the ups and downs

When I stop to think about it, this year has been one of incredible ups and downs.

In March we learned that Bill needed spinal fusion surgery, which he had in April. It changed our lives for weeks. In May our first grandson, Noah, was born in Charlotte. Our second grandson, Ethan, arrived Sunday, September 8 and my dad died Friday, September 13. Our beloved cabin in Michigan is up for sale, too.

Birth, death, serious surgery: it's all a part of life. The older I get, the more I am able to keep perspective. Parents will die. Our children will move away as they make their own lives. Circumstances change and plans do, too.

This year our church is working through a book called The Story. It is the entire Bible, mostly scripture, but presented in chronological order so it reads more like a novel. What we're learning is God's "upper story" of His great love for us and how He wants to redeem us will win out over the "lower story" of our lives here on earth. This study has reminded me to keep a proper perspective as I go through life's challenges.   

We have been in Virginia since Wednesday night, finally getting to meet little Ethan! I hope he understands that his Baba and Popsy love him so much, but life's ups and downs have kept us from getting there sooner.

Be back soon, with some photos of a very soggy weekend near D.C.!

a divine purpose

My dad, around 1949. Fort Riley, Kansas.
 

A few years ago I flew to Nashville to visit Dad and Sally.

Dad picked me up at the airport, but instead of heading home,
we ended up in an abandoned parking lot and had to flag down a guy in a pick-up
 to lift the gate for us to exit.

At the time I thought little of it; Dad just took a wrong turn.

But now I see clearly. Dad's mind was falling prey to dementia.

It was the beginning of a long, slow journey.
 

Ten years after this photo was taken, Dad was rolling on the floor

with my brothers and me, wrestling and laughing.  

A little girl with a strong, healthy, capable daddy can't know that time is fleeting.

That some day he won't be cutting the grass on Saturdays (how I loved that smell) 

or taking me to Sears to roam the hardware department.

That he wouldn't tend his tomatoes or build Mom a flower garden. 

One day he'd no longer grill out on Saturday nights or make sausage and biscuits on Sundays.

That even my teen years, when he didn't really know how to talk with me
and I was incredibly frustrated by him, would quickly fade away.  

That life stands still for no one.

 

Dad is still alive, but he's not living. I pray he doesn't grasp how much care he needs,
how his once-witty and intelligent mind has been scrambled and robbed.

I last visited him in June. So emotional was the visit
 that it's taken me two months to write these words.

His fluctuating condition weighs on my heart,

the sight of him bed-ridden replays in my mind nearly every hour of every day.

 

I felt I was staring down death. 

Dad's eyes were vacant and as I gazed into his face,

he barely realized I had tears streaming down mine.

It was a short visit, a detour home from Charlotte.

 On that full day I spent with him, June 10, he was awake maybe two out of the

 ten hours I sat beside him. It felt awkward, but I held his frail, white hand as he slept.

 I wanted to, for I was certain this would be my last day with him on earth.

I wanted him to feel my love and the peace that I prayed over him.

Late in the afternoon he opened his eyes and I said what I most wanted to say.

"Dad, do you love Jesus?" He brightened a bit, focused briefly and answered,
 "I do, I love Jesus a whole lot."

Some question the purpose of a life like this. Or God's timing. Or if God is even there.

We cannot know God's ways, so much higher than ours.

In His creation lie the mysteries of His love, justice, compassion and mercy.

We catch glimpses, but cannot fully know what God knows.
We aren't supposed to. We are not God.

Dad's lengthy illness has also brought gifts. 

Over these nearly four years, we've had conversations I never imagined;

 a glimpse into the heart of a man I never knew.
Up until about a year ago, he answered many of my questions about
his childhood. About his parents, and theirs.
How the mail was delivered on horseback to their Arkansas farm
and how his father offered to send Dad to Yale.

I forged a deep, sweet relationship with my step-sister Anne,
renewed the relationship with my sister (also Anne) and

had lovely visits with my step-mother Sally.
And Dad's caregiver Lisa is an angel on earth.
 

I've spent hours alone, driving to and from Nashville, talking things over with God.

I wrestle with things before God; I do not wrestle with God,
as Oswald Chambers so beautifully reminds me.

(My Utmost for His Highest, December 16)
He also explains how God's permissive will is used
"to accomplish His divine purpose for our lives."

 

Perhaps the best gift of all is, I hope my own children

have seen vulnerabilities and a faithfulness in me.

It's been an emotionally exhausting  journey,
but also one of the sweetest.
In this I am content and thankful.
Perhaps my discovery of these gifts on this hard journey
is God's divine purpose for me.

 



Go safely, Dad. God will hold you as you once held me, safe and sure.

I'll see you someday. You know I love you.

 

As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways

and my thoughts than your thoughts.        Isaiah 55:9

the lesson of the sandpiper

We made the most of our last day in St. Petersburg with David. Loved his church! It was full of worshipful energy ... how great to worship with people who love God. And how fun that we had met a dozen or more people Friday night at David's and got to see them again on Sunday morning.

David and I headed to the beach for the afternoon. A little bit of haze kept it very comfortable, so I didn't mind the very long walk from the parking lot. Probably 300 yards: what a wide beach! David and I walked, watched the parade of people in, um, interesting swim attire, and read our books.

And as always when I go to the beach, I was fascinated by the shore birds. They skitter effortlessly up and down the packed sand, darting just to the water's edge and back as waves come in.

As I squatted on the sand and watched these birds, I got to thinking.

If I listen consistently for God's voice, I can be like the sandpiper,

running with wild abandon toward life's challenges.

I have no reason to question what's in the waves.

 God has my back and gives me freedom to do my job;

to run up and down the beach

fearlessly, in sweet trust. 

OK, so my metaphor is cheesy?

Who's to say?

Through all of God's amazing creation, he can use a little sandpiper

to remind me that he's in charge and has my life in his capable hands.

That evening, David took us to Bonefish Grill for our January birthdays.

Outstanding! And the company, too. Thanks, David!

And so ended our visit to both coasts of Florida.

Sadly ... we started north the next day.

speechless

"You're as healthy as a horse!" my mom used to say. Since I rarely got sick, I assumed she meant that neither did horses. But as a child who disliked school, I secretly wished I would get sick now and then.

I do remember catching what was ominously called the "Hong Kong Flu" when I was about 12. It was miserable, keeping me bed-ridden for days. My fever spiked so high that I think I was hallucinating.

But otherwise, even in middle-age, I continue to fulfill Mom's declaration of good health. No surgeries. No medications. Very rarely even a cold.

So last Monday, when I awoke with a sore throat and overall lethargy, I didn't handle it well. I've dragged around all week, to-do list undone.

Since last night, I've been unable to talk above a whisper. Which is funny, because I'm finishing a study of the book of James. In it, the half-brother of Jesus teaches Christians how to live. Good stuff! He says true faith must be one of action, not just words. He also talks about our speech.

When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal.

Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds,

they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go.

Likewise the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts.

Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.

James 3:3-5

So, this "healthy horse" would be wise to remember the teachings of James. In my little season of silence, I am considering my words and their effect. I desire them to be good and fruitful, building up others. Somehow, my silence is a gift to slow down and meditate more on areas where I need to grow, and ask God to correct and redirect me.

I love his timing, always perfect!

a sandwich, anyone?

I am the tuna salad on a whole wheat roll, mushed between the lettuce and swiss. I am the turkey in the middle of the club sandwich. Heck, I'm also the cheese, mayo and banana peppers. Most of the time, I feel grilled. I am part of the sandwich generation.

Four weeks ago I witnessed the birth of my third granddaughter. The mystery and wonder of new life, Lily is a tiny miracle. So are two-year-old Ari and 8-month-old Ashlyn. They call me Baba and I hope they will treasure their time with me. Together we'll pray, read, bake, garden, hike, swim, and eat ice cream. So much to look forward to.

My children now move in and out of my life like yo-yo's. With each passing year, they roll back to me less and less. As it should be. They are busy with families, careers, friends and figuring out adult life. With four of them, well six, there is frequent enough contact to keep me on my toes.

Then there is my father, age 87, unable to completely care for himself. He's imprisoned by dementia. While I'm not his caregiver, my visits and phone calls are highly emotional for me. Oh, he still knows me, but when I call, I get the feeling he's still trying to be my in-charge dad. The strong and smart provider he used to be.

"I had a meeting yesterday. Someone wanted to talk with me about my experience in franchising," he told me today. "And they served spaghetti! Can you believe that?" It's all at once endearing, and sad. I want to go spend a couple of hours with him, but 400 miles is a little far for that. And so I wonder how much farther he'll slip before my next visit.

This is the meaning of the sandwich generation. It's a huge hoagie of good and delicious things: layers of love from delicate newborns to frail fathers. From tall young men and blossoming daughters to mothers like me who feel unsure of our role. Our hearts drink in the tenderness of new grandchildren, and weep at the slipping away of our parents. At times, we are physically and emotionally spent. Other days, we are bursting with energy and joy.

I am reminded of Christ's words to Paul in 2 Corinthians 12:9: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Paul responded, "Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." God met Paul's need, giving him the grace needed to meet his challenges.  And Paul didn't just make the best of it - he made the most of it. Grace does that.* Wow, what encouragement!

I navigate these years with acceptance, hope and the promise of God's grace. And when I am weak, it's ok. I know He is strong.

* these thoughts borrowed from With the Word by Warren Wiersbe.

the man at the gas station

Already rattled from a one-hour detour on I-77 in Virginia, I pulled into a station to fill up. Behind me, an older man eyed me as he filled his van. Maybe he thought I'd backed up too close. My son Dan, who had given me detour directions by phone, called to check on me.

I continued to talk and pump gas. Then. The man roared up to me, spewing expletives. "Can you get off that *%#@ cell phone while I pull away, before you blow us both up? There's a BIG SIGN right there warning you not to talk on a phone while pumping gas! Thirty-two women have been blown up doing that!"

Stunned, I'm not one to just to take it. I walked to his van, and looked right at him.

"Sir, I appreciate your concern, but you could be alot more polite. There's no need to yell."

#$%&* he fumed as he pulled away.

A minute too late, I wish I'd walked over to the building and awaited his wife, exiting the restroom. I would have said, "is he your husband? Well I sure hope he speaks more respectfully to you than he did to me. Have a good day."

Instead I stood, dazed and furious.

I was really, really peeved. The BIG SIGN was small and hidden. I vaguely remember hearing warnings about cell phones at gas pumps. But really. A kinder, gentler approach would have sufficed.

I was furious, in fact, the rest of the drive to Charlotte. Then, before eating lunch with Dan and Jenny, she simply prayed: "Lord, soften the heart of the man at the gas station."

Had I thought to pray? No, my bruised ego got in the way of a prayerful attitude. My job isn't to set things right nor even to be right. It's to be Jesus to those who desperately need him. And that man must be filled with hurt for it to spill out so easily onto a complete stranger.

But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

Matthew 5:44

things Mom DID teach me

OK, so she didn't teach me how to clean the shower, but Mom taught me many things. As lessons are best learned, she taught these by showing, not telling:

A love of the out-of-doors.

How to make a fire and cook over it.

How to pack a bedroll if you don't have a sleeping bag.

To be unafraid of the dark.

How to read, and to love it.

To laugh at myself, not others.

Contentment.

How to change a bed.

And do laundry.

To let little things go.

How to be a good neighbor.

How to plant daffodil bulbs.

How to talk to a baby.

How to knit.

How to make potato salad.

How not to make coleslaw.

How to make southern cornbread dressing.

How to raise and love children

and

how to let them go.

Thanks, and happy 85th birthday, mom.

Wish you were here.

things Mom never taught me

Hallelujah glory be! After 32 years I finally discovered how to clean the shower floor. Pretty much by accident. Born of desperation, my method works sparklingly well.

Forget the battery-operated rotating shower sprays. This isn't a shared chore. My hubby plays the "I can't see in there without my glasses" card and so finally I get serious and say to myself, what would clean most effectively with the least effort on my part?

Comet, friends. COMET! After showering, I sprinkle the miracle bleachy-powder liberally on the shower floor. Spread around lightly with a scrub brush until it turns blue, all over the floor and up the cruddy edges.

Forget it til the next day. Use a scrub brush to (I'm not making this up) just loosen the globs, and rinse. You won't believe it. I didn't. I still don't. For huge build-ups, do it over and over.

My shower floor sparkles! Well, as nearly as a shower floor can sparkle. And what do you know, my scrub brush is dazzling white, too!

Now, you scientists or plumbers ... don't tell me that Comet will damage the drain or pipes. I don't really care. My shower is clean!

Mom also never taught me how to cut into an avocado, though I seriously doubt that an avocado every entered her kitchen. My daughter-in-love Jenny taught me this one. Instead of tediously peeling it (oh, duh), you cut through to the pit once all the way around, then twist apart as you would an Oreo. Scoop out pit and pulp. Yum and easy.

If Mom ever held peach pie-making class, I was absent. Never have made one, and it's my favorite. Tonight I enjoyed peach pie made by my daughter-in-love Jill: fabulous! Now she'll have to teach me.

Mom taught me a lot, but she missed a few. What has life taught you that your mom didn't?

Margin

I'm going to cheat and combine two themes into one post. I shot these photos on our most recent visit to our little spot up in Michigan over a week ago. Then home for just two days before heading south for a granddaughter-fix in North Carolina. Got that? Here goes.

Heard a message Sunday morning in Charlotte.

On margin. Margin is the extra in life.

Like "blanks" in our days with nothing penciled in.

A few curveballs were thrown into our summer, making it crammed full. But I do make choices. Am I saying 'yes' to things that might be very good but that aren't really where God wants me? 

As the pastor on Sunday said, we tend to forget that when we say "yes" to one thing, we're unwittingly saying "no" to something else. Christ was intentional and passionate in doing His father's will. That's all. (John 9:4) 

So. If I fill up my schedule and run willy-nilly through my days and forget to consult God, then it's a sure bet I'll .... well, run willy-nilly crazy.

I need to make a schedule based on what is 1. priority and 2. wise.

When I don't? Eventually my life resembles a morning shrouded in fog. A life reduced to only what's in front of my face.

I've found that when I desire what God desires, my life is one of more clarity and peace. Not perfect, just more purposeful.

Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. Ephesians 5:17

Night School ... reflections on The Help

This little memory has been floating in my mind and heart for many, many years. Reading Kathryn Stockett's The Help crystallized the importance of this one experience. More importantly, the five minute episode at age 6 gave me not only a lesson itself, but affirmed the power of a mother’s example. I believe that it shaped who I am as a mother. Like Skeeter in The Help, my mother put principle above popularity and propriety.

The setting: summer 1961. A rambling lakeside house in Alabama. Our family was spending the week with several other families, all lifelong friends of my mom. I'd been put to bed just off the main room where the adults were socializing.

Sleep wouldn’t come that sultry July night. Tossing and turning, I was spooked by an unfamiliar bed and shadowy room. Though my four-year-old brother slept beside me and my parents were just steps away, I felt scared and alone in the creaky house. 

A cacophony of night noises mingled with those of the grown-ups as they laughed over a game of cards. Iced drinks clinked. Voices rose and fell. Then rose again. Sleep creeping ever closer, I was jerked awake by urgent conversation.

“They have their place. We have ours.” The voice of mom's childhood friend.

“I disagree.” Mom’s voice was strong and resolute, but completely alone. “God created everyone in His image, and everyone is of equal value, no matter his skin color.”

“Come on, you can't believe that,” replied the friend.

“I am right, absolutely,” mom answered. Then awkward silence.

With 50 years of hindsight, we can easily minimize the magnitude of civil rights issues. But my mother grew up in the deep South of the 1930’s and 40’s, when racial segregation and prejudice were as normal as lack of air conditioning: it was all she’d ever known. To sever her mind and heart from her upbringing and stand alone in her convictions was radical. Speaking up in a roomful of lifelong friends had to have taken immense courage.

I strained through the darkness and heard my mother sobbing softly. Though surrounded by friends and husband, she was utterly alone. I wanted to leap from the tangled sheets and dash to her, stroke her smooth face and take refuge in her soft, familiar shoulder. I needed her arms around me, but especially wanted my arms around her. How I grieved with her.

The conversation ceased. I licked my lips and didn't move. No other memories of that night remain.

Beyond my little world, 1961 saw a turbulent summer. "Freedom riders" were testing the laws prohibiting segregation of interstate travel facilities across the South. Many of these groups, comprised of student volunteers of both races, were attacked by angry mobs. Certainly this news event initiated the conversation in which my mother found herself.

Changes in the world can happen through big events like freedom rides. Or Rosa Parks's silent statement on a city bus. Or the march on Washington. Or the influence of Ghandi or Mother Teresa.

But they also happen in the tender heart of a little girl who adopts courage from her mother's voice on a summer night in Alabama.

what we leave behind

Early this morning, I dragged from slumber thinking about ... garbage bags. And clutter. And Thoreau. You see, last week we moved my mother-in-love to an assisted living facility. Very nice place, I might add. "Nursing homes" are out and sleek new apartment-like "assisted living" places are in.

But Mom has quickly discovered, even though she left a big jumble of stuff behind, she must dispose of even more.

As I've spent a few days sorting and bagging and saving just a fraction of her accumulations, it is clear. There isn't one material thing on earth that will mean squat at the end of our lives.

As I read over these posts, I notice a common thread.   What my children, grandchildren and whoever's left will remember is who I was to them - for better or worse.

Did I take time to read stories with them? Laugh at their jokes and listen to their stories? Discuss God and the mysteries of life? Did I teach them to ride a bike, make a bag lunch, and how to fly a kite? Did we swim, hike, pray, visit the library, and catch fireflies on summer evenings? Did I take them to a funeral so they could learn how to comfort a hurting friend?  Did they see me hurt and feel and cry? Did I apologize when I lost my temper? Did I make our home a haven from the world? Did we play piano and sing together? Did I strive to treat them as well as I do my best friend?

If I was too busy for such things, then all the trinkets and heirlooms and even family photos won't amount to a hill of beans. In fact, they won't matter whether I did OR didn't invest in those I love.

And that's because the only thing we leave behind that really matters is ... you guessed it ... love.

a whirl of words

These are but wild and whirling words.
- Shakespeare, from Hamlet

As expected of a writer, I've always been a lover of words. Reading words. Learning new words. Crafting words. I taught my small children to speak their needs, not whine them. Words will fascinate me, I am sure, for life.

How pathetic that I never fully appreciated the power and privilege of the spoken word. Until now.

This year I've been humbled to experience something new: children who struggle to find even one word to express themselves. Children whose mental capacities delay their progress in speech and other areas of life.

Imagine being five years old and lacking the means to tell your mother that you are hot, cold, sick, tired, hungry or just plain bored. Your peers sprint ahead of you playing t-ball, learning math, and chatting on the playground. You want to, but most of the time you cannot join them at their level. Sometimes your frustration boils into tears and tantrums.

Still, your strong and noble family loves you for who you are and your many successes. Your huge efforts with a smile to match inspire me mightily. Each hour I spend with you, helping you work at finding words, makes me realize that I never knew the meaning of frustration as a mother.

I could talk all day about what you're teaching me and how much I admire you.

But really, you leave me at a loss for words.

killing time and eating ice cream

Our Sunday bike ride began without a camera. I immediately bemoaned the situation with each bend in the road. We drove for nearly an hour to reach a rail-to-trail we'd never before ridden.

Bill said, "ok, state your case, then forget it."

So I'd say, "oh, that would make a great you-know-what. I wish I had my you-know-what." And we laughed.

We planned to bike Butler to Bellville, Ohio: a ten-mile round trip. There was reported to be an ice cream shop right beside the trail in Bellville. A good thing!

Ohio is blessed with a growing number of rail-to-trail bike paths. I love to ride them and imagine the people of years gone by who rode the trains of these same routes. Winding through farmland, along streams and through small towns, the trails are peaceful and scenic.

Nearly four miles out, I glanced at Bill's rear tire. Hmmmm. Looking low. In fact, looking nearly flat.

"Uh, your tire looks low," I called.
"It does?"

"Really low." Sometimes a wife treads carefully in matters of mechanics. I figured he'd KNOW if it was flat, and I needn't point it out to him.

"You might want to check it," I called.

And so he did. It was indeed flat, and two rounds of pumping didn't fix it. We walked/rode on to Bellville, parking by the 100-year-old train station and found the ice cream shop.

The Buckeye Blitz waffle cone was out of this world, and worth pushing a bike with a flat. And well worth dripping chocolate on my white shirt, too.

Even though three other bikers offered to repair the tire, we decided to have Bill ride back to Butler on my bike, get the car and come fetch me.

In a life accustomed to clock-watching and rushing around, my 45- minute wait seemed long. The sun was hot, my water getting warm.

Then. I relaxed on a bench. I watched all manner of bikers come and go. Families. Retirees. Serious bikers in training. Slow, leisurely bikers. All enjoying a Sunday afternoon through the Ohio countryside.

One family stopped near me for a break.
"We'll be having dinner soon; he shouldn't have ice cream," the mother said of her son.
"Oh, who cares; let him have ice cream," answered the dad.

I thought, yeah, let him eat ice cream. It's Sunday and lots of calories are being burned on that bike. Let the kid eat Buckeye Blitz as it drips down his arms onto his t-shirt. He'll remember this day for a long time.

But then, I would have said the same thing as a young mom. Always so serious about nutrition and stuff.

Soon Bill showed up with the van.

And my short 45 minutes were up.

good bye to bad buys

Done. I'm done, done, done with [unnamed popular department stores] for my wardrobe purchases. Probably. Maybe. Here's why:

1. Most of my exhausting shopping trips are completely fruitless.
2. I find most clothing in [unnamed popular department stores] to be designed for those under age 20 or over age 70. I am neither.
3. As a rule, the sales people either do not exist or have better things to do than serve customers.
4. The purchases I have made tend not to satisfy over the long haul.

In a word: bad buys!

There exists a retailer where the sales women know the meaning of the word SERVICE. They've dusted off an old concept and SERVE the customer: running back and forth to the fitting rooms, giving advice on fit and style and - get this - even looking for shoes that might match your outfit.

The store is TALBOTS and I tootled in yesterday. The Talbots saleswomen know how to do things the old-fashioned way. Yes, old-fashioned: it's sometimes the right way. A young woman named Sylvia gave me style advice, fit advice and shoe advice. Not pushy. Just helpful.

Ok, everything's pricier. And nicier, too. Is that a word? I won't say I deserve better clothing. I don't. But I'm past having baby spit-drool down my shirt so why not invest in better quality? Once the grandchild arrives, I'll wear an apron.

So here's a Talbots report card.
Quality: very good.
Price: higher than what I'm used to. Hit their sales.
Service: excellent. The saleswomen took care of me and it's refreshing and ... nice. (Mr. Stanko hated that word: sorry, John.)

I detest shopping, really. But visiting Talbots sure lessens the sting.

Men: if this post bores you, I hope you can apply it to your situation. Or if you're satisfied with your shopping experiences, don't fix what ain't broken.

flier beware, part 1

Last week I flew to Florida for a funeral. I learned that it's important to check the weather, not only at your departure city, but also the city where your flight originates. The plan: catch a US Air flight from Columbus to Charlotte and connect onto another flight to West Palm Beach, Florida.

Oh, yeah. I checked the US Air website right up until we left for the airport. All flights were showing on time. But how clueless could I be? A late winter storm had dumped several inches of snow across the Carolinas before it picked up steam and headed up the east coast. Therein was the foreboding of what was to come.

Arriving at my gate, I got a sinking feeling. First, the gate was crowded, and gates at Port Columbus airport are almost never crowded.

Second, all three flights posted were "delayed." The saintly US Air women working the gate, I am certain, would have flown the planes themselves if they could. They stood at their post for hours, consoling passengers, rebooking them and giving us the grim updates of our delayed flights.

As each update was announced, it was apparent that many of us were going nowhere anytime soon. Flights to and from D.C., Baltimore, and New York were all messed up due to weather delays. Further, a plane at the gate doesn't mean it'll leave the ground if the flight crew assigned to it hasn't arrived on other flights. What they had in Port Columbus, and many other airports, was a mess. A real big mess.

But what I had was an ideal opportunity to study people and their responses to the whole mess.

I opted not to stand in line at the counter right away. What was the point? My 5:45 p.m. flight was delayed indefinitely and I figured I may as well sit on my seat, eat my bag supper and relax.

The people around me had just come off a church youth leadership conference and they were riding a wave of enthusiasm and bursting with ideas for their youth programs. This alone raised my spirits during the long wait.

About two hours past my scheduled flight time, it was announced that they "couldn't find" our flight crew. This puzzled me, so I decided to get in line and learn my options. I figured I could have Bill come pick me up, go home and start over in the morning. Or, I could take a chance on my flight to Charlotte and hope to get a later connection to West Palm Beach.

As I neared the front of the line, things got interesting. A man behind me said, "it would help if those employees could take less than 45 minutes per passenger." Come on, buddy. Gross exaggeration. Then the US Air ladies were told they could put some Wash. D.C. - bound passengers on another flight. I am not kidding, this was their announcement: "if you were on flight 632 to Dulles and would like to get on flight 1198 to Reagan AND didn't check any baggage, please come forward."

A few minutes later, same announcement, only this time they ended with, "and if you checked baggage, come describe it to us and we'll try to find it to put on the flight with you."

I felt like I was experiencing the dawn of aviation, all rules thrown out the window.

Next, a family of three was told there was only room for two of them on the flight. A daughter, about 17 years old, burst into tears. Right there in front of the US Air ladies and about 100 other passengers. Wow, dramatic!

At 9:30 p.m., the stars aligned. My flight had a plane AND a crew and it was time to board. It was pretty clear that my four-hour-late flight would cause me to miss the last flight of the day from Charlotte to West Palm Beach. But I figured the chance might be good that flights out of Charlotte were delayed, too, so I hopped on the plane to Charlotte.

Next: Charlotte!

Words fitly spoken

Game one in St. Petersburg: the National Anthem


Moms and dads....you know how we try to teach our kids good sportsmanship? "Do your best, have fun, and don't worry if you win or lose." Yeah, right. Sometimes even WE could hardly stand the losses.

As I watched our Tampa Bay Rays go down against the Phillies last night in game 5 of the World Series, I couldn't help but remember the losses of my kids years ago. The tears. The sulking.

But these were grown men, and refreshingly, they were acting like it. Disappointed, of course, but fully aware of the amazing season behind them and grateful for it. Worst to first. Beating Chicago, then Boston, then on to the World Series.

Perhaps first baseman Carlos Pena summed it up best: "We're a family, because that's what we are, so even though I'm extremely disappointed, at the same time, we don't want to waste too much time focusing on that. Instead, we just say, 'Thank you God for letting us get to this point' -- where we actually were able to experience defeat in the World Series, where so many have not even done that."

I'm not really a sports fan. But I am a fan of those who look at life with a proper perspective, conduct themselves with respect and walk humbly. Like the 2008 Tampa Bay Rays.

Rhythms of Rest

Today turned out to be a little crazy for me at church. My turn at the coffee bar and nothing went smoothly. Overflowing teapot. Coffee mysteriously not brewing. Curdled creamer. A meal being prepared in the kitchen so that I got in their way.

I came home feeling I had not really worshipped. God was there, but I wasn't.

After lunch, I reached for a little book on my bookshelf: Sabbath Keeping by Lynne M. Baab. She challenges the reader to review the purposes of a true sabbath. Here are some quotes I underlined when I read the book:

Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work.
Exodus 20:8-10

So, that's pretty clear. The passage goes on to say that God rested after creating for 6 days; so should we.

The author's family lived for a time in Israel. There, Sabbath is "kept" in the strictest of Jewish tradition: the work week comes to a grinding halt at sundown on Friday. Families worship, eat, visit, rest. I myself experienced this on a month-long trip to Israel in 1980 and it was startling and refreshing. Back to the book:

If we refuse to rest until we are finished, we will never rest until we die. Sabbath dissolves the artificial urgency of our days, because it liberates us from the need to be finished.

We need to dethrone the quintessentially American belief that more time equals more productivity. We say, 'I don't have enough time to get it all done.' Life is not about filling every moment. Life is about embracing and receiving God's gifts. God may want us to be inefficient sometimes in order for us to receive his gifts more fully.

and this, perhaps my favorite . . .

We are human beings, yet we live as if we were "human doings." We move through our days as if what we do mattered more than who we are.

I've been guilty, guilty of filling every moment with tasks, obssessed with my to-do list. That's when I creep dangerously close to finding my value in what I do, not who I am.

How about you?

Mrs. Deepa-squalley

Bill and I had another mini-date tonight. This is getting fun and seems so indulgent. We dined at Mimi's, made a quick stop at the mall, and finished by returning something to Old Navy.

On the drive home, a large semi turned ahead of us, the word "PASQUALE " enscribed down its side. I laughed, remembering a neighbor of ours years ago in Detroit, Michigan: Mrs. DiPasquale. She was a tiny Italian woman: she spoke only Italian and turned out fabulous Italian food. She usually wore her hair in a tight bun, but occasionally I'd spot Mrs. D. out in the yard, her hair cascading down her back. Exotic! We had just moved in from Memphis, Tennessee, and my mother found Mrs. DiPasquale to be a wonderful curiosity, the likes of which she'd never met in the deep South.

Thanks to my mother's outgoing personality and Mrs. D's generosity, we were soon treated to delicious breads and savory pastas. I've no idea how mom reciprocated. Fried chicken? Cornbread? Somehow she managed to communicate with Mrs. D. and they enjoyed a unique friendship: southern housewife and elderly Italian mama.

As an 8-year-old, I just couldn't figure out how to spell her name. In my mind, it was something like Mrs. "Deepa-squalley." What a long, funny name for a little woman who didn't speak our language. But one with an open and giving heart.

Thank you, Mrs. Deepa-sqalley, for showing me that differences can be the spice of life.

birds

Empty nest. Sounds lonely, doesn't it? But when you stop to think about it, would a mother bird ever continue to shelter her young? She has nourished and trained them in preparation for the things birds were meant to do. She wouldn't delay the inevitable, if shaky, flight from the comfortable nest.

And anyway, if the fledgling sat in the nest all day, it wouldn't fulfill the purpose and wonder of God's intent.

To fly.

Tomorrow our final fledgling leaves our nest. A little shaky, this flight. But good, and full of wonder. And it's time. For her to fly.

8 points to ponder

Big changes coming. The last child heads off to college on Sunday. Another son marries next year. Will I get a job? Do I even know how to hold a job? 30 years of marriage. How do we re-organize our nest?

When I find myself slipping into a melacholy mood, I try to cheer myself up by thinking thankful thoughts. (sorry for the cheesey alliteration.) Here's what's on my mind:

1. Bill and I can talk, argue or watch a movie anytime we want. We can eat popcorn and drink coke for dinner, too, if it suits us.
2. Just when kids become more pleasant to be around, they leave home. This doesn't seem quite fair, but then, I am thankful they are self-supporting and not living here or in jail.
3. There was a time when I made up a seating chart for the van so the kids wouldn't fight over seats. I will not miss those days.
4. Whenever I hear an over-tired child whining in the grocery store, I am thankful I'm not his mom. (And if someday it's my grandchild, I have tactics to handle it.)
5. Bill's thankful that I'm not bathing kids anymore. In the summer, he'd slam the windows shut so the neighbors wouldn't hear me hollering at the kids to get in the tub. I'd tell him, "be my guest."
6. Now that the kids are gone (until the next college break), maybe I'll make good on my threat to dynamite the basement. You wouldn't believe what's down there.
7. I know I keep coming back to food, but there is huge relief in the fact that feeding us will become much simpler. Why, I might even have time to write a book.
8. I don't know what #8 is, but I think I should end on an even number. Oh, here's one. Come fall, the stress of shoving a high schooler out the door on time for school will be gone. 11 years of that was quite enough.

This all sounds good and brave. But come Sunday, I'll probably be a mess.