it’s Carol. Can you hear me?”  He nods.  “It’s going to be OK, Jessie.”  He nods and smiles weakly.  “I will stay with you.”  Again he nods and smiles.

I stay all morning. I have a headache. I don’t feel like making “cold calls”.  And Jessie has no one else.  He is dying alone. 

A beautiful African-American man of 40, he is an inmate at the nearby state prison.  What crime did he commit?  No matter today. Usually the prisoner patients have a guard 24/7.  Not today.  I wonder why. A colleague stops by.  She says I’m “wasting my time” sitting there.  I don’t know how to explain.  

Jessie becomes unconscious.  

I think about his life. 

I wonder why the officials won’t let his family come. 

I sing a little, my hand on his chest.

I’m silent. 

I move on. 

Jessie dies, alone, several hours later. 

*****

Medical-Respiratory ICU

I check in with the staff.  One of my favorite nurses, speaking of her patient, quotes Emily Dickinson: “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the song without the words and never stops at all.” In each of the eight rooms resides a seriously ill patient.  Where should I begin?  Maybe Lou.  He’s been here so long, he’s like an old friend.  Because his lungs are giving out, we can’t talk much.  He has said he doesn’t believe in God.  That’s OK with me.  

He has decided to stop treatment. This is the day he will die.  He asks for blueberry pie with ice cream.  As we wait for the pie, he breathlessly asks, “Do you think it will be cold there?”  After a moment I say “I don’t know, Lou, but if it is I think you’ll be given a robe of the finest Ermine to keep you warm.”  Where did that come from?  Anyway, he seems satisfied.  When his daughter and the pie arrive, 

I move on.

*****

Peds

Four year old Tillie, with her mass of brown curls, sits beside the unit secretary.  She’s the “assistant” today and loves bossing everyone around.  Tillie has cystic fibrosis and is what we call a “frequent flier.”   We are all in love with her.  

A few months later, she dies.  I invite the devastated staff into their break room.  We stand in a circle, holding hands.  I pray, I guess. I have no idea what I said.  

I move on.

*****

Six South

Everyone on this unit is really old, really sick, or both.  If I can find

an “old black lady”, I visit her when I’m most sad or discouraged.  Almost invariably, these women tell me their stories of unimaginable burdens and pain.  Then they tell me about their faith.  This happens over and over.  Today my “lady” has two women friends visiting.  They ask me to pray.  I tell them they are so much better at that than I am.  They laugh and one of them says, “That’s OK, honey, we’ll help you. “

And they do. 

I move on.

*****

Emergency

While in my office for a little respite, my pager goes off.  It’s ER.  This is never good.  As I walk the considerable distance to that hard place,

I silently repeat “In You I live and move and have my being,” over and over, dreading whatever awaits me.  A young man has been shot.  He is dead.  No family has come yet.  I enter the chilly room where an almost naked, 25 year old man, lies on the table.  I think of covering him with a blanket, but why?  He looks perfect except for two small holes in his chest.  I pray silently.  I wait for family.  No one ever comes.  

I move on.

Later, staff tell me a “cousin” came in briefly.  In a few days they recognize his picture in the paper.  He is the main suspect.

*****

The Chapel

Every Friday my colleague and I spend 15 or 20 minutes in the Chapel praying.  We include requests people have anonymously left in a bowl we keep on the altar.  Sometimes other staff members join us.  It is precious and sacred time.

This day, however, we’re having a wedding. Jennie and Sam have asked us to marry them as soon as Jennie finishes her umpteenth heart catheterization this morning. They are in their late 40’s.  Jennie’s time is running out. 

My colleague, John, and I quickly pull something together.  When Jennie arrives in her wheelchair, she’s adorned with a lovely bed jacket, makeup and a corsage. After the brief ceremony, we return to her room where the staff has managed a reception, complete with cake from the cafeteria, confetti, balloons and champagne. Shhh!  Don’t tell anyone. Jennie invites her elderly, pleasantly confused, roommate to join in and the room overflows with laughter and joy.  

I move on.

In a few months, she receives the heart of an 18 year old girl.  In spite of many ups and downs, she is still living a good life with Sam, these many years later.

*****

Four North

Every time I see her, Jean the RN, gives me a hard time, as in what use are chaplains, anyway etc..  I think she actually likes me, but she’s a crusty young widow, mother of three, an excellent nurse, but may have some deep wounds.  

Today I chat with her, leaning on the counter above the recessed nurses’ station.  She gives me her usual good humored guff.  After a bit, I very slowly and deliberately, trying to look as solemn and “holy” as I can, raise my right hand and flip her the bird.  She looks aghast and then laughs hysterically.  She never gives me any trouble again, but delights in telling others what I did.  Somehow today I lost my “halo” and became “one of the gang.”

 I move on.

*****

Later, I sink into bed, weary to the bone.  What grace has allowed me the honor of intimately sharing in the lives of these wonderful people?  I sleep peacefully.

A Privileged Death? 

The diminishment of my health these past months has brought the certainty of death up close and personal. It has expanded my view, expanded my compassion for others. It connects for me with the deaths of people I’ll never know.

Last year Robert and I went on a border trip to Arizona with others from our church. What we witnessed there shook me to the core, bringing awareness and feelings I’m still processing.

One day, about 20 miles north of the border, we walked from a woman’s remote home out into the desert. Even with walking sticks, I struggled to keep my balance on the uneven terrain, dodging dangerously prickly vegetation. As we walked, we occasionally saw a forsaken back pack, a shoe, a jacket, sun glasses. And then we came to the first memorial. Caring volunteers scour these trails regularly, leaving jugs of water and searching for human remains. Sadly, they find them. They put together crude piles of stones and crosses and tokens of who they think that person might have been.

Our little group stood silently in the January sun, hot even then, as we gazed upon all that remained of someone’s life--someone whose name we didn’t know--and we read poems and prayed, tearfully paying respect to this lost one. And on down the trail there was another, and another, and another.

As these usually desperate men and women, boys and girls, scurry across some of the most inhospitable environment on earth, they swelter during the day and freeze at night. Somehow they have gotten across the border, but must now navigate the torturous route to Tucson, hoping against hope they won’t be caught, that someone will help, that they can melt into the city, become invisible to the authorities, find work, a place to live, make a life again. Many survive; some do not.

I have read that over 10,000 immigrants have died in this process since the United States built the wall. THE wall. When we approached it I was aghast. It is so tall, so long, so formidable, so red, almost like blood! We crossed into Nogales, Mexico, a sad little town, poor, dusty, garish, with many barking dogs. All along the wall were memorials and signs of protest and anguish. I felt sick and terribly sad.

We visited a humble, cement block building where deported Mexican citizens await transportation back to where they came from. At least they have a place to shower and sleep. There is no place for those from other countries to rest. Two of our group spoke Spanish and asked questions of the half dozen or so men and women sitting outside, who shyly shared their stories.

After a while, a middle-aged man sitting on a bench across the yard from me began telling his story, in perfect English. He had been in America for years and now through a series of mis-steps he had been deported. How true all of it was, how “innocent” he was, seemed immaterial to me. He was a human being who had been separated from his family and had little prospect of legally re-entering the US. The fear, the depression, the exhaustion, the sense of hopelessness, permeated the air. 

Our hearts were heavy as we made our way back to the
country we love, to the country whose practices of inhumanity and exclusion fill us with disappointment and anger. Surely there is a better way. Surely all persons deserve a chance to live and love and work and finally die at the end of a long life.

Which brings me back to my mortality. I admit to fear. I don’t want to leave. But I can expect to die with some dignity, surrounded by those who love me, looked after by compassionate care-givers. Even in death I realize I have enormous privilege. I’m not likely to die in a wilderness, my flesh eaten by scavengers, my scattered bones left to bleach in the sun, my identity unknown, my loved ones unable to find me.

I don’t want this for any human being, no matter how complicated or confused or cruel that person may be. I want to use my voice, as long as it lasts, to say no. The God I love, a loving God, does not want this and as a humble little creation of that God, I feel called to bear witness to the evil and use whatever power I have to combat it. What this will require of me? I have no idea. I hope I have the courage to find out.

TURNING TOWARD HOME 

Recovery from a stroke was not a bend in the road I could refuse. There was no turning around, no shortcut or alternate route that I could discern. I did, however, have choices. How hard was I willing to work? Would I even bother to try or be content to be dependent, weak, unable to really be me?

So here I was in the rehab unit of the hospital. As is characteristic of me, I was warm and polite to my caretakers there. This, after all, was not their fault. They were there to help me grow strong, if I chose to do so. 

I admit to some grumpiness during late night calls for help to the bathroom. Here is the typical nightly scenario: I woke up, realized this couldn’t be put off, rang the bell for help, then waited. Eventually someone came and there followed the ritual of putting on the hospital socks and being harnessed into the dreaded safety belt. I despised that belt! But its presence around my waist was required. Some care givers were more adroit at “belting” than others. One young man, very large and not very friendly, yanked so hard I lost my breath. 

Meanwhile, the call of nature became increasingly demanding. Finally we walked slowly to the bathroom and I sat. The helper left. “Call when you’re ready.” I did my thing, pulled the call chain, and waited. And waited. Now, my bladder relieved, I longed to snuggle back into my bed. After a while, the dear helper returned, helped me off the toilet, flushed it, aided me in minimal hand washing, and off we shuffled. Ah! Belt off, socks off, hospital gown and covers adjusted, and with any luck, I was back to sleep until the next urge or the 6 a.m. medication or the 6:45 call for breakfast.

One morning the nurse left me gripping the bathroom sink while she attended someone else’s need. I managed to wash my face and shakily brush my teeth. The nurse didn’t return and there I weakly stood. What could I do? My legs weren’t going to hold me up much longer. In what seemed like a monumental moment of wisdom and courage on my part, I carefully maneuvered my body over to the

close-by toilet and sat down. Sounds like such a simple thing now, but making that decision and acting on it was a major step forward.

Another turning point was leaving rehab. I longed to come home, counted the days till freedom, but was terrified. Functioning there seemed formidable. I was afraid to even enter the house. Though using my walker, the one step threshold felt dangerous. How could a place so familiar, which I had helped to create, seem so overwhelming? Every move had to be thought about. Nothing could be done automatically, especially when it involved standing or walking. I felt so vulnerable.

There was lots I could do, like talking and sitting and eating. Yet the weakness in my left side meant that even an ordinary fork felt heavy and I had to “tell” my arm how to move smoothly from the plate to my mouth. The need to be aware of such formerly automatic things made attention to other stimuli, such as casual conversation, difficult and tiring.

The home health care providers were a great encouragement. How thrilled I was then my PT said I could try using a cane. Or when I told the OT I felt trapped in the house and she immediately taught me how to get out the door with my walker. I did it alone. With a walker! Down the step and back up again--twice. It was awkward, but I could do it. Now I no longer felt like a prisoner in my own home.

Perhaps mentors are not limited by time or space. Reflecting back, I believe my mother was a mentor on this part of my journey, though she died in 1998. I inherited some of her inner grit, sense of humor, and resilience. Her stroke left her with major deficits the last five years of her life. I watched her accept her situation with grace. She was pleasant, even funny at times. She was, after all, in her late 80’s and a widow. She was ready. By contrast, it’s as though she’s telling me, “You aren’t ready. You have Robert and lots more life to live. Do it, dear!” 

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH


So there I was, driving home from Albuquerque, having seen Melissa, my daughter and 
only child, off at the airport. As she headed back to Michigan, I wept, knowing how much I would miss her. Otherwise, all seemed normal as I returned to the Santa Fe home to which I had moved three years ago. That was a major journey when I chose to move in with the man I love. It was a good decision and following major adjustments, I was settling into a rich and love-filled life with Robert.


The following day I wondered why I needed to grab hold of the furniture as I moved through the house. Yes, I am 73 years old and certainly not in great physical condition. I would much rather read or talk with a friend than exercise. Yet this felt much different. By the end of the day I mentioned it to Robert, who took note, but didn’t seem concerned. However, when the next morning the clumsiness continued, he gently suggested I call the doctor. I called. No appointments  were available till late afternoon. “OK. I’ll be there,” I said with more than a little trepidation. 

Immediately upon hearing my story, the doctor sent us to the emergency room at Christus St. Vincent hospital and before I could settle into the waiting room, I was whisked off in a wheel chair. Deposited in what passes for a room in ER, I began a very long journey indeed. I had had a stroke! 

The next days are a blur. I was taken here; I was taken there. Chest x-rays, a CT scan, a cardiac ultrasound, a coratid artery ultrasound; finally an arterial CT scan. Hours passed and eventually I took up residence in a semi-private hospital room. A bedside commode was my toilet, that being as far from bed as I was allowed to travel. My left hand looked like a claw, the fingers curled up and unable to move. Hospital food came on schedule. My minister came and prayed with me. I couldn’t pray. 

The one constant was Robert. If he wasn’t there beside me, I knew where he’d gone and when he would return. He notified my daughter, my sister, and several close friends that I had suffered a ‘small, but serious” stroke.
 
How can I do this, I thought? I have no control. I am being “done to” and all I can do is float along. As when I went into labor with Melissa, I desperately wanted to turn back. But the only way out is through, one of my favorite spiritual teachers used to say. 

In three days I was admitted to the hospital’s in-patient rehab unit, where I would reside for two weeks, two weeks that felt like two years...in a prison. Yes, a nice prison with kind and capable staff, but a prison nonetheless. 

I would emerge from that prison a different person, one who not only had to regain the use of her left side, but her self-confidence, her identity, and her faith. 

Six months gone, I know not where.  No writing here, for sure.  So easy to ignore it, resist it, forget it.   

Today I came alive to it once more.  I met a new person, someone who is needy, longing, confused, lonely, desiring to change the life they've lived.  And suddenly, I heard myself saying things I'd almost forgotten, about how God desires our freedom, about how everything we do and are, as we connect deeply with God, is about Love.

And so again today I write.  How often I do it doesn't really matter.  What matters is that I be willing, willing to be present to someone, willing to give generously to someone, willing to care though my heart aches, willing to keep hope alive even when all seems hopeless.

I give thanks for this reminder of God's Presence in and around me!  

May you have a new revelation today!

Don't forget to breathe and laugh.  
Thanks for checking in.

    

Starting again

As I begin this "new beginning", I've decided to re-read old posts and share a few.  This is the first one I wrote in the fall of 2008.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Welcome!

Welcome to "Prayer, Play and Politics"! Other words come to mind: paradox, pontificate, percolate, pet peeves, punctuation, purpose...I expect this blog to contain examples of all of the above and more. Since this is my first posting, I can't say where it will go, but I hope a few folks will check it out from time to time and give me some feedback. I'm happy for you to share it with others in your life as you see fit.

Having been involved in matters of the Spirit for most of my life, though not always "within the box", I've decided to share some of the thoughts, perhaps wisdom, of my 65 years, as befits a modern-day crone!

I've learned a lot from animals, including the three who currently share my home: Tessa, the little dog; Nellie, the sleek black cat, and Willie, a young, large tiger cat and the only male in the house. Nellie preceded the other two and has had to adjust. She and Willie, who used to compete and fight, are now allies in the struggle for use of my home, against an 11# dog, who in 3 months of residence, has kept both cats in the basement most of the time. The cats have claws; they are larger than she is; and there are two of them. Still, when Tessa lunges ferociously to the head of the stairs, they run for dear life.

Sometimes we are afraid of people and things which, in fact, have very little power over us. Only in our heads do they loom large--that person who might break into the house or rape you in the night or act in some manner you see as inappropriate or get some of your share of the goodies. The fear of those persons (or groups, or religions, or government systems) is often an illusion, which we perpetuate by our decisions, attitudes, life style, or loud barking. Funny thing! Tessa doesn't have the claws!

Until next time, thanks for reading. Breathe, listen, look, participate and love!