Full Circle

I became a grandmother last year.  I wasn't ready for it; I worried that somehow overnight I'd be categorized by all my friends and acquaintances in that questionable realm of gray-haired grannies who wear polyester and carry their short-strapped purses on their forearms.  How silly of me to think that such a milestone in life would change me into someone I am not.

The lesson I learned was that becoming a grandparent, if anything, made me more of who I'm supposed to be.


A few weeks ago I learned I am going to be a grandmother again.  It was exciting news that I didn't, even for a second, feel frightened about.  I did feel worried for my daughter. I felt bad for her as she started to feel the pangs of morning sickness and early pregnancy fatigue.  My heart went out to her over her own worries about miscarriage, financial security and the whole other trove of anxieties that come with growing another human being inside your body.  Those were all things I understood because I've experienced them.  I realized I could offer powerful support to my child as she traverses this journey to motherhood because I not only have empathy for her, I truly understand on a basic level, what she is going through.

Last week I sat in a little exam room with Hannah.  It was the same exam room I sat in myself a little over ten years ago, to have my belly measured and to hear the heartbeat of my son for the very first time.  The nurse came in an asked Hannah if she wanted to hear the baby's heartbeat.  "Of course!" we both chimed in.

"Now it's early, so we might not be able to find it today, but don't worry." The nurse told us.
"Even if we don't hear it today, that doesn't mean anything is wrong."

We both listened closely (I think I was holding my breath) as the nurse moved that wand around on my daughter's belly. At first we heard swishes and swashes but no rhythmic drumming of a tiny heart.  Then finally, the nurse found it.  That tiny thumping, fast and steady, the beat of a battle drum. That tiny yet powerful pulse of life was enough to pull tears from my eyes and from the eyes of its mother.  It was in that moment that I, at my ripe old age, received an amazing epiphany.

It is said that life always comes full circle.  That as parents we bathe and change our kids, care for them and watch over them and then in our old age we trade places; our children become our caretakers, making sure we are fed and clothed and well cared-for.  But as I listened to the heartbeat of my grandchild I realized in subtle ways, that changing of roles begins long before old age sets in.

 For me it began when Sylia gave birth to my first grand baby.  It began the moment that I helped her put that baby to her breast.  That amazing transformation of of reciprocal understanding and empathy began to happen the moment my own child felt the first flutter of new life in her womb.

It grows with every milestone my grandchildren reach, with every night my daughters lie awake listening to the breathing of their own children as they sleep.  With every elevated temperature, every bad day at school, every new thing learned and in every face-off of a power struggle between mother and child, my daughters will understand me more.

As I watched the broad, hopeful smile of my firstborn at the sound of her child's heartbeat, I suddenly felt a kinship with her I've never felt before.  There is a joy unspeakable in seeing life come 'round to them as it came to me.  There is such satisfaction and unbridled hope in each new life.  The bonds of motherhood grow ever-stronger as I watch my daughters take on the enormous task of creating, sustaining, and nurturing another life.  All their lives I tried so hard to understand them, to show them empathy and unconditional love.  I find myself, so much sooner than I ever imagined, at this amazing transformation; watching my children embrace experiences that used to belong only to me.

There is kinship in understanding that energizes the power of empathy far beyond merely imagining ourselves in someone else's shoes.  I now share a new intimacy with my daughters, who for years just couldn't understand my reasoning, my worry or the boundaries I set for them.  I know that as their children mature and challenge them more and more, this gift we share will continue to flourish.  They will know me as I've never been known by them before, and I will treasure every second of this new journey.

I may never live to a ripe old age.  My daughters and son will likely never have to shower me or change my adult diapers.  My body started failing me before they were ever born, and it may abandon me altogether before we all come full-circle.  But I am ever-grateful that for our todays and brief tomorrows, the newness of big round bellies and sweet smelling babies will help them see and understand the deepest parts of who I am and have always been since the moment that first warm bundle of life was placed in my own arms 25 years ago.

Nothing is stronger than the bond of motherhood,  nothing more sacred than the joy every new life brings into a family.  That joy will far outlive this mother's heart.  It will carry parts of my soul though, to generations so far away I can't even imagine them.  But for today, I am so blessed to see just an arc of the circle as it comes around.  I may never live to see it meet at the ends, but I can honor the process.  I stand in awe as the delicate curve comes back to me and breathes new hope into my soul with every tiny, thumping little heartbeat.

Choosing Life, Choosing Grace

Ten years ago this past February I dropped my eldest daughter off at a Valentine's day party and then dropped by the Walgreen's around the corner from my house to pick up a pregnancy test. They say when women live or work in the same atmosphere for an extended time, their menstrual cycles start to sync up.  On the way to that party my daughter asked me to stop at the store and buy her some feminine hygiene items; that was when I realized it was time for my own period, and it hadn't started.
A few days before I had a feeling.  I can't really describe it, but something told me I was pregnant even before I realized I had skipped a cycle.  I remember lying on the couch, feeling a little excited and a lot terrified at the prospect, then pushing the ridiculous thought out of my head.  It just couldn't be.  My doctor had cautioned me after my second child, "No more pregnancies!" she said.

At the time my daughter was born in 1994 I had not yet been diagnosed with IgA Nephropathy, an autoimmune disease of unknown origin that attacks the kidneys.  Although I had symptoms of some disorder during that pregnancy, along with preterm labor, my doctors had not been able to figure out the source of the protein in my urine specimens every month.  I made it through that pregnancy with a healthy baby, followed by months of tests and x-rays in an effort to find and diagnose the problem with my kidneys.  Then life continued on, with no definitive diagnosis until I was almost 30.

Eventually I would be diagnosed with this dreadful autoimmune disease and I was told that by my 50's I would need dialysis or a transplant to continue to live.  So with that big gray cloud hanging over my head, I kept my bi-yearly appointments with my nephrologist and lived my life, trying not to be too focused on the "what-if's" of the future.

On that February night when I was 35 years old, having advanced to stage 3 kidney failure, I drove home with two pregnancy tests and went straight to the bathroom.  I pulled one out, read the directions and made sure I followed them to the letter.  I couldn't afford a mistake.  With trembling hands I sat and watched as two pink lines appeared on that little white stick.  I threw it away, pulled out the other test and repeated the process.  Two pink lines again, staring me in the face, threatening my very life--or at least that's how it felt.

I called my son's dad into the bedroom, showed him the test with tears in my eyes.  I wish I could say they were tears of joy, but they were tears of absolute terror.  My OB had told me in no uncertain terms that another pregnancy could end my life, and there I stood with a positive pregnancy test.  My son's father looked at the white stick, the two pink lines, shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on me.  He walked back to the computer, sat down and proceeded to play the game he'd been playing all afternoon.

I followed him, thinking that perhaps he didn't understand the gravity of the situation.  I stood leaning on the kitchen counter, tears streaming down my face as he tried his best to ignore me.  Eventually he looked at me and said, "Everything will be okay." Then went back to his game.

On Monday I made an appointment with my Nephrologist.  I needed to know if this was possible.  Could I carry a baby to term?  Would my kidneys fail?  Would I die, leaving my daughters without a mother?  Was I going to be faced with choosing between the child in my womb, and the children under my roof?

My partner went with me to that appointment.  We sat in a tiny exam room waiting for the doctor to come in and consult with us.  He was a short blonde doctor with tiny glasses and quick, sharp mannerisms.  He leaned against the table, looked me in the eye and said, "There's no way you can have a baby.  Your kidney function will not support you and a fetus, and frankly it would be irresponsible of you to risk your life this way when you have two other children to consider."

I was devastated.  Until that very moment I had never thought of myself as someone who would ever consider abortion.  My nephrologist gave me pamphlets, referred me to websites and suggested I get an appointment with my gynecologist ASAP to make plans to terminate the pregnancy and then get my tubes tied so this couldn't happen again.  My partner stood there nodding, agreeing vehemently with the doctor, and I felt more alone than I had ever been in my life.

I told no one I was pregnant for several weeks.  I went to my gyno, who seemed to disagree with the nephrologists assessment of my ability to carry a child to term.  She said she could refer me to a maternal and fetal medicine specialist who could give me more accurate information.  So leaving there with a little more hope, I made the appointment with the specialist and waited.

I researched mortality rates of babies born to mothers with kidney disease.  I researched mortality rates of mothers who had babies while battling advanced kidney disease.  I looked at charts and statistics and obsessed over what would happen to my daughters if my kidneys failed while I was pregnant, I imagined scenarios of my dying, my baby being stillborn, and my daughters being motherless.  I had a real moral dilemma on my hands, and not one person with whom I could discuss it.  My partner wanted the abortion.  He didn't understand why I would put my life at risk to have another child. He didn't want another child.  He was angry, and even made comments to the effect of hoping I would miscarry.

I began to feel that the only truly responsible thing to do was to terminate my pregnancy.  I, the person who a few months before could never have fathomed having an abortion, was looking up local providers, researching procedures, estimating the cost of scheduling and appointment for an abortion.

I am no murderer of babies.  I have nurtured life within my own body, loved children whose eyes I had never looked into.  I have marvelled at the little kicks and bumps, the sound of a heartbeat beneath my own.  I have watched that ultrasound screen and cried at the sight of the tiny being taking up residence in my body as I gave it life.  I understood what was at stake, I understood the weight of the choice I had to make and I had decided it was what I must do.  I had to be responsible for the two children who were already depending on me.  I couldn't leave them motherless, and I feared bringing a child into the world that I wouldn't be around to nurture, love and raise to adulthood.

I was close to making that appointment one Monday afternoon when I got the call back from the Maternal and Fetal medicine specialist asking me to come in for a consultation.  I put my plan on hold and went to see the specialist alone.  He did an ultrasound, while I was there. It was too early for a heart beat, but I could clearly see the spine of that tiny being growing in my womb.  It didn't look like a little person yet, but I new that within a matter of weeks it would have little fingers and toes and that the longer I waited to make my decision, the harder it would be.

I asked the doctor, "Can I have a healthy baby? Will I survive?"
"I can't say for sure." He answered. "But I have mothers here who are having babies and they have worse kidney function than you. I'd say if they can do it, you can too, but it will not be without complication, and you will likely lose some kidney function as a result."

He was not judgmental and he didn't try to steer me in one way or another. He gave me facts, and the decision, with its full weight was laid in my lap.  No one could make it for me, and whatever happened, the consequences were mine alone.  I didn't want to abandon my girls, but I didn't want to let go of one last chance to nurture life again.

I took a leap of faith and decided to continue my pregnancy.

My son will be ten years old this year.  He was born a month early, and I, indeed suffered further loss of my kidney function as a result of the pregnancy.  It took me a full 2 years to recover fully from the pregnancy and at that point, my kidney function started to decline more rapidly than before.  By the time he was seven years old, I was on dialysis.  He will, for much of his life, remember me with a tube in my belly, sleeping hooked up to a machine.  He will never really know me as the energetic, healthy, vibrant person  I once was.

 I have no regrets.  I would do it all over again and again because that little boy infused me with hope, with purpose, and with a determination to survive that I don't think I'd have ever had without him.

But what if I had chosen to terminate my pregnancy?  Indeed, I would be living a different life right now.  I would likely not be on dialysis.  I'd be furthering my career, instead of working part-time in a job I'm over qualified for because it's close to his school and allows me the time I need to take care of my son.  Perhaps I'd be remarried, or at least dating.  I probably wouldn't have lost my house a couple of years ago, and I'm sure I'd be in a much more secure financial situation.  I'd still be here for my daughters when they needed me, and I might even have financial resources to help them out more.

I don't regret having my son and I never have.  He is my survival story, more than any of the other challenges I have overcome, he is the apex of my life as it is now.  I wouldn't change it for a thing.

But if another woman in my same shoes made a different choice, I would never judge her.  I wouldn't call her a murderer, or irresponsible or evil.  I would know the weight of that choice, I would understand what it's like to weigh my own survival and the good of my children against the survival of an unborn child who might end up growing up without a dependable parent.

I was raised by a father who made it his number one goal to teach me right from wrong.  He taught me to serve others, to love others and to honor the sacredness of life.  He taught me that God's love is our responsibility--that our greatest opportunity as humble creatures of Earth was to embody that love, to extend grace to our fellow man, and to uphold our responsibilities to our children and to all mankind as children of God.

In all the ugliness and vitriol of our current world, it seems so many have either lost sight of our true purpose as God's children or have never truly embraced it.  My friends, those out there who love me and some who (for reasons I don't understand) seem to look up to me, don't know that I was once one of "those women" who had to stand on the precipice of a decision regarding life and death.  They don't know that I really just tossed the dice and decided to live with whatever turned up.

I sometimes hear them make statements about "murdering women" or "irresponsible women" or "Women who should keep their legs together if they don't want babies," and what they don't know is that they're talking about me.  I had an unplanned pregnancy. I had to decide whether to risk my life and the life of a fetus, and because I chose to take that risk, they are unaware of the struggle that came with it.  They don't know what it's like to have a doctor look you in the eye and say, "You will die if you have this child."

I am a Democrat.  I am a Feminist.  I believe we can never really understand another person's struggle unless we've walked the same path as them.  As a white woman, I've never faced discrimination based on the color of my skin.  I've never been accused of being a murderer or terrorist because of my spiritual beliefs.  I've never been told that my sexual orientation was an abomination to God, or that I didn't have the right to love whomever I loved.  I have never gone hungry or gone homeless or had to flee a country where my own countrymen wanted to kill me for not embracing their radical beliefs.

Struggle finds its way into every life in some way; however, I realize I am blessed, I am privileged merely because I am white, I am employed, I'm American (and my Americanness is never questioned because of the color of my skin or because of my religion).  I am privileged because I have access to healthcare, I have a car that gets me to work every day and I have a strong support network of friends and community that is not threatened by extremists or even local law enforcement.

I want people who don't understand me to be able to step into my shoes and try to see life from my perspective.  On some level, we all need and want that; but in order to receive it, we must be willing to leave our own comfort zones and dare to see the world as others experience it too.  That lack of willingness betrays itself in the hateful rhetoric of the far Right.  The "conservatives" who claim to have a monopoly on access to God's will and wisdom.  I can see their perspective, because I used to be one of them, and I remember that in order to cling so tightly to my beliefs as a fundamentalist, I had to create huge walls around myself that kept me from even considering the struggles of people who were different from me.  I had to live in a bubble, surround myself with only like-minded, judgmental, leather-hearted people who saw God as a great punisher, rather than the God of mercy, love and grace that he actually is.

When I hear someone say, "Let's build a wall!" I know what they're saying.  When I hear someone say, "Let's kick them all out of our country!" I understand the thought process.  When I hear someone bemoan equal rights for women, blacks, hispanics, Muslims and gay people, I understand where they're coming from because there was a time, a long time ago, that I was there with them; in the dark.

It was a darkness I experienced from a church pew every Sunday morning.  A darkness that shrouded my efforts to pray and draw closer to God.  It was a darkness that blinded me to my true purpose on this Earth--the only purpose Jesus gave to one and all in the new testament.  The purpose of Loving one another and of Loving God with all that is within us.  It is only by embracing those commandments of love that we will ever evolve into the society we are supposed to be.  It's the only way to win against hate, fear and ignorance.

Love, in its purest form is the only way to bring light into the darkness and dispel the illusion that one man, or one group of people are the only ones who have a direct line to God. It is the only way we will ever truly fulfill our true purpose as mankind, endowed with such amazing ability to extend grace to one another.  It's the only way we can learn to appreciate the individual trials and struggles and difficult choices everyone eventually will have to make.

Some of the Craziest Things Elders Have Said To Me

I have worked with seniors for many years.  Often I have met elders who are full of wisdom and advice and cannot wait to share it with me.  Sometimes their comments are uncomfortably personal, other times, they are oddly interesting, and still others venture into the inappropriate or even insulting.  Here are the top ten comments and bits of sage advice I've gotten from seniors over the years.

1. "You aren't the type of girl who should be married.  You are too fun to be tied to a husband."  This was said to me by a 70-something year-old man in a wheelchair who liked to kiss my hand every morning and ask personal questions about my love life.  Questions that I avoided answering in any detail.  I didn't ask him what he meant by this comment, but I think we can infer his meaning.

2. "I don't see why you aren't married or don't have a boyfriend.  You'd make a good wife.  You aren't too aggravating at all."  Said by an 80 something client with whom I sat and chatted for a few minutes every morning after breakfast.  He explained that he had been observing me and had notice that I was easy-going and got along well with everyone.  "Men want a woman who is not aggravating, and you aren't too bad.  You should be able to find a man if you want one."  Thanks mister...I always wanted to know that my most endearing quality was "not too aggravating."

3. "If you want a man to marry you, you have to get yourself pregnant."  This, from an 80-something woman who spent time looking through Victoria's Secret catalogs and pointing out lingere that I should buy.  She told me she'd buy it for herself if her husband weren't dead.  When I told her I didn't have a husband, she said I should wear it for my boyfriend.  When I told her I didn't have a boyfriend, she said "If you wore that you would!"

4. "When you and your husband make love, do you make a lot of noise?"  This was asked by a retired dentist who had a reputation for making inappropriate comments and attempting inappropriate physical touch with staff as well as other residents in an assisted living facility where I worked.  I ignored the question (red-faced) and asked him to leave my office.  Instead, he cornered me at my desk and proceeded to regale me with tales of his own sexual exploits with his "noisy" ex wife.  I was relieved when a co-worker entered the room and Mr. Dentist figured out it was time for him to exit.

5. "Your butt looks good in that dress.  Turn around and let me see it jiggle again."  Said to me by an assisted living resident as I walked to the door of his apartment to leave after dropping in to invite him to an activity.  I told him, "No, I'm not going to turn around, but thanks for the compliment.  Don't be a dirty old man."  To which he laughed and said, "Just because I'm old doesn't meant I don't notice a nice butt when I see it."

6. "Are those glasses supposed to look good?  Because they really look awful and I have no idea why you'd wear something like that on your face."  Um...so I can see, Mr. Eyewear Fashion Expert.  By the way, he said this to me DAILY.  So I finally got a new pair of glasses.  He still told me they were ugly.  Can't. Win.

7. "You cheated me at the BANGO (BINGO) and you cheat me every time because you don't like me. I'm going to get you, you little white bitch!" Then he proceeded to trap me in a corner with his wheelchair and hurl profanities at me until a co-worker came along and rescued me.  Turns out he was in our facility (at around 45 years old) because he was released from prison early due to his health.  He had murdered his wife and then botched his own suicide by shooting himself in the head in the wrong spot, resulting in brain injury.  He was the same resident who threatened to stab other BINGO players with a fork if he didn't win.

8. "If I could get some Viagra, do you think I'd have a chance with you?"  Asked by an elderly hospice patient with whom I had established a friendship.  He also asked this question of the nurse who visited him the next day.  The nurse, who was a male, responded that if he, the patient, had a chance he might have a chance himself, but unfortunately they were both probably out of luck.

9."No, I don't want to play BINGO or go to sing-a-longs or parties with old farts, so quit asking me and leave me the hell alone."  I kept going to visit him and eventually talked him into playing word games with the group.  He turned out to be an expert crossword puzzle solver and a connoisseur of romantic poetry.

10. "Hey mister, you wanna see my D*ck?" Said repeatedly by an elderly lady who sat in the hallway at Christmas time, asking me and every other person who walked by, this very confusing question.  When I gently and quietly reminded her that she was a lady and didn't have that body part and probably shouldn't ask that question of everyone who walked past, she answered, "Well my husband has a huge one and he loves to use it.  Whoooweee, he wore me out!"  After that, I decided to go sit with her in her room and get her to tell me stories about they days when she was a Sunday School Teacher.  It was a much better situation for her, me and everyone else.  Merry Christmas!

I'm sure if I gave it some more thought, I could come up with many more phrases that took me by surprise over the years.  Some were from patients with dementia, and some were from folks who were still of sound mind.  The reality is, as we age our social filters fall away and we feel free to say what's on our minds, regardless of how it affects other people or their opinions of us.  I suppose it can be a blessing and a curse; not caring what people think of you would be amazingly liberating but having people avoid you because they're worried about what you'll say next could get rather lonely.

Perhaps the most endearing quote of all came from a highly intelligent resident with whom I had spent an entire morning looking up and listening to Irish tunes and bands on YouTube just before our St. Patrick's Day celebration.  During the party the band was playing and everyone was singing along, having a great time when he looked over at me and with smiling eyes exclaimed, "What we need...Is a Unicorn!"  He meant to say Leprechaun, but the comment made us all laugh, including him, and has become a phrase I use a lot in times of extreme stress.  It always brings a smile to my face and a sweet memory of a great guy who was always a pleasure to be around.  It has become the phrase I use to remind myself that even on the worst days, life shouldn't be taken so darned seriously.  Thanks for that one, Bill.

In Memory of Bea

This afternoon at 1:00 a crowd gathered at Marietta First Baptist church to remember and honor the life of a little lady who left a big mark on her world.  I first met her a little over a year ago when I showed up at Senior Action to be interviewed by a panel of seniors.  She was the first person who spoke to me, and the first thing she asked me was if I was wearing perfume.  She informed me curtly that if I wore perfume she couldn't sit near me, then proceeded to share a story of sitting behind a perfumed Sunday School mate who left her gasping for breath.  I found her funny and somehow endearing but never in all the time I knew her did I categorize her as a "Sweet Little Old Lady."

She was a lot of really awesome things rolled up into one little fireball of a woman.  She was outspoken, friendly, kind, energetic and enthusiastic.  She loved with a kind of fierceness that drew people to  her.  Sometimes she caught you off-guard with her humor or her candor.  If she told you that you did a good job, you knew you did a good job.  If she called you out about something, she was usually right.  I suppose her ability to hone in to the motives and behaviors of others didn't always sit well with some but she was who she was, and for that she made no apologies.

Her feelings were never worn on her sleeve.  She could take a ribbing with the best of them, shirking off even jokes made at her expense, sometimes to an almost too-personal degree.  Only once can I recall that she sat across from me after everyone left and told me about someone who had inadvertently hurt her feelings.  She agonized over what to do about it and eventually decided she would call that person up and talk it out.  The next day she came in looking as though a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders.  She had gone home the day before and called her friend.  She let that person know that her feelings were hurt, and as she suspected, her friend felt terrible for the oversight and apologized profusely.

Bea Cawley was not a woman who left people wondering what she thought or how she felt.  We were always aware of where we stood with her and I found a warm comfort in that.  Even on days when she didn't feel her best, she would show up at Senior Action in that little burgundy Saturn, pitter patter her way in the door and muster up a smile for everyone. She loved life like no one else I've ever known.  She didn't sit around and feel lonely, she called friends to come over and eat, or play games or go to dinner somewhere.  She invited people to come to Senior Action as though she were our appointed Welcoming Committee.  She made sure everyone knew about Keenagers dinners and game days at church.  The more people in her life, the merrier she was.  What is life after all, if we don't share it with other people? It was easy to love her, even if you didn't always agree with her.  She embraced us all for who we were regardless of whether we always held the same beliefs about everything.  She let us be who we were and she took comfort in being herself.  Of course, that didn't mean she wouldn't try to convince anyone to change their ways...but she loved you, regardless.

Bea faithfully visited her friends when they were sick or down.  She made a point to call and check on them, bring them food or ask what they needed.  Her joy was in feeding others--Frogmore Stew was her specialty.  I regret that I never got to share it with her.

As I listened to her family talk about her today, I could hear hints of what seemed like hurt in their
voices.  Maybe a little lingering bitterness of the flavor that exists in all families to some degree.  I could sense that her opinions and ideas weren't always welcomed or met with approval.  I remembered, as they spoke, stories that she had shared with me about each one of them.  I wondered if they knew, as I did, that her fervent love for them fueled that mouth of hers.  I almost wanted to hang around to tell them that, not as an admonition, but as an attempt at comforting them.  I wanted them to know that she tried to direct their lives, not out of judgment or a selfish need to control them, but because she earnestly worried about their well-being and happiness.  She wanted them to live fulfilled, happy, joyous lives.  She wanted what all mothers and grandmothers want for their children and their children's children.  Whether or not they followed her advice,  or direction, as the case may be, she was proud of them.

Her pride showed in the way she spoke of them every day.  It showed in the way she'd pass their photos around the room and in the way she would brag about their accomplishments.  Her love for them was enduring and strong. Even when she disapproved of something they were doing or had done, her love for them never wavered.

One of her grandsons talked about how imperfect she was.  She was as imperfect as we all are.  Sometimes she said too much, sometimes she let her temper get the better of her.  Sometimes she tried too hard to help and ended up taking over.  However, in the end, she left a legacy of love and friendship, of a zeal for life that we can only hope to achieve in our own lifetimes.  She lived life to its fullest up to her last day on Earth.

The last Friday that she was at Senior Action; the last day I saw her, we sat and talked for a while after everyone else had gone home.  I noticed a difference in her.  Perhaps it was that she couldn't quite remember things as well as she usually did, or perhaps it was that she seemed extra tired that day.  She said she was going to go home and take a nap--not something I recall her saying often.  I encouraged her to get some rest and feel better.  As she walked out the door, something told me to tell her I loved her.  "Bye," She said.  "I'll see you Monday, I hope."
"Okay," I answered.  "Have a good weekend.  Love you!"
"Love you too." She said as she went out the door.  I watched her as she walked to her car, her tiny steps slow and measured.  Her big purse hung off her arm, her key, attached to the strap, already in her hand.  I watched her get in and slowly back up and drive away, never imagining that I wouldn't see her walk in that door again.

Life is like a vapor, the Bible says.  It is only a moment in the vast continuum of time.  I met Bea on a February afternoon, during one of the most trying periods of my own life.  Her kindness and encouragement came to mean the world to me.  It gave me strength to keep rising in the mornings and to keep showing up for life, day after day.  She shared her dreams and desires with me and made me realize something I desperately needed to learn:  That no matter how old we get or how sick we are, life always has something new and wonderful to give us.

In all my years of working with seniors I've only met a hand full that left their mark on me.  Bea Cawley's life was no different than yours or mine--it was but a vapor.  I'm just so grateful that in her last years, I was around to catch her steam.

She will be greatly missed, as she was greatly loved.  Her memory will be cherished and her laughter will always fill our hearts with joy.  Even in our sadness and grief, we find hope and encouragement in the way she lived and in the way she died.  Her steadfast faith and undying love remain with us, and will endure far beyond her years on Earth.

For Emily

A friend of mine posted this thought on Facebook today:

"You know...I still feel like a little girl inside...so unaware of my age. But today I feel rather old and stiff. Skin is itchy. Barometric pressure is changing. Feeling my age on the outside. Trapped little girl on the inside."

I identified with it more than I wanted to admit.  Time has a way of weathering the outsides of us.  The knees grind like rusty gears when we stand, the back creaks like an old stairway, long worn with time.  Our bones ache and our skin feels dry, our wrinkles mock us from the mirror every morning.  These bodies are unworthy vessels of such wonder and light as lives within us.

We are trapped, for a while, in these failing vehicles that carry us from place to place.  We must surrender to them when they tell us we must slow down, have a rest, take something for that headache.  We are bound by fate, it seems, to care for these hulls of humanity, lest they fail us long before our spirits are ready to flee.

I believe there is a little girl inside us all.  In every 90 year old woman who smiles at me from behind her wrinkles, I see the twinkle of a girl in her eyes.  I know that at night when she dreams, she's lost in her girlhood fancies; she's falling in love, swinging from a tire, playing in the creek with her brothers.  I too know the girl inside me is still there.  She comes out to play now and then when I'm giggling with my boy or swinging my granddaughter in the hammock.  She's there in the songs and memories, her love for ice cream and chocolate milk all but forcing me to scarf both of them down, despite the extra pounds on my hips.  Little girls do not worry about such things.   They are about the business of living, of playing and learning all about everything.  Little girls try to find the beauty in all, in everyone, and they try to hang onto their ideals, long past girlhood.

That little girl in there, she gets us in trouble sometimes with her idealism.  She's had to learn the hard way about a lot of things.  She has seen disappointment and grief.  She has seen ugliness and fear.  She has been a winner and a loser, but she has tenaciously held fast to her girlhood all the while.

So even when the creaky bones and achy joints of these human-encasements try to trap her spirit, she shines strong.  Oh, she feels the aches and pains, but they are a small price to pay for one more day to laugh and play; one more day to walk among the living and find love shining back from the weathered faces of their dearest friends.  Little girls, all of them, no matter their age.  The flutter of youth still beats inside their chests--the hope of every girl, enduring and free, even if only on the inside.

Summer Twilight

It's a hot summer evening, the kind that comes as a welcome reprieve after a long sweltering day.  The shadows fall long and fast over these foothills, casting a transparent kind of darkness upon all they touch.  They make the yellowing grass look greener, for everything over which their merciful shade is cast takes on a posture of humble gratitude.  It's the kind of evening we greet with gladness, because even when we woke in the morning, we felt the heat's strangle-hold on our lungs.

A cloud or two has popped up along the horizon, just where our bluish mountains touch the sky.  It's probably raining over there, but the showers will wear themselves out before they reach us down here on the little hills that roll on forever, between us and that great blue wall.  A few claps of thunder try to threaten us, but they're too far away to even get our attention.

It's the perfect time for porch sitting.  With our feet propped up just so, we lean back and listen as the day melts into summer night.  A far off bird's frantic holler gives way to the rhythmic song of a Whippoorwill, crickets start to chime in, then the tree frogs and katydids.  By the time night falls and the grass is soaked with big heavy drops of dew, there's a virtual orchestra of night-sounds filling the air.

There's nothing quite so comforting as an evening breeze, still laden with the humid heat of the day.  It blows across your sweaty skin like a whisper, inviting you to relax, take a load off, maybe hum a little tune.  Even dogs know the sacredness of Southern summer twilight.  They lie at our feet like little furry footstools, hoping we'll  run our bare toes along their backs, rub their bellies and tell them what good boys they are.  Of course, they've done nothing for such praise; nothing more than walk beside us all through the day, tongues lopping out of their mouths, their tails fanning frantically as if to cool the air around them.

Eventually, we'll settle in for the night, but not until we've watched the color-show over the mountains, the clouds rolling by, the sky changing from blue to azure, to violet.  Somewhere in there, we'll see a pink streak or an orange glow before the sun finally falls behind the Earth.  It is Westward bound, and we are nearly ready to turn on the porch light so we can sit awhile longer with the world transforming all around us.

Have you ever walked barefoot in the grass after dark on a summer night?  It's so cool you almost forget that just a few hours ago, it would have burned your feet in the summer sun.  It's about that time, when the grass is cool and damp, that the fireflies start to blink.  It's a whole other spectacle, one that's reserved for those who persevere past sunset just to catch a glimpse of the blinking, glowing, buzzing little show-offs.  You can try to catch them but they don't blink nearly so much at your bedside in a Mason jar as they do in the cool evening air.  It's better, indeed, to watch them perform upon their stage and stare in awe from your front porch chair.

The petunias give off an especially sweet smell at night.  The darkest, most velvety purple they are, so dark they disappear under the night sky, but they remind us of their presence.  There's nothing that smells quite the same.  They mingle with the smells of damp earth and sweaty skin, the smell of a citronella candle that just nearly keeps the mosquitos at bay.  We slap ourselves on our legs and shoulders and curse at the pests, but we do not let them chase us away.  We know that tomorrow it's  going to itch like hell, but this night is something to see, despite a little bit of pain.

Out in the woods, we can hear sticks cracking underfoot.  We spin great tales of bears and deer, of coons and possums tromping across the forest floor in search of some treasure only to be had when all the humans are fast asleep.  An owl hoots at us from somewhere up in the trees, a warning for some small creature to run and hide.

Oh, of course there's the rumble of a distant car, someone driving home past dark.  We always wonder, but never aloud, why anyone would be out past nightfall.  We all live such different lives.  We sit at different dinner tables, eat different kinds of home-cooked meals.  We all talk about our lives as if they are the only lives being lived; but the soft swoosh of a car driving by, windows down at night, reminds us that the world reaches far past our front porch steps.  We know that out there in that same night, there is sorrow and suffering, need and want.  We know there is joy and peace where we are, and we will that same peace to fall upon the porches of our neighbors and friends as well.

We turn our thoughts from turmoil and strife and save those things for tomorrow.  Then, as the sun rises over our houses and we wake up, rubbing our sleepy eyes into the day, we will be on our way; back out there in that world that tries to melt us down to nothing.  We'll lend a hand or offer an ear.   We'll share a smile, a peck of beans or a pint of berries.  We'll cut our cantaloupe at dinner time, and eat it with biscuits and fried chicken, just after we fold our hands and declare our gratefulness for what the Earth has provided. Mamas will hang their linens on the line and younguns will squeal with delight, splashing in their wading pools or chasing one another with the hose-pipe.  Tomorrow, the heat and the sun will wring us out again, but we can make it through another day.  As long as we know the front porch sits and waits for our return, and the long tall shadows fall once again over the parched ground at our feet, we can make it through anything.

Precious People

Back in 2003 I took a job at a hospice organization.  When you work in hospice care, your life becomes one huge metaphor.  There's always talk of death and dying, talk of quality of life, pain, family dynamics, cultural norms.  In the days before Facebook memes with beautiful pictures of waterfalls,  spiritual and philosophical quotes were words we lived and witnessed in some way every single day.

Over the last few days one of those metaphors has come back to me in a most profound way.   It's about the ripple effect, when you throw a stone into a lake and watch as the water ripples around the point of impact.  A couple of mornings ago, I followed those ripples backwards in my own life, to the point of impact.  Ever since then, I am overcome with, I don't know what, perhaps awe, at the simple, yet intricate ways all of  us touch the lives of each other.

One night about ten years ago I went out to dinner with a close friend.  We sat in a booth at a local restaurant and talked, ate, drank wine for hours.  At one point later in the evening when things had slowed down, our server came over at sat at the table with us.  We were already acquainted, since this was our usual hang-out, but until that evening we had never had a real conversation with him.  His name tag said "Joe"  but I came to know him as Joey.  He was tall and lanky, had a goofy laugh and an even goofier sense of humor.  He told me that he had a son on the way and I could literally feel the excitement radiating off of him. My friend and I told him we worked for hospice and he told us his story of loss.  His mother had died a few years prior, and coincidentally had been cared for by the same hospice organization.   The more we talked the more common ground we found between us.   It was easy to feel comfortable around him, and I could see us being friends.  It was a cold November night, and although he lived close by, he asked me for a ride home so he wouldn't have to walk in the cold.

When I dropped him off, he thanked me for the ride and wondered aloud if we'd ever run into each other again.  I told him, "I'm sure you will if you're still working at our hang out."  I drove away, not thinking for a moment that what transpired that evening would send ripples through my life, in both good and bad ways, for years to come.

In the end we did become dear friends.  He was troubled at times, he struggled.  I struggled.  At times, we struggled together.  We were protective of each other but also tough on each other.  I didn't let him get away with much, and he was quick to call me out whenever I needed a reality check of my own. He often referred to me as his "best friend" and I loved that role, even though I knew he had a ton of "best friends" in his world.

Through him I met new people. We would go out together on weekends with a whole gang of crazy, fun folks.  They were kind and accepting, the kind of people who took chances on others.   Those people became my friends eventually as well. They've been a source of strength and encouragement to me more times than I could count.  I would never have known them, had I not known Joey.

Joey died in 2009.  He was 27 years old.  His death was tragic and avoidable, and it traumatized so many people who loved him.  After his death I met his son's mother and his brother, James.  James was wrestling with grief over the loss of his little brother.  He was tall, like Joey, and sometimes I swear I could hear Joey's voice when he would talk.  We spent time together, we talked about the pain we shared.  James and I ended up knowing each other longer than Joey and I had.  We bonded over a loss, and that bond of friendship carried us both through some rough times.  He always had an encouraging word for me, even if his own life seemed to be falling apart.  He offered me hope and reassurance and I tried to do the same for him.

James was different.  He was serious about life much of the time, but had the wit and timing of a comedian.  He had dreams and goals that he strove to reach, but somehow he always managed to sabotage himself.  It was painful to watch and difficult to accept at times, but I knew from experience that every person has to find his own way.

About 2 years ago I went to his wedding and teared up as he said his vows.  I felt such joy for him and the new life that lay before him.

Two days ago I got a phone call from Joeys son's mother early in the morning.  I could hear in her voice that something wasn't right.  When she finally told me James was gone I thought I wasn't hearing her correctly.  Even now, as I think back over our friendship and recall our last conversation, I can hardly believe I'll never see him again.  It's hard to accept that there will be no more funny voice mails left on my phone, no more surprise calls at work just so he can tell me he loves me.  I'll never get to try to outwit him in conversations where he is ragging me about my age.  How can all of that be gone in just an instant?

I didn't know, way back on that November night when I got to know Joey that I was taking a risk, but that's exactly what I did.  We risk something every time we open our lives up to someone new, whether it's a friend, a lover or even a new job.  If you truly want to live, risk is inevitable.  I put my heart into friendships and those friendships tore my heart into pieces.  They are pieces I try desperately to keep together, at least all in one place, though I know I'll never get them all to fit perfectly together again. These two brothers have sent ripples through the little world I live in. Ripples of pain, ripples of regret, ripples of sorrow.  Those ripples  just keep coming as I try to wrap my head around yet another loss and try to hold close all the ripples of joy, friendship and wisdom they've left behind.

There are people in this life who are precious to me.  Some of them are my own flesh and blood; others are my kin in spirit only.  A few of those precious people are grieving with me now.  They are the ones who share these losses with me.  They're the ones who, like me, took a chance on loving two brothers who weren't long for this world.  In all of us, they live on.  They are in the laughter we share and the memories we recall together.  They live on in the lessons they taught us about humanity and in the simplest of moments when the thought of them scurries through our minds.  They live on in the eyes of their sons and in the hearts of all who loved them.  For me, they live on in the friends I've made because I took a chance when I allowed them into my life.

It's so easy to get comfortable with where you are.  I haven't taken many risks in life lately.  I've been all too consumed with finding people and situations that were a sure thing, and while we all need stability in our lives, we cannot afford to stop taking chances on new people, new places, new ideas.  Some of those risks will end in pain, and some will lead us to bliss, but we never know the true merit of our human-ness if we never open ourselves up to the experiences that make us human.

My friend James was convinced I didn't believe in Heaven.  He tried to talk me into believing it many a time.  I'm not saying I don't believe, but I struggle to believe consistently.  Right now I am hopeful that there is another life after this one, where we can be reunited with the people we love.  Right now, I want to say I love them, not that I loved.  My faith is weak, but I know his was strong and if there is a paradise somewhere, I know he's there, kicking back with his brother, maybe even looking down at me saying, "I told you so!"  This is one time when I really hope James gets to be right.

Saved

My parents always told me that I went to church for the first time when I was just a few days old.  Of course I don't recall that day but I do recall many Sundays there in a little white cinder-block building that still sits in the middle of where the road forks, almost metaphorically in two different directions.  I recall how far apart the steps used to seem as I tromped up them in my white patent leather Sunday shoes, the sound of my feet scrubbing across the red carpet in the aisle, and the way my legs would stick to the shiny wooden pew when my dress would ride up underneath me.

I was a trusting, happy little girl.  I was the girl who loved her daddy and Sunday school and singing in the car.  I was the girl who wanted to make friends with all the new kids at church.  I admired the pianist at church the way some little girls admire pop stars or Disney princesses.  I wanted to BE her, with her long, flowing dark hair.  I watched her in complete awe as she played, her pretty slim fingers flowing across the keys as, once in a while, she would raise a hand to flip her long hair back over her shoulder.

My Sunday school teacher was a robust older lady who wore glasses and got a wash-n-set every Saturday.  She spoke in a sweet but excited timbre, her voice rising above the chatter of six year-old kids in their Sunday best, anxious for time to color and sing Sunday School songs.  She told stories from the Bible with paper cut out characters of Jesus and the disciples and somehow the inanimate figures came to life on the felt board as she revealed the miracles of Christ to us.  We never questioned whether those stories were true.  We believed because we trusted our parents, we trusted Mrs. Sarah, we felt their love for us and knew that God's love was surely as real.  We had no understanding of atonement or redemption, but we heard the word "Saved" a whole lot.  Somewhere along the way, we all came to understand that "Saved" was something we all wanted to be.

Saved. It seemed like life's ultimate goal for me when I was a child.  I knew nothing more about that word than what I heard at church, and from all I learned, being Saved was something miraculous.  It made life completely new, different, better.  Saved meant Heaven instead of Hell.

 The opposite of Saved was Lost, and Lost was the last thing anyone should ever be.  I learned that once a person was Saved, they were safe forever, from the threat of Hell.  I learned that Saved meant forgiven, that your sins were all forgotten and that from that day forward all you had to do was be good and ask God to forgive you for sinning every single day.  No matter what you did after you were Saved, you were good with God.

Armed with the fear of knowing then, at the age of about 12 that I was surely "Lost" I began to live in fear.  I would lie in my bed at night and feel my heart pounding in my chest, I would sweat and feel nauseated as I worried myself to sleep, anxious that perhaps I might not wake up in this world and instead wake up in the dark fiery pits of Hell.  One Sunday morning I could take the anxiety no longer and I made my way to the front of the church at altar call.  I whispered in my pastor's ear, "I want to get Saved."

A kind lady knelt and prayed with me, told me what to say and I said it.  I stood up feeling relieved to no longer be on the path to Hell, but otherwise a little disappointed in the lack of "newness" I thought I was supposed to feel inside.  Other than alleviating my fear, getting Saved seemed to have not really worked very well for me.

There were people though throughout the years, for whom getting Saved worked very well.  One of them was a relative of mine.  During the summer of 1982 he walked with me to the corner store to buy a Coke, just before dark.  On the way home he suggested a detour, "Let's walk through this neighborhood" he persuaded.  "I like to look at the houses on this street."

I agreed to walk with him sipping my Coke, believing that our little detour was innocent, a way to extend our walk a little longer and enjoy the cool evening breeze.  It did start out that way.  We talked about family, made comments about the houses we saw.  He teased me about my freckles and I called him four-eyes.  He was a grown man, I was barely 12, awkwardly growing into a body that was becoming unfamiliar to me.  I wore a baggy t-shirt and blue jean shorts that were too big.  I hid my skinny frame, my growing breasts a source of both embarrassment and strange pride to me.

As the darkness fell around us he began to walk closer to me.  He made me feel safe on that unfamiliar street in the dark with only scant traces of light from front porches and back lawns.  Eventually his arm was around my shoulders, and still I trusted him because he was family.  We were pals.  Another street over and I had no idea where I was in relation to home.  It seemed as though we had been walking forever and I was getting tired.  We had stopped talking and a heavy, weary silence filled the air around us.  I wanted to go home.  "Are we almost home?" I asked.
"Almost." He answered, as he slid his arm around me further, pulling me closer to him.  We were walking so close that in order to keep my balance I had to put my arm around his back to steady myself.  He was wearing overalls.

Another few blocks and his hand was creeping over my shoulder, his fingertips just barely beneath the neckline of my t-shirt.  I was beginning to feel uncomfortable and I tried to pull away.  "I'm hot!" I said as I dropped my arm from around him and tried to step to the side.

"It's okay." he said, and kept his grip on me, smiling.  I didn't try to pull away again.

By the time we got within a block of home his hands had roamed my body underneath my clothes. He had tried to make me touch him as well, but in that moment fear gripped me so tightly that I yanked my hand away, and knowing by then, the way home, I took off in a sprint.

Later that evening, he apologized.  "I don't know what got into me." he said.  "Please don't tell anyone. We will never be able to hang out together again if you tell."  It felt a lot more like a threat than an apology.

I never wanted to hang out with him again after that night, and I never did.  But I didn't tell either, not for several years anyway.  The years went by and I tolerated him at family gatherings.  I heard stories about him from other people that sounded all to familiar to me, but I kept silent. I stayed quiet when he got Saved.  I kept silent when he announced the call to be a preacher.  Kept silent as he read scripture and raged from the pulpit about sin.  I obediently stood beside him in church to sing duets.  I kept silent to spare my family the pain of knowing and to spare myself the shame of being known.

It turned out I didn't really need to tell.  He was arrested, eventually for public exhibitionism along the side of a highway.  My father bailed him out of jail.  He came back to church and again, claimed that he needed to be Saved.  So down to the alter he went, and down on his knees.  He stood up, a new man, or so he said, and his sins were all forgiven.  They were all forgotten and he was restored to good fellowship with everyone.  The first time he got Saved was a fluke, he said.  He wasn't sincere the first time.  It was all for show the first time.  This time, it was real.

Being Saved was his ticket out of trouble at least four more times that I recall.  To this day he sits on the same pew in that same little white church in the fork of the road, nodding and saying A-men loudly at every pause in the pastor's sermon.  He passes an offering plate, sings in the choir.

Through the years our family gatherings have become fewer and farther between.  It has been a long time since I had to spend a Christmas dinner in his presence or hear his obnoxious laugh at Thanksgiving.

It has also been years since I warmed the seat of a church pew.  There simply came a time in my life that I could no longer share space, spiritually or otherwise, with people who preyed upon other people.  I could no longer, with a clear conscience sit in a congregation with them, knowing who they were and what their proclivities were, and pretend not to know.  I could not forgive.  Could not forget. Eventually I realized that I didn't have to forgive or forget.  I realized that keeping quiet was just as bad as condoning his behavior and the behaviors of various other men who dotted those church pews.

By the time I told my family what happened to me, I was married with two children.  My husband was shocked when I revealed this story to him. He was angry and confused about why I had never told anyone before.  I felt like he thought I was just as guilty as the man who victimized me.  My family nearly crumbled under the weight of it, not because they were shocked, they already knew his character; but because I spoke.  We were a family of the great Southern tradition: What we did not acknowledge did not exist.  By merely telling someone about this scandalous, sinful, humiliating event, I made it real and no one knew how to cope with something so horrible and so absolute.

We all drifted apart after my revelation.  Year after year we spoke less, had fewer family gatherings, spoke of one another with fading affection.  Today we barely speak and when we do it is in a superficial disconnected way.  This man who time and time again claimed he was Saved, managed to undermine the foundation of an entire family--an entire church.

My faith suffered as well.  Although I never stopped believing in God, I completely lost all faith in mankind for a while.  I was confused, angry, frustrated.  I believed I had done all the things that were required of me to be a good Christian.  After all, I was Saved.  I went to church, I did work in the church, I prayed daily, read my Bible daily.  I wore all the right clothes, and listened to all the right music and I was obedient to my husband.  I did all those things that being Saved was supposed to make you want to do, and yet I could not feel the presence of God.  I stood in church, altar call after another and begged God to show me what I was doing wrong, but the answers weren't forthcoming.  The answers weren't in sermons or Sunday school lessons.  The answers weren't in the Bible or in my husband's instruction.  Eventually I hit a wall.

I looked around me one Sunday morning at all the faces of people I had known all my life.  I knew them all well.  I knew about their lives inside church and outside church.  I sat there searching their faces for something authentic.  I wanted to feel connected to these people, but I could not.  I knew their imperfections, just as they knew mine, but I knew that they sat in judgment of me and of everyone else in that sanctuary.  I knew that too many of them based their closeness to God on every one else's distance from God.  I realized, for the first time in my life, that nothing about this brand of religion encouraged an intimate, real, personal relationship with God.  It was all for show.  Even getting Saved was a cry for attention from fellow church-goers.  It was an easy way out of a sticky situation.  It was a way to alleviate your inner anxiety about your future life and your after life.
At least once or twice a week someone asks me what church I attend or if I attend church.  I get invited to church on a regular basis. I'm told, "Our church is different."  People who love me see me as a spiritually wounded soul in need of a loving bunch of Christians to embrace me and show me the way back to God.  I know they mean well, and I know that for them Church is a refuge.  For many it is a place where they can feel closer to God, where they feel spiritually nourished and recharged.  I don't expect them to understand how I feel about it.  I don't judge them because they are church goers, ministers, Sunday school teachers, or Missionaries.  I admire them, for they are not the church goers of my youth who spoke of one God but lived a life that was void of any god.  My friends are not people who victimize others or condone such.  I don't believe they sit in judgment of me or anyone else.  I'm happy for those who find church a comforting place of belonging and fellowship.

For me though, it is a suffocating memory of trauma, and of being traumatized over and over again by the perpetrator of my abuse.  It's a place where victims are forgotten and abusers are lauded for their willingness to confess and profess that they've been Saved.  They are Saved, their misdeeds washed away and forgotten as if they never committed them. It's a place where everyone seemed to forget about the people who really needed to be Saved the most.

Don't feel bad for me.  I am doing just fine these days.  I have lived and learned from my mistakes and failures.  I have reconciled myself with my past and I have worked hard to put all those things away in their proper places.  No, I do not forgive people who victimize others.  I do not forget who they are or of what evil they are capable of committing.

Perhaps I have wandered from the Christianity of my youth.  I don't sit on a church pew every Sunday morning with my Bible on my lap, my mind wandering off to what I'm going to cook for dinner.  I don't sing in a choir or play the piano in church like my long lost childhood idol. I don't hold offices or join committees or raise money for missions.  If you do those things and they keep you spiritually satisfied, I am glad for you.  But please don't expect that my relationship with God has to match yours in order to be valid.

God walks with me and in me.  I know this is true.  God feeds me and watches over me.  He teaches me and I try with all my might to learn what he wants me to know.  I love others as best I can, and I have vowed to always stand up for the ones who get forgotten.  I know I could have never forged this kind of relationship with God from a church pew.

Please understand that it was in leaving church that I finally found my Salvation.  Don't ask me to surrender my peace for a seat on your pew.

Peace

I sat this evening for a while on my front porch.   I listened to crickets chirping and frogs singing their Springtime hymns, watched my boy pretend to be Hercules out on the grass with a backdrop of mountains and purple sky behind him.  The  pretty pink carnations I bought to plant in the yard sat, still potted just near me, the cool evening breeze wafting over them, washing their scent over me.

It has been a long while since I embraced peacefulness.  Even with the swoosh of a passing car here and there, the grunts of my boy as he fought his unseen foes out on the grass, I kept my own quiet. I honored it, cherished it, let it become a part of me.

I know how lucky I am to be in this place.  Not just in this house or in this town, or even on my front porch  or even on this Earth.   I am lucky that I survived the last few years of my life.  Lucky to have escaped dire situations, to have counted on and not been let down by so many people who love me.  I know I am blessed with purple skies and mountain views, cool evening breezes and songs of nature. I am blessed with a chatty little boy, a porch light when the sun goes down, and the great comfort I have in knowing that if I made it through the last few years, I can make it through pretty much anything.

I am happy I've survived, for without merely surviving, I would never know this kind of peace.  This is the peace I prayed for so many times in the midst of turmoil, in the height of all the things swirling around me that were anything but peaceful.  I am taking this moment to be grateful then, that the thing I longed so much to possess, is finally possessing me.  It did not come without heartache or sacrifice, but I found it here, this April evening on my front porch.  The very thing I so desperately sought somehow found me, and I, in my exhaustion and weariness, have embraced it so fully that it has given me new life.

It is all I've ever wanted.

The peace that passes all understanding.

What a Difference a Year Makes

I've been beating myself up a bit lately.  Stress has a way of making you focus on your shortcomings I suppose, and stress is something I've had plenty of lately. In December I started the process of moving out of my apartment and into my new house.  A friend loaned me his pickup truck and slowly, over the course of weeks I started moving my things by myself with only the help of my 9 year old son.  On Thanksgiving day, my family was scattered here and there, so Charlie and I decided to move our kitchen table, and our Turkey day dishes over to our new place.  He helped me load up the table and chairs onto the truck, we bought a small turkey and all the fixings, and the two of us sat down at our table in our new home and with thankful hearts, shared a prayer of thanksgiving for all our blessings.

It took us until about a week ago to get everything moved out of the apartment and into our new place, with a little help here and there from some family members, but here we are, all settled in and happy with our little house in the country.  Only I keep getting this nagging feeling that I'm not doing enough. I work every day, I take care of my kid, I help my other children as much as I can, I try to socialize with my friends as much as time allows--but something still seems amiss.

With all the chaos of moving and working and change in general, I have not taken time to write anything at all in a long time.  As I sit here writing this it feels unnatural, forced and awkward.  Words do not flow naturally lately as they used to, my focus seems lost.

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a friend a while back.  I told her that all I want is to get back to the person I used to be--confident, assured of my abilities, outgoing and energetic.  I want to be that girl who cares enough to spend an hour doing my hair every morning, the girl who dresses to impress, the girl who makes everyone laugh and flirts with men just to make them nervous.  I'm just not that person anymore and my friend told me quite frankly and lovingly  that I will probably never be that person again.  Life has changed me. It has transformed me into someone more serious, less superficial, more introspective and much more judgmental of myself.  I'm trying my best to hang onto the good changes and let the not-so healthy ones go.  I know I need to give myself credit for all I've overcome, but I have a hard time being kind to myself lately.

So today after we came in from the snow and warmed up by the fireplace, I decided to look back over some pictures from the last year--pictures of my apartment the day I moved in, with all my Earthly belongings dumped in the middle of my living room, not a soul around to help me put my life back in order.  I looked at pictures of me at work, the new people who have entered my world and shown me love--made me feel like somebody again.  I thought about all the friends who have stuck by me through all my ups and downs--the bad decisions that left me in bad places, and the consequences that were out of my control.  Throughout them all, my true friends have given me words of encouragement, they've embraced me with their love and unconditional acceptance and I feel so unworthy of them.  They are Grace at work in my life, and they are truly amazing.

A year ago I sat on my couch on a Saturday morning, feeling alone in the world.  I was angry and hurt.  I was on the brink of giving up on life altogether. Now I sit here in my pretty living room, watching blue sky break through the dark snow clouds from the picture window  that looks out on the mountains.   I'm admiring the long icicles sparkling along the eaves of the house, marveling at how they just hang there and continue to grow,  and I'm realizing that to persevere through the coldest, darkest days,  is to live.  Each person perseveres in her own way, and somehow I found mine.  I have all the sketch pads filled with drawings and doodles and hand-written phrases I wrote to myself on days when I needed a kind word but had no one else to give me one.  I have painted furniture and hand-crafted creations that kept my fingers busy while my mind turned its gears and helped me cope with the chaos that was going on inside my soul.  I have a beautiful little red-headed granddaughter who looks an awful lot like my own baby picture, and whose big smiles and sweet giggles fill my life with a whole new kind of joy--a joy I thought I'd never get to experience.

There is a dirty dish in my kitchen sink and I don't feel like I'm a bad person because its there.  In fact, I purposefully left it there this morning just because I could.  Sometimes I take naps on the weekend and I don't feel guilty or lazy or worthless.  I don't always cook dinner--sometimes we eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in front of the TV.  I hang clothes on my clothesline when I feel like it and sometimes I don't bring them in right way when they're dry. I step over baby toys on the living room floor and I'm okay with that. I'm living my life again without frivolous rules and regulations imposed on me by someone else.  I know that my inner compass will always point me in the right direction when it comes to the important things in life.

Dishes be damned--let me always be able to love unconditionally, preserve my own soul by shielding myself from those who would do me harm, and let me, to my dying day, remain committed to my transformation even from this life into the next.