I am packing. I need to take clothing for flying, coffee, and lunches, but mostly clothing for my dad's memorial service. The clothing has to be cool since it will be 94 degrees that day, and it has to be in darker colors to show respect. Yes, I am packing. And through this packing, finally, the tears. It is finally hitting me. My dad is dead. He was cremated right after his death and buried a few weeks ago. He really is gone.
This service--his memorial-- is going to be harder on me than I thought it would. This sudden rush of tears as I pack up my suitcase has left me a little surprised. I assure you that I am normal in my grief. I cried when I heard that he had passed, and I cried with my mom on the phone as she spoke of missing him so much and not wanting to go on; however, I think I was crying more for them and not really for me. I grieve mostly for my mother. After 63 years of marriage, she is now facing the rest of her life alone. And that makes me so sad. She is barely getting through this time. She is barely holding on. So, yes, I have cried, but mostly for her until now.
Now, as I pack my outfit for my father's service, these tears are for me. As I cry, mourn, and grieve, these are my tears. Mine. All mine. I don't want to get on that plane today. I don't want to fly out to California. I don't want to see my extended family, and I don't want to cry and think about not ever seeing my dad alive again. It's just too much.
I want to stay home. I want to enjoy my life. I want to ignore the feelings and emotions that sometimes sneak up on me. I want to push down those feelings and not take them out right now. It's just too hard. What I want, though, and what I must do, don't seem to coincide. I have to be a grown-up, and that isn't always fun. I have to finish packing up, take my dog to her boarding place, get on that long flight, try not to cry, and land in a hot, sad place. Uggggg Not a happy time in my life at all. Not at all.
I know I sound selfish, I know this. However, when I began writing this blog a few years back, there was one thing I promised myself. I promised to always share my feelings, my thoughts, my emotions, my truth, and to be as transparent as possible, even if it meant exposing myself for who I really am. I write this blog mainly for my grandchildren. I am hoping that they get to know me better--in some distant future--and that they somehow feel closer to me. I want them to know that I was just as human as they are. I also write it for my friends and family. Although I am a Christian and walk extremely close with my God, I am also extremely human, much to my dismay.
Yes, I am an emotional being--frail, lonely, insecure, etc. And I own it.
So today, I cry. My tears. For me. For my own sadness. I cry for the what-could-have-beens, the what should-have-beens, and the memories that I hold dear to my heart. I guess I just miss my dad.
Friday, August 26, 2016
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
This Past Year
I'm not going to lie. It's been a rough year for me. Too many changes, some good, some not so good.
It all began a year ago. A cash offer on our home near Chicago. Did we want to move? Yes. And no. We missed our children and grandchildren; however, we had plugged in and made awesome friends, and after much praying, the decision was made. We took the offer, sold half of our belongings, and headed back to whence we came. Ohio or bust.
Everything changed. We downsized, moved out into the country (for me anyway), and began a new (and much different) chapter in our lives.
June--sold our home, sold our stuff, bought a new home, packed our junk.
July--pretended like we were on vacation, said goodbye to friends and neighbors, and lived in a hotel for a couple of weeks. Friends from Belgium came and stayed at the hotel with us — it made it so much more bearable. Love that family!
August--Moved into a new house, realized it was a tiny house, that it was out in the boonies, and way too quiet. Unpacked, ran out of space, had granite installed throughout, painted the interior, and met new neighbors. Bought a new puppy--secretly hoping it would cheer us up, including our existing dog. It didn't--cheer us up, that is.
September — I went back to my old Bible study group, 45 minutes away. Played with the new puppy. Said goodbye to the old dog, who died of cancer. Grieved for her and am still dealing with losing her. Sadness overwhelmed me.
Visited daughter in DC. Played with the new puppy and babysat local grandkids. Joined New Clevelanders and got very involved in a club. Trying to stay positive.
October — enjoyed the beautiful fall colors of NE Ohio; they are breathtaking. A friend from Calif visited. Began puppy obedience training. Getting on with life. Missing Chicago friends.
November--went to Chicago for a week, visited old friends, shopped, ate, enjoyed life. Thanksgiving with my whole family, I loved it.
December--shopped, ate, enjoyed family. It's why we moved back. Busy with the club. The new house feels especially cramped. Trying hard to get used to a tiny house--that's what I've taken to calling it, even though it really isn't as small as I make it out to be.
January--after Christmas blues are setting in, trying hard to stay really busy. Still, haven't found the right church. Miss my old church, my old friends, my old dog, my old house, my river. Feeling sad.
February--lonely, sad, bored. Hard to feel optimistic. Trying though.
March — visited our daughter in DC; had lots of fun. Husband went to Congo, lonely for 2 weeks. I hate it when he goes. All alone, sad. Trying to keep very busy.
April--living life, staying busy with dog training, club activities, and family. Sister-in-law visited from CA.
May--coming to terms with father's terminal illness, went to CA, said goodbye to him for the last time, hardest trip ever. Beginning to cope with grief.
June--summer is here, along with stupid, ugly cicadas. I hate them--their sound, their buzzing around, their size, everything about those bugs--I hate them. They are everywhere.
Bible study and clubs are taking a summer break — I am now on the board, with lots of work to do, as our activities resume in a couple of months. Staying busy, planning a Sept vacation, and dealing with the fact that my phone could ring at any minute telling me that my father has died. Lots of sleepless nights. Lots of tears.
July--thinking a lot about death and dying. Praying for my mom, as my father just passed away. Trying to look forward to the future. Having a hard time, but getting through it. Praying hard.
August — I'll be learning to cope. Learning to lean on God. Learning...in all ways.
It's been one year. Full of sadness, and full of joy. Missing old friends, making new ones. Loving my family, especially my 7 grandchildren. Yes, 7! All in all, I'm glad we moved back to Ohio. I've discovered that although I don't like change, I need it. It's how I keep on my toes, keep relevant, keep in touch with God, and all that He has for me to do.
I'm looking forward to the next year. We have a big Europe trip planned, then the holidays hit, lots of club activities, and family fun. I'll keep busy, that's for sure. Also, I've learned that time does heal all wounds. I wouldn't change a thing in my life, even though at times I have wanted to. I've discovered that if I just let God lead me and if I follow Him, I'll be OK. So, that's what I'm going to do. Follow Him through every aspect of my life--the good and the bad, it's in His hands.
Saying goodbye is so hard, but saying hello isn't. It's saying hello to a new and exciting chapter of life. It's what I do. Even through my tears.
It all began a year ago. A cash offer on our home near Chicago. Did we want to move? Yes. And no. We missed our children and grandchildren; however, we had plugged in and made awesome friends, and after much praying, the decision was made. We took the offer, sold half of our belongings, and headed back to whence we came. Ohio or bust.
Everything changed. We downsized, moved out into the country (for me anyway), and began a new (and much different) chapter in our lives.
June--sold our home, sold our stuff, bought a new home, packed our junk.
July--pretended like we were on vacation, said goodbye to friends and neighbors, and lived in a hotel for a couple of weeks. Friends from Belgium came and stayed at the hotel with us — it made it so much more bearable. Love that family!
August--Moved into a new house, realized it was a tiny house, that it was out in the boonies, and way too quiet. Unpacked, ran out of space, had granite installed throughout, painted the interior, and met new neighbors. Bought a new puppy--secretly hoping it would cheer us up, including our existing dog. It didn't--cheer us up, that is.
September — I went back to my old Bible study group, 45 minutes away. Played with the new puppy. Said goodbye to the old dog, who died of cancer. Grieved for her and am still dealing with losing her. Sadness overwhelmed me.
Visited daughter in DC. Played with the new puppy and babysat local grandkids. Joined New Clevelanders and got very involved in a club. Trying to stay positive.
October — enjoyed the beautiful fall colors of NE Ohio; they are breathtaking. A friend from Calif visited. Began puppy obedience training. Getting on with life. Missing Chicago friends.
November--went to Chicago for a week, visited old friends, shopped, ate, enjoyed life. Thanksgiving with my whole family, I loved it.
December--shopped, ate, enjoyed family. It's why we moved back. Busy with the club. The new house feels especially cramped. Trying hard to get used to a tiny house--that's what I've taken to calling it, even though it really isn't as small as I make it out to be.
January--after Christmas blues are setting in, trying hard to stay really busy. Still, haven't found the right church. Miss my old church, my old friends, my old dog, my old house, my river. Feeling sad.
February--lonely, sad, bored. Hard to feel optimistic. Trying though.
March — visited our daughter in DC; had lots of fun. Husband went to Congo, lonely for 2 weeks. I hate it when he goes. All alone, sad. Trying to keep very busy.
April--living life, staying busy with dog training, club activities, and family. Sister-in-law visited from CA.
May--coming to terms with father's terminal illness, went to CA, said goodbye to him for the last time, hardest trip ever. Beginning to cope with grief.
June--summer is here, along with stupid, ugly cicadas. I hate them--their sound, their buzzing around, their size, everything about those bugs--I hate them. They are everywhere.
Bible study and clubs are taking a summer break — I am now on the board, with lots of work to do, as our activities resume in a couple of months. Staying busy, planning a Sept vacation, and dealing with the fact that my phone could ring at any minute telling me that my father has died. Lots of sleepless nights. Lots of tears.
July--thinking a lot about death and dying. Praying for my mom, as my father just passed away. Trying to look forward to the future. Having a hard time, but getting through it. Praying hard.
August — I'll be learning to cope. Learning to lean on God. Learning...in all ways.
It's been one year. Full of sadness, and full of joy. Missing old friends, making new ones. Loving my family, especially my 7 grandchildren. Yes, 7! All in all, I'm glad we moved back to Ohio. I've discovered that although I don't like change, I need it. It's how I keep on my toes, keep relevant, keep in touch with God, and all that He has for me to do.
I'm looking forward to the next year. We have a big Europe trip planned, then the holidays hit, lots of club activities, and family fun. I'll keep busy, that's for sure. Also, I've learned that time does heal all wounds. I wouldn't change a thing in my life, even though at times I have wanted to. I've discovered that if I just let God lead me and if I follow Him, I'll be OK. So, that's what I'm going to do. Follow Him through every aspect of my life--the good and the bad, it's in His hands.
Saying goodbye is so hard, but saying hello isn't. It's saying hello to a new and exciting chapter of life. It's what I do. Even through my tears.
Monday, July 11, 2016
Ashes to Ashes--The Legacy of a Man
On July 9th in the warm California afternoon sun, my father went home. And by that, I mean he went to heaven, he passed into the arms of his creator, his savior, his maker, his king, his Jesus. He was 85 years old, born in Oklahoma, moved to California as a child, met and married, raised a family and then died there. He is survived by his wife (my mom), 3 daughters, 6 grandchildren (with 3 grandchildren already in heaven) and a host of great-grandchildren.
In the Christian faith we believe that if one is "saved or born again" if they have accepted Christ as their Lord and Savior if they have confessed their sins and have asked Jesus Christ into their hearts--that when they die, they will go to heaven. Regardless of your beliefs, this is the belief system that my family embraces. And while I do not condemn yours (for that is not my place) I do adhere to mine. I love my God with all my heart. And I now pay tribute to the man who introduced me to my Lord.
When I was just 6 years old, and my father then 30--my family met Jesus for the first time. My father's conversion changed the course of my family forever. Because of his change, our lives were changed. There was a ripple effect--so to speak. He accepted Christ, then my mom, then his children and so on. Some of his siblings and their children soon followed. I believe that because of the drastic and dynamic change that came over my father--others came to believe also. If he could change that much--then God must be real. I guess back in the day, my dad was a real rabble rouser.
My dad was never a big talker. Until it came time to tell a great story from the past, some trouble that either he and his brothers got into and or funny story about his time in the military. Some were a little hard to believe--that's my dad? Boy, had he changed. And that change is what has affected my life the most. I wonder if he ever realized how much influence he had on me and mine? His 30 years of trouble making compared to his 55 years of serving God. I wonder?
As I reflect back on the dad I knew--he was quiet, he was extremely intelligent (a genius really) he was a very deep thinker, and he loved God and he loved my mom. He would have done anything for anyone, was very tender-hearted, and in the end, was more worried about the care of my mother over anyone or anything else.
I sat thinking this morning about what my dad had instilled in me as a child--values, life lessons, etc. when it occurred to me that he left me with the greatest gift of all. The best gift in all the world. He left me with the burning desire for my own children and grandchildren to love and serve God. The absolute most important thing in life to me is that my family love God. I honestly don't care about the other "stuff"--the successes in life, the money, homes, education, what have you. I only care about their relationship with Christ.
I think in saying that, I am paying tribute to my father. He, along with my mom, planted that seed in us as children. I once remember them saying--no matter what we do, even if we walk away from God, never, ever leave Him. Always follow God with all your hearts, souls and minds. Don't look at us, keep your eyes on Jesus. We will fail you, but God never will. And I always have and I always will. And I'm so thankful that they always have too.
Hope is something that Christians have. Hope that one day we will be reunited with those that have passed on into the next phase of "life". Hope that we will all see each other again one day soon. As my father entered into heaven he was greeted by so many loved ones. His parents, some siblings, many other family members and 3 of his own grandchildren. I can only imagine how excited he was to be able to shake off his tired old body and receive his new heavenly body, and to run and hug those that he loved so dearly--what a reunion!
So today, I thank God for healing my dad. For receiving him into heaven, to sit with him for all of eternity. Today, I thank my dad for showing me who God really is and for raising me in a Christian home. Today, I have hope. Today, I celebrate my dad's life. What a legacy!
My prayer is that I am the daughter that you always wanted me to be. I'm trying Dad, and I will see you someday soon. I promise.
In the Christian faith we believe that if one is "saved or born again" if they have accepted Christ as their Lord and Savior if they have confessed their sins and have asked Jesus Christ into their hearts--that when they die, they will go to heaven. Regardless of your beliefs, this is the belief system that my family embraces. And while I do not condemn yours (for that is not my place) I do adhere to mine. I love my God with all my heart. And I now pay tribute to the man who introduced me to my Lord.
When I was just 6 years old, and my father then 30--my family met Jesus for the first time. My father's conversion changed the course of my family forever. Because of his change, our lives were changed. There was a ripple effect--so to speak. He accepted Christ, then my mom, then his children and so on. Some of his siblings and their children soon followed. I believe that because of the drastic and dynamic change that came over my father--others came to believe also. If he could change that much--then God must be real. I guess back in the day, my dad was a real rabble rouser.
My dad was never a big talker. Until it came time to tell a great story from the past, some trouble that either he and his brothers got into and or funny story about his time in the military. Some were a little hard to believe--that's my dad? Boy, had he changed. And that change is what has affected my life the most. I wonder if he ever realized how much influence he had on me and mine? His 30 years of trouble making compared to his 55 years of serving God. I wonder?
As I reflect back on the dad I knew--he was quiet, he was extremely intelligent (a genius really) he was a very deep thinker, and he loved God and he loved my mom. He would have done anything for anyone, was very tender-hearted, and in the end, was more worried about the care of my mother over anyone or anything else.
I sat thinking this morning about what my dad had instilled in me as a child--values, life lessons, etc. when it occurred to me that he left me with the greatest gift of all. The best gift in all the world. He left me with the burning desire for my own children and grandchildren to love and serve God. The absolute most important thing in life to me is that my family love God. I honestly don't care about the other "stuff"--the successes in life, the money, homes, education, what have you. I only care about their relationship with Christ.
I think in saying that, I am paying tribute to my father. He, along with my mom, planted that seed in us as children. I once remember them saying--no matter what we do, even if we walk away from God, never, ever leave Him. Always follow God with all your hearts, souls and minds. Don't look at us, keep your eyes on Jesus. We will fail you, but God never will. And I always have and I always will. And I'm so thankful that they always have too.
Hope is something that Christians have. Hope that one day we will be reunited with those that have passed on into the next phase of "life". Hope that we will all see each other again one day soon. As my father entered into heaven he was greeted by so many loved ones. His parents, some siblings, many other family members and 3 of his own grandchildren. I can only imagine how excited he was to be able to shake off his tired old body and receive his new heavenly body, and to run and hug those that he loved so dearly--what a reunion!
So today, I thank God for healing my dad. For receiving him into heaven, to sit with him for all of eternity. Today, I thank my dad for showing me who God really is and for raising me in a Christian home. Today, I have hope. Today, I celebrate my dad's life. What a legacy!
My prayer is that I am the daughter that you always wanted me to be. I'm trying Dad, and I will see you someday soon. I promise.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Cicada Attack
One will never be able to say that I don't or can't laugh at myself. Do I feel a little foolish? Why yes, yes I do. But, it happened, so I'll share it, and laugh if you must, but also remember that the fear is real, very real.
Northeast Ohio is under attack. We have been invaded by the 17-year emergence of the ugliest bug you'd ever hope to see. It's a great big, 2 inches or bigger, ugly, flying Cicada. And I hate them. And I fear them. Yes, I have an irrational phobia of those ugly gross creatures. In 17 years, I hope to either be dead or on an extended vacation until they go back to where they came from, which is probably hell, I'm not even kidding. I can't even begin to explain to you how much I detest these horrible insects.
They invaded our neighborhood a couple of weeks ago. Stupid bugs. They are so loud that it sounds like a siren going off. Ugg, I hate that noise! They are everywhere. In the trees, in the grass, flying through the air, darting in and out of every single place, everywhere you look. It's absolutely horrific.
I've been asking my husband to walk our dog during their most active times, which is somewhere between the hours of 7:00 am to sundown when it cools off. Thankfully he's been available and willing since he recognizes that my fear is real. I'm not saying he understands it, he himself doesn't really have any true phobias. Me on the other hand, well, let's just say I make up for the both of us.
Today, my husband had to have a wisdom tooth removed. He took our pup out for her morning walk, I drove him to the oral surgeon's office and then back home. I got him all settled in, pain meds were taken, nap ready, and then I cozied in for a time of reading and relaxation. Everything was running like clockwork. Until my dog needed to go potty. Oh no. Not potty. Not outside where the Cicada devils are. No, please, can't you just hold it? Please? Wake up husband, I need you!
Well, I put her collar and leash on and out we went. The ugly bugs were doing their thing--flying, darting, making their stupid loud noise. All the while, I am ducking, bobbing and weaving, trying my hardest to get away from them. Hurry up puppy--do your thing!
I quickly ran inside, shut the door and whew! I made it. Kind of. As I was standing at the kitchen sink, I heard something. At my ear. So I swiped at the sound but still felt strange. Like something was there. So, I walked into the half bath and looked into the mirror. And low and behold, wouldn't you know it, one of those blankety, blank stupid Cicadas was on my back!
I'm so glad that my husband was sacked out in his chair, and that no one was visiting us because they would have gotten a show. It's also a very good thing that my shirt had a snap front because that shirt unsnapped and was off of my body so fast--as I ran out of the bathroom screaming and dancing around while ripping that shirt off of me as fast as I could. Once off and laying on the ground, I ran away from it, still shaken and practically (ok, not so practically) yelling and jumping up and down. The dog was barking, my husband sat up and was wondering what in the heck was going on. I couldn't go near the shirt and just keep jumping around yelling for him to get the bug.
He did, he's my hero. As I locked myself in our bedroom, he killed that dumb bug and saved me! In his medicated, drug induced state, he came to my rescue. Thank you, Jesus!
I have now calmed down, my shirt is back on, the dog is sleeping, my husband has had a good nap and all is well with the world. He's feeling better now and has assured me that he will walk our dog as long as those nasty bugs are out there terrorizing the neighborhood. Supposedly they'll be gone in a couple of weeks. I am counting the minutes. I'm not kidding.
Yes, it's been an eventful day around here. I'm still shaking from the cicada attack, but I'll be OK. As for my husband, he'll be OK too. I promise. I'll take really good care of him, keep him medicated and well feed--just as long as he protects me from those horrible Cicadas--I just hate them, I really do!
Yes, go ahead and laugh. He did, and even though I am not laughing, I'll forgive you if you do, it's OK, it really is.
Northeast Ohio is under attack. We have been invaded by the 17-year emergence of the ugliest bug you'd ever hope to see. It's a great big, 2 inches or bigger, ugly, flying Cicada. And I hate them. And I fear them. Yes, I have an irrational phobia of those ugly gross creatures. In 17 years, I hope to either be dead or on an extended vacation until they go back to where they came from, which is probably hell, I'm not even kidding. I can't even begin to explain to you how much I detest these horrible insects.
They invaded our neighborhood a couple of weeks ago. Stupid bugs. They are so loud that it sounds like a siren going off. Ugg, I hate that noise! They are everywhere. In the trees, in the grass, flying through the air, darting in and out of every single place, everywhere you look. It's absolutely horrific.
I've been asking my husband to walk our dog during their most active times, which is somewhere between the hours of 7:00 am to sundown when it cools off. Thankfully he's been available and willing since he recognizes that my fear is real. I'm not saying he understands it, he himself doesn't really have any true phobias. Me on the other hand, well, let's just say I make up for the both of us.
Today, my husband had to have a wisdom tooth removed. He took our pup out for her morning walk, I drove him to the oral surgeon's office and then back home. I got him all settled in, pain meds were taken, nap ready, and then I cozied in for a time of reading and relaxation. Everything was running like clockwork. Until my dog needed to go potty. Oh no. Not potty. Not outside where the Cicada devils are. No, please, can't you just hold it? Please? Wake up husband, I need you!
Well, I put her collar and leash on and out we went. The ugly bugs were doing their thing--flying, darting, making their stupid loud noise. All the while, I am ducking, bobbing and weaving, trying my hardest to get away from them. Hurry up puppy--do your thing!
I quickly ran inside, shut the door and whew! I made it. Kind of. As I was standing at the kitchen sink, I heard something. At my ear. So I swiped at the sound but still felt strange. Like something was there. So, I walked into the half bath and looked into the mirror. And low and behold, wouldn't you know it, one of those blankety, blank stupid Cicadas was on my back!
I'm so glad that my husband was sacked out in his chair, and that no one was visiting us because they would have gotten a show. It's also a very good thing that my shirt had a snap front because that shirt unsnapped and was off of my body so fast--as I ran out of the bathroom screaming and dancing around while ripping that shirt off of me as fast as I could. Once off and laying on the ground, I ran away from it, still shaken and practically (ok, not so practically) yelling and jumping up and down. The dog was barking, my husband sat up and was wondering what in the heck was going on. I couldn't go near the shirt and just keep jumping around yelling for him to get the bug.
He did, he's my hero. As I locked myself in our bedroom, he killed that dumb bug and saved me! In his medicated, drug induced state, he came to my rescue. Thank you, Jesus!
I have now calmed down, my shirt is back on, the dog is sleeping, my husband has had a good nap and all is well with the world. He's feeling better now and has assured me that he will walk our dog as long as those nasty bugs are out there terrorizing the neighborhood. Supposedly they'll be gone in a couple of weeks. I am counting the minutes. I'm not kidding.
Yes, it's been an eventful day around here. I'm still shaking from the cicada attack, but I'll be OK. As for my husband, he'll be OK too. I promise. I'll take really good care of him, keep him medicated and well feed--just as long as he protects me from those horrible Cicadas--I just hate them, I really do!
Yes, go ahead and laugh. He did, and even though I am not laughing, I'll forgive you if you do, it's OK, it really is.
Thursday, June 2, 2016
It's Almost time
In just a few days or maybe a few weeks, the time will come when my father takes his last breath. It's hard for me to even process this fact--that we all die. We all return to the place where we came. Dust to dust. Yes, it's so very hard to even contemplate death--for me anyway.
A couple of weeks ago, I flew home to California to visit with my parents and to say goodbye to my father one last time. I was concerned that he wouldn't know who I was, but he did; he knew. When I asked him how many daughters he had, he answered, and when I asked him if he knew who I was, he whispered--number 1 daughter.
It was hard for me. Seeing him in his hospital bed, so frail and weak. I desperately tried to get him to eat something and drink a little milk or juice — anything to give him some strength. He wanted nothing; he just kept saying that he was in pain, that his back hurt, and that he wanted to lie down. The nurses had him sitting up in a wheelchair at that point, and he was in so much pain. He begged to be taken back to bed. It was heartbreaking.
Over the course of a week, each day was different. One day, he wouldn't talk at all and could only make guttural sounds as he tried to communicate his needs; the next day, he would be sitting up and able to speak in 1- to 3-word phrases. I never knew what the day would bring. As painful as it was for me to witness, I believe that it was even more painful for him to watch me in such a mournful state. At one point, he asked for a tissue as big tears rolled down his cheeks as he watched me cry. I knew then that I had to get it together, for the sake of my dad, I had to get my emotions in check and be strong for him and my mom.
Each night back at our hotel, I would lie in the arms of my husband and sob. I am so thankful for him and will be forever grateful for his kindness and understanding during this time. He has been my rock, the only one that I can talk to and the only one who understands.
The week went by quickly, and once again, I was back to my reality, my life, my family. I was able to turn off the thoughts and emotions and go through my day. I have been calling my mother daily to keep on top of the health of my dad, and each day he grows worse. I live on pins and needles waiting for that dreaded and yet anticipated phone call.
Mostly, my heart breaks for my mom. She is alone now. Her best friend, her husband of 63+ years, is no longer able to live with her. She is all by herself. No companion, no partner in crime, no best friend to sit and watch late-night TV with. She is alone. I think that is what bothers me the most. Her loss. Not mine. Not my sisters. Not anyone else. Just her. My heart breaks for her.
I know that one day I will see my dad again in heaven. I am a Christian, and so is he. We have that peace, that assurance that we will one day be reunited. We don't live with a fear of death. We look forward to seeing God and being in His presence. It's comforting to us.
It's this time on earth that's a little disconcerting for me. This time of space that's in-between. Death for him, life for me. I know that once I also die, we'll see each other again. However, what about that in-between time? What do we do with that time? What will my mom do? That's what I am most concerned about. How do I comfort her? What do I say? It's so hard not living close to them. I feel so guilty, and yet, isn't this where God moved me?
To say that my family needs, no covets your prayers, is an understatement. My mom needs prayer in coping with the impending death of her husband, my father. My sister needs prayer in coping with the care of my mom, and I need prayer in coping with the guilt of not living in California. My father also needs your prayers. Please pray that he goes quickly and pain-free. Pray that both my parents find peace in God's perfect will. It's almost time.
A couple of weeks ago, I flew home to California to visit with my parents and to say goodbye to my father one last time. I was concerned that he wouldn't know who I was, but he did; he knew. When I asked him how many daughters he had, he answered, and when I asked him if he knew who I was, he whispered--number 1 daughter.
It was hard for me. Seeing him in his hospital bed, so frail and weak. I desperately tried to get him to eat something and drink a little milk or juice — anything to give him some strength. He wanted nothing; he just kept saying that he was in pain, that his back hurt, and that he wanted to lie down. The nurses had him sitting up in a wheelchair at that point, and he was in so much pain. He begged to be taken back to bed. It was heartbreaking.
Over the course of a week, each day was different. One day, he wouldn't talk at all and could only make guttural sounds as he tried to communicate his needs; the next day, he would be sitting up and able to speak in 1- to 3-word phrases. I never knew what the day would bring. As painful as it was for me to witness, I believe that it was even more painful for him to watch me in such a mournful state. At one point, he asked for a tissue as big tears rolled down his cheeks as he watched me cry. I knew then that I had to get it together, for the sake of my dad, I had to get my emotions in check and be strong for him and my mom.
Each night back at our hotel, I would lie in the arms of my husband and sob. I am so thankful for him and will be forever grateful for his kindness and understanding during this time. He has been my rock, the only one that I can talk to and the only one who understands.
The week went by quickly, and once again, I was back to my reality, my life, my family. I was able to turn off the thoughts and emotions and go through my day. I have been calling my mother daily to keep on top of the health of my dad, and each day he grows worse. I live on pins and needles waiting for that dreaded and yet anticipated phone call.
Mostly, my heart breaks for my mom. She is alone now. Her best friend, her husband of 63+ years, is no longer able to live with her. She is all by herself. No companion, no partner in crime, no best friend to sit and watch late-night TV with. She is alone. I think that is what bothers me the most. Her loss. Not mine. Not my sisters. Not anyone else. Just her. My heart breaks for her.
I know that one day I will see my dad again in heaven. I am a Christian, and so is he. We have that peace, that assurance that we will one day be reunited. We don't live with a fear of death. We look forward to seeing God and being in His presence. It's comforting to us.
It's this time on earth that's a little disconcerting for me. This time of space that's in-between. Death for him, life for me. I know that once I also die, we'll see each other again. However, what about that in-between time? What do we do with that time? What will my mom do? That's what I am most concerned about. How do I comfort her? What do I say? It's so hard not living close to them. I feel so guilty, and yet, isn't this where God moved me?
To say that my family needs, no covets your prayers, is an understatement. My mom needs prayer in coping with the impending death of her husband, my father. My sister needs prayer in coping with the care of my mom, and I need prayer in coping with the guilt of not living in California. My father also needs your prayers. Please pray that he goes quickly and pain-free. Pray that both my parents find peace in God's perfect will. It's almost time.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
A Bird's Wing
I saw something the other day that took my breath away. It was a wing. The wing of a bird that has been nesting in the wreath on my front door. She is a very sweet momma bird — a little finch. I've grown quite attached to her. I think she senses this because she does not dive bomb me when I peer into her little nest. I can't seem to stop looking at her babies or taking pictures of them. They fascinate me.
I have watched her for several weeks now. She brought little twigs and wove them into my wreath. She built her nest in layers. And finally, when she thought her nest was deep enough to shield her babies, she laid 5 beautiful little blue eggs. One each day for 5 days. And then she rested.
After almost 2 weeks, her little babies began to hatch. Sometimes I wonder if I was actually more excited about those new little babies than she was. With each new baby bird, I just grew more and more thrilled about them. They were (and still are) adorable.
It turned out that only 3 of my little baby birds survived, for I found 2 dead babies lying on my doorstep one morning. We carefully picked them up and disposed of them. It broke my heart. I had heard her the previous morning making all kinds of noise in her nest, and now, looking back, I think she was getting rid of them. She shoved those dead babies out so that her remaining babies had room to live and grow. She knew what was best--after all, she's the bird mom, not me.
Watching these little birds grow has been a wondrous thing for me. They are really beginning to get big, and I know that within a week or 2, they'll go. I have mixed emotions about that, but then again, I am a human. And a mom human to boot!
So, back to what I saw the other day, because that's really what I want to talk about--I saw the wing of the momma bird. She must have been lying somewhat on her side, for her wing was stretched out flat, covering her babies. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. It was perfection. I wish that I had had my camera with me; I would have taken a picture. However, I guess I will just have to remember it now — just a sweet memory.
There she was, that momma bird, her wing covering her babies, when I thought of something. It kind of hit me hard. My eyes filled with tears, my heart clenched tight, and my breath caught in my throat. I thought of God's protective wing covering me. God protects me just like this--I thought. Just like this. The wing of a bird. A simple, yet complex wing. Covering me, protecting me. How great is that? Just like a bird's wing.
I have watched her for several weeks now. She brought little twigs and wove them into my wreath. She built her nest in layers. And finally, when she thought her nest was deep enough to shield her babies, she laid 5 beautiful little blue eggs. One each day for 5 days. And then she rested.
After almost 2 weeks, her little babies began to hatch. Sometimes I wonder if I was actually more excited about those new little babies than she was. With each new baby bird, I just grew more and more thrilled about them. They were (and still are) adorable.
It turned out that only 3 of my little baby birds survived, for I found 2 dead babies lying on my doorstep one morning. We carefully picked them up and disposed of them. It broke my heart. I had heard her the previous morning making all kinds of noise in her nest, and now, looking back, I think she was getting rid of them. She shoved those dead babies out so that her remaining babies had room to live and grow. She knew what was best--after all, she's the bird mom, not me.
Watching these little birds grow has been a wondrous thing for me. They are really beginning to get big, and I know that within a week or 2, they'll go. I have mixed emotions about that, but then again, I am a human. And a mom human to boot!
So, back to what I saw the other day, because that's really what I want to talk about--I saw the wing of the momma bird. She must have been lying somewhat on her side, for her wing was stretched out flat, covering her babies. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. It was perfection. I wish that I had had my camera with me; I would have taken a picture. However, I guess I will just have to remember it now — just a sweet memory.
There she was, that momma bird, her wing covering her babies, when I thought of something. It kind of hit me hard. My eyes filled with tears, my heart clenched tight, and my breath caught in my throat. I thought of God's protective wing covering me. God protects me just like this--I thought. Just like this. The wing of a bird. A simple, yet complex wing. Covering me, protecting me. How great is that? Just like a bird's wing.
Monday, April 4, 2016
Just Come Home
I am going to admit something here--the last few days of this little mundane life of mine have been a tumultuous time for me, and also for my husband. I have always been very honest with my thoughts and feelings (to the point of being criticized), so why should it be any different now? Why shouldn't I share how horrible the last few days have been? And also what I did about it, how I reacted to said circumstances, and the outcome? I also want to share the good and the bad of those reactions. I think it's important for me, as a Christian, to evaluate my response to difficult situations and then work on the areas of weakness in my life.
As I blogged earlier, my husband went to Congo again for a 2-week mission trip, this time to help bring power to a hospital. I wasn't thrilled with the idea of him going--for lots of reasons, mostly all of them extremely selfish on my part. However, I stepped aside, and away he went. His excitement bugged me. Hey, I did warn you that I am honest with my thoughts. Anyway, during the 2 weeks he was gone, I tried hard to stay busy — clubs, friends, family, lunches, shopping, etc. Anything I could do to make the time go faster — I did.
Of course, during those 2 weeks, every type of weather known to man hit the Cleveland area. We had temps in the 70s, and then we had snow. We had wind gusts that sounded like my little house was going to blow down, and then we had beautiful blue skies. Extreme weather at its best. How did it affect me? Well, I had to walk our little 9-month-old puppy 5 times a day, morning, noon, and night. That isn't an unusual feat for me; other than if it's bad weather or very late at night, my husband will take over that duty. He's very helpful that way. So, imagine a crazy little puppy trying to go potty in windy, snowy conditions. She was afraid of her own shadow! Around and around the block we went, she pulling and tugging at her lead, too afraid to relax and let nature take its course. Ugg. A simple doggy walk sometimes took way too long. And as I was out there in the elements walking my pup, I would proceed to get madder and madder that life, in general, was falling in on me. And then I would proceed to have myself a little pity party.
By the time 2 weeks had rolled around, I was ready for the other half of this relationship to come home. I wanted someone to carry half the load of this life we had built. I was tired of going it alone. Coffee alone in the morning isn't fun for me, dinner alone every night isn't either. I noticed that I wasn't even laughing at sitcoms, and also, wasn't yelling at the TV when people picked the wrong house on House Hunters. In other words, life was not fun for me. Yes, I was ready. Ready to be a couple again. I needed my other half.
And then the phone call came. Weather. Bad weather. Stormy weather in Congo had grounded their plane, and he was now going to miss all his connecting flights. As I sat on the phone listening to his troubles, huge tears began to roll down my cheeks. I had so many plans for the next few days — for us. I didn't want to do them alone — not anymore. Maybe others can relate. Maybe some can't. I know that every marriage is different. Some aren't as closely intertwined as ours. We like to do most everything together. So this was a blow to both of us.
For several hours, the team tried hard to reschedule their flights. Finally, I received a text message — he'd be home 2 days late. It is what it is, though, so after hanging up, I had myself a good cry and tried to concentrate on praying for their safety. What he didn't tell me right then was that at first, he was told he couldn't get a flight out until the following week! And also, that he had contracted malaria and was coming down with a bad cold. He didn't want to worry me. However, we don't have that kind of marriage; we tell each other everything — good or bad —and we don't keep secrets. So, he wrote me a long email and filled me in on the details. After another good cry and a lot more praying, I finally went to bed knowing that he would eventually make it home, just not on my time--but God's.
Thankfully, I have some awesome friends who kept tabs on me — they called, prayed with me, and sent me texts and emails. My kids kept me busy, and I kept up with everyday life. I prayed a lot. The fact that he had malaria really bothered me. The next couple of nights, I had trouble sleeping and would just lie in bed and pray.
He was almost home when I received another phone call. After 4 flights, and only 1 to go--his last leg was canceled due to weather. He was stuck in Chicago. So close and yet...
There were no flights to Cleveland on any other airlines for 2 days! 2 more long days. He was done! I could hear it in his voice. It's funny how when one is down and out, the other steps in to pick up the pieces. There I sat, all alone in Cleveland, with him just a mere 6 hours away — talking him off the ledge (so to speak) and telling him it would all work out. He wanted to rent a car right then and drive the last 6 hours home — at night, in a snowstorm. No, I don't think so. I insisted he get a hotel room, rest up, shower, and rent a car the next morning.
About an hour later, my phone rang again — I'm on a plane to Detroit. Detroit? That way I'm closer to home. His plan was to spend the night in Detroit, rent a car the next morning, and drive for 3 hours and be home. It was all working out! That is when he realized that he didn't have his driver's license with him. He'd left it at home--who needs a license in Congo, right? Anyway, it was just another item that might get stolen. No license, no rental car. He felt trapped. He almost sounded panicked, which scared me a little.
I really believe that for both of us, that moment in time was the hardest part of the entire trip. 3 hours from home, in the middle of the night, and no way to get home. I begged him to check into a hotel and call me the next morning, and I promised we'd work things out. In my mind, I was just planning to drive to Detroit and pick him up. In his mind, he was already making plans to book another flight--no matter the cost. I thought we had a plan. I thought he'd go to sleep, but no — at 1:30 in the morning, my phone rang again — I have an early-morning flight to Cleveland; pick me up at the airport.
Oh my goodness, at this point, I thought the guy had left all his marbles in Congo! Go to sleep, I said--go to sleep! You sound crazy! He promised he would, so we hung up, and the next morning I was at the airport, picking up my nutty husband. He looked a little manic--I'm not going to lie. But he looked so happy to finally be home. His usual 30-hour trip to Congo had turned into almost 60 hours to get home.
Yes, he has malaria, yes, he has a bad cold, and yes, he's extremely tired. But he's home, and our little family is now reunited. I will take care of him, make sure he takes his meds, and make sure he gets enough sleep.
This is the saga of traveling to Africa. It's always something, right? For us, though, it isn't half as bad if we travel together. Plain and simple--we don't like being apart from each other. Maybe this will be his last trip to Congo; maybe not. I may go next time, if there is a next time. I learned that I have absolutely no control over my life or the lives of others. I've learned that God has complete control and that I have to rely on Him for all things. So, I will. I'll pray and go on living this awesome little life of mine. And for a few weeks at least, I'll savor these times with my husband. And I'll hope that for a while--well, that he won't bring up going back to Congo until I've fully recuperated from this little excursion. Yes, I did just say that. Until I have recuperated. You see, he doesn't have to recuperate, not really, for his heart is there — in Africa, with the people of Congo. I just hope he waits a while before going back. It's hard on me. It really is.
As I blogged earlier, my husband went to Congo again for a 2-week mission trip, this time to help bring power to a hospital. I wasn't thrilled with the idea of him going--for lots of reasons, mostly all of them extremely selfish on my part. However, I stepped aside, and away he went. His excitement bugged me. Hey, I did warn you that I am honest with my thoughts. Anyway, during the 2 weeks he was gone, I tried hard to stay busy — clubs, friends, family, lunches, shopping, etc. Anything I could do to make the time go faster — I did.
Of course, during those 2 weeks, every type of weather known to man hit the Cleveland area. We had temps in the 70s, and then we had snow. We had wind gusts that sounded like my little house was going to blow down, and then we had beautiful blue skies. Extreme weather at its best. How did it affect me? Well, I had to walk our little 9-month-old puppy 5 times a day, morning, noon, and night. That isn't an unusual feat for me; other than if it's bad weather or very late at night, my husband will take over that duty. He's very helpful that way. So, imagine a crazy little puppy trying to go potty in windy, snowy conditions. She was afraid of her own shadow! Around and around the block we went, she pulling and tugging at her lead, too afraid to relax and let nature take its course. Ugg. A simple doggy walk sometimes took way too long. And as I was out there in the elements walking my pup, I would proceed to get madder and madder that life, in general, was falling in on me. And then I would proceed to have myself a little pity party.
By the time 2 weeks had rolled around, I was ready for the other half of this relationship to come home. I wanted someone to carry half the load of this life we had built. I was tired of going it alone. Coffee alone in the morning isn't fun for me, dinner alone every night isn't either. I noticed that I wasn't even laughing at sitcoms, and also, wasn't yelling at the TV when people picked the wrong house on House Hunters. In other words, life was not fun for me. Yes, I was ready. Ready to be a couple again. I needed my other half.
And then the phone call came. Weather. Bad weather. Stormy weather in Congo had grounded their plane, and he was now going to miss all his connecting flights. As I sat on the phone listening to his troubles, huge tears began to roll down my cheeks. I had so many plans for the next few days — for us. I didn't want to do them alone — not anymore. Maybe others can relate. Maybe some can't. I know that every marriage is different. Some aren't as closely intertwined as ours. We like to do most everything together. So this was a blow to both of us.
For several hours, the team tried hard to reschedule their flights. Finally, I received a text message — he'd be home 2 days late. It is what it is, though, so after hanging up, I had myself a good cry and tried to concentrate on praying for their safety. What he didn't tell me right then was that at first, he was told he couldn't get a flight out until the following week! And also, that he had contracted malaria and was coming down with a bad cold. He didn't want to worry me. However, we don't have that kind of marriage; we tell each other everything — good or bad —and we don't keep secrets. So, he wrote me a long email and filled me in on the details. After another good cry and a lot more praying, I finally went to bed knowing that he would eventually make it home, just not on my time--but God's.
Thankfully, I have some awesome friends who kept tabs on me — they called, prayed with me, and sent me texts and emails. My kids kept me busy, and I kept up with everyday life. I prayed a lot. The fact that he had malaria really bothered me. The next couple of nights, I had trouble sleeping and would just lie in bed and pray.
He was almost home when I received another phone call. After 4 flights, and only 1 to go--his last leg was canceled due to weather. He was stuck in Chicago. So close and yet...
There were no flights to Cleveland on any other airlines for 2 days! 2 more long days. He was done! I could hear it in his voice. It's funny how when one is down and out, the other steps in to pick up the pieces. There I sat, all alone in Cleveland, with him just a mere 6 hours away — talking him off the ledge (so to speak) and telling him it would all work out. He wanted to rent a car right then and drive the last 6 hours home — at night, in a snowstorm. No, I don't think so. I insisted he get a hotel room, rest up, shower, and rent a car the next morning.
About an hour later, my phone rang again — I'm on a plane to Detroit. Detroit? That way I'm closer to home. His plan was to spend the night in Detroit, rent a car the next morning, and drive for 3 hours and be home. It was all working out! That is when he realized that he didn't have his driver's license with him. He'd left it at home--who needs a license in Congo, right? Anyway, it was just another item that might get stolen. No license, no rental car. He felt trapped. He almost sounded panicked, which scared me a little.
I really believe that for both of us, that moment in time was the hardest part of the entire trip. 3 hours from home, in the middle of the night, and no way to get home. I begged him to check into a hotel and call me the next morning, and I promised we'd work things out. In my mind, I was just planning to drive to Detroit and pick him up. In his mind, he was already making plans to book another flight--no matter the cost. I thought we had a plan. I thought he'd go to sleep, but no — at 1:30 in the morning, my phone rang again — I have an early-morning flight to Cleveland; pick me up at the airport.
Oh my goodness, at this point, I thought the guy had left all his marbles in Congo! Go to sleep, I said--go to sleep! You sound crazy! He promised he would, so we hung up, and the next morning I was at the airport, picking up my nutty husband. He looked a little manic--I'm not going to lie. But he looked so happy to finally be home. His usual 30-hour trip to Congo had turned into almost 60 hours to get home.
Yes, he has malaria, yes, he has a bad cold, and yes, he's extremely tired. But he's home, and our little family is now reunited. I will take care of him, make sure he takes his meds, and make sure he gets enough sleep.
This is the saga of traveling to Africa. It's always something, right? For us, though, it isn't half as bad if we travel together. Plain and simple--we don't like being apart from each other. Maybe this will be his last trip to Congo; maybe not. I may go next time, if there is a next time. I learned that I have absolutely no control over my life or the lives of others. I've learned that God has complete control and that I have to rely on Him for all things. So, I will. I'll pray and go on living this awesome little life of mine. And for a few weeks at least, I'll savor these times with my husband. And I'll hope that for a while--well, that he won't bring up going back to Congo until I've fully recuperated from this little excursion. Yes, I did just say that. Until I have recuperated. You see, he doesn't have to recuperate, not really, for his heart is there — in Africa, with the people of Congo. I just hope he waits a while before going back. It's hard on me. It really is.
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Coco Chanel # 4
There's this dog, you see. And she kinda stole my heart. I tried so hard not to let it happen. I thought to myself--I'll just like her a lot. I will hold her and hug her, feed her and walk her, train her and be good to her, but I won't love her. Nope. I am going to keep that love all bottled up for the dog I just lost. I just couldn't risk hurting that much again.
For that is how much I love my dogs, and that is how much I hurt when they die.
So, for me, it was just too risky. My heart was hurting too badly to take on anything else. And yet...it happened anyway. That little bi-black sheltie pup looked into my eyes and said it first. In her own little doggie puppy way, she said it first. I love you, Mom.
Now, what do I do? Not love her back? As she desperately tries to please me? As she lets me do just about anything to her--nail clipping, tail brushing, bath giving--you know all those mean things that dog moms do? When she stares at me expectantly, waiting for her next command--how can I not love her?
And then it hit me. She has healed my little broken heart. She has made me — yes, made me — love her. That sneaky little thing. At just 9 months old and just a mere 6 months after losing my last sheltie, this little girl has made me love her. She is the cutest, most cuddly little thing. Always licking, always jumping (hence the agility training), always by my side--she has let me know that in no uncertain terms, she will stick by me and be loyal to me and love me unconditionally. That's just the way dogs are.
They're sneaky like that. Those soft, fluffy, snuggly puppies. They worm their way in and then wind you around their little paws. How awesome is that? I didn't even see it coming.
Yes, when God creates you, makes and molds you, and you just happen to be a dog person (I realize some people aren't), I believe that he uses said dogs to teach you (me) life lessons. Lessons about love, compassion, empathy, and even loss. At least, that is how He works in my life many times. He works through my love of animals, most specifically dogs.
So my new pup Chanel keeps me very busy; we're in training. She also sits with me when I cry — which I tend to do a lot. She makes me laugh when I need it the most. She is the ever loyal friend. And as long as she'll have me, I'll be her ever loyal mom, loving her way past the end.
You see, I tend to love my dogs forever. God made me like that. And it's OK. It really is.
For that is how much I love my dogs, and that is how much I hurt when they die.
So, for me, it was just too risky. My heart was hurting too badly to take on anything else. And yet...it happened anyway. That little bi-black sheltie pup looked into my eyes and said it first. In her own little doggie puppy way, she said it first. I love you, Mom.
Now, what do I do? Not love her back? As she desperately tries to please me? As she lets me do just about anything to her--nail clipping, tail brushing, bath giving--you know all those mean things that dog moms do? When she stares at me expectantly, waiting for her next command--how can I not love her?
And then it hit me. She has healed my little broken heart. She has made me — yes, made me — love her. That sneaky little thing. At just 9 months old and just a mere 6 months after losing my last sheltie, this little girl has made me love her. She is the cutest, most cuddly little thing. Always licking, always jumping (hence the agility training), always by my side--she has let me know that in no uncertain terms, she will stick by me and be loyal to me and love me unconditionally. That's just the way dogs are.
They're sneaky like that. Those soft, fluffy, snuggly puppies. They worm their way in and then wind you around their little paws. How awesome is that? I didn't even see it coming.
Yes, when God creates you, makes and molds you, and you just happen to be a dog person (I realize some people aren't), I believe that he uses said dogs to teach you (me) life lessons. Lessons about love, compassion, empathy, and even loss. At least, that is how He works in my life many times. He works through my love of animals, most specifically dogs.
So my new pup Chanel keeps me very busy; we're in training. She also sits with me when I cry — which I tend to do a lot. She makes me laugh when I need it the most. She is the ever loyal friend. And as long as she'll have me, I'll be her ever loyal mom, loving her way past the end.
You see, I tend to love my dogs forever. God made me like that. And it's OK. It really is.
Sunday, March 27, 2016
Easter Musings
While watching the news this morning, it occurred to me that everyone was using the word Easter. All the newscasters were using it, and every commercial that aired mentioned their Easter sales. Many restaurants were advertising their lovely dinners and more. I kind of liked it.
I watched Easter services from around the globe, hearing people talk about church, even hearing the phrase "Christ is risen." Yes, I heard that too, from broadcast television. At first, I was stunned. Did they just say that on the news? Christ is risen? Huh.
I think I was so surprised because I had just become somewhat accustomed to hearing the word holiday over and over again during Christmas time. Holiday tree, holiday sales, holiday everything. And yet--the word Easter, not holiday, was used this morning. I'm not complaining — I'm just pondering this bit of information and trying to figure out why. Why is it so different? Why does the word Christmas offend, while the word Easter does not? I'm a little confused.
It seems that no one (at least in the secular world) wants to talk about the birth of Christ, and yet everyone (at least in the secular world) talks about His resurrection. Can a person believe in one without the other? I've heard more about the resurrection of Christ on television this past week than I have in a long time. And I don't watch religious TV. So I am baffled.
I was told by the media et al that the whole world wants to celebrate Christmas, er, I mean holiday time. They want to share in the gift-giving, meal planning, lights, and decorations, but please do not offend them with the C-word. Nope, do not even call that silly old tree a Christmas tree — it is now a holiday tree henceforth.
So, can you understand my confusion? Why is Easter so different? I do believe that Christians celebrate both equally, and so does the secular world, with Santa and the Easter bunny running neck and neck. Also noted this morning was the sale of candy, with Easter candy sales even topping Halloween candy sales! What?
And guess what else I found out? Most major retailers are closed today! Closed! I did find some pharmacies that are open, though. I checked. However, don't you remember all the stores that were vowing to stay open on Christmas Day for those last-minute shoppers? I do.
All this information is messing with my little pea brain. It's about to explode with all the questions I have swirling around inside. Why is Easter so much easier than Christmas for the world to hear about?
I wonder, is it because it contains hope? Hope that one day Christ will return for His church? Hope because He really did arise from the dead? Hope because at Christmas, He was just a baby, but at Easter, He was a man--a man who could really save us? I don't know. Maybe it's just too hard for some to believe or even care about a little baby--maybe that's why they are offended by the word Christmas. I'm not sure. However, how can one be offended by the word Easter when Christ is offering hope and life to all?
Yes, maybe that is my conclusion. Jesus who rose from the dead--is the one who saves us from death. He is our hope, our salvation, and our peace. There isn't one thing "holiday" about it.
It's Easter. And not just for Christians — it's Easter for all. Hope for all. Christ for all who believe.
Maybe the thought of hope is an easier pill to swallow. Maybe believing in a baby is just too much to ask of some.
This Easter, I will try to remember that--as I go out today for lunch with my grandkids. I will try hard to share God's love for this fallen world. I will try my hardest to be like Jesus and pray for those around me. Maybe, in some small way, through a smile or a kind word, I can reflect the love of Christ and show them what Easter is really all about. Maybe I can give someone a little bit of hope today.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Again Congo
I realize that I have not blogged in several weeks. I just haven't been in the mood to write. My emotions have been all over the board, up and down--ever changing. I'm not really used to that. I am usually more stable. However, these past few weeks have been hard. And good. Yes, they've been good too. That's why things have been so topsy-turvy for me. Sometimes I feel as though I am riding a roller coaster, and I hate roller coasters, I really do. I tend to like flat surfaces. Easy, steady, comfortable--you know, safe.
Yes, it's been a long few weeks for me. You see, my husband once again is in the Congo. The DRC, the continent of Africa. As I've watched him make purchases, pack his bags, and talk incessantly about this trip, it's been tough--for me. Not for him. He's been so excited that it's been hard to bring him back into reality, reality being me. Because after all, isn't it always all about me? No? OK, I guess not.
So, for these past few weeks, I've tried hard to be supportive. When he told me that he wanted to go back to the Congo, back into that dangerous country, fly on old, unsafe planes, stay in missionaries' homes that have guard shacks, and eat foods that I can't even imagine--what was I to say? I guess I did what most spouses would do — I said, "Do it, go, I'll pray for you." And then behind closed doors, I cried. I didn't really want him to go. Not really. I hate the thought of him being in any kind of danger, especially when our own government suggests that we not go. But, go he did.
It's just been a few days, but so much has happened that I don't even know where to begin. So, I'll start with this part. He wanted to fly through Brussels to visit our friends on his way to Africa, but alas, there were no available seats. He was so disappointed. He ended up making flight arrangements via Paris. And then look what happened that fateful, horrible morning in Brussels! I was so concerned for our friends who live there that I immediately had to make sure they were all ok, which, thankfully, they were. I didn't hear from my husband until a few hours later that day, not even to share stories with him. It seems that half their missionary team flew through Brussels and are now stranded there until tomorrow or the next day. But, at least they are all fine. Some have lost their luggage, they are all tired and wondering what will happen next, etc. My husband sounded exhausted, but at least he was able to make contact with me. I am so thankful for that.
This time around, he is working on a project to bring electricity to a local hospital. Can you even imagine checking into a hospital without electricity? I can't. However, I've seen the pictures, and wow, I am so grateful for where I live and the modern conveniences that I've grown up with. So very thankful for all I take for granted in this modern world. And yet for some, it's not so modern.
I've noticed that my prayers for him and the team are very different this time around. There is an urgency to these prayers of mine. It's hard to explain. I'll just have to pray as God directs me, I guess. There's really nothing more that I can do than that. I realize that I have absolutely no control over what goes on in this world. All I can do is pray.
I am wondering now how many more trips there will be. Is this the last one? Or just another one of many more to come? I know where his heart is. It's with the people of Congo. He loves them. It shows in his facial expressions as he speaks of them. So why would I ever talk him out of going?
He just called. A local missionary lent him his phone. He is missing home, and although he's hot, tired, and a little dehydrated, he sounded happy. They are working hard on this project. The rest of their team will hopefully be joining them in a few days. I hope they make it. I hope they get to experience what he is feeling. Joy, happiness, thankfulness, and most of all obedience to his God. He is doing what God has called him to do. He is content. He is in Congo. Need I say more?
Yes, it's been a long few weeks for me. You see, my husband once again is in the Congo. The DRC, the continent of Africa. As I've watched him make purchases, pack his bags, and talk incessantly about this trip, it's been tough--for me. Not for him. He's been so excited that it's been hard to bring him back into reality, reality being me. Because after all, isn't it always all about me? No? OK, I guess not.
So, for these past few weeks, I've tried hard to be supportive. When he told me that he wanted to go back to the Congo, back into that dangerous country, fly on old, unsafe planes, stay in missionaries' homes that have guard shacks, and eat foods that I can't even imagine--what was I to say? I guess I did what most spouses would do — I said, "Do it, go, I'll pray for you." And then behind closed doors, I cried. I didn't really want him to go. Not really. I hate the thought of him being in any kind of danger, especially when our own government suggests that we not go. But, go he did.
It's just been a few days, but so much has happened that I don't even know where to begin. So, I'll start with this part. He wanted to fly through Brussels to visit our friends on his way to Africa, but alas, there were no available seats. He was so disappointed. He ended up making flight arrangements via Paris. And then look what happened that fateful, horrible morning in Brussels! I was so concerned for our friends who live there that I immediately had to make sure they were all ok, which, thankfully, they were. I didn't hear from my husband until a few hours later that day, not even to share stories with him. It seems that half their missionary team flew through Brussels and are now stranded there until tomorrow or the next day. But, at least they are all fine. Some have lost their luggage, they are all tired and wondering what will happen next, etc. My husband sounded exhausted, but at least he was able to make contact with me. I am so thankful for that.
This time around, he is working on a project to bring electricity to a local hospital. Can you even imagine checking into a hospital without electricity? I can't. However, I've seen the pictures, and wow, I am so grateful for where I live and the modern conveniences that I've grown up with. So very thankful for all I take for granted in this modern world. And yet for some, it's not so modern.
I've noticed that my prayers for him and the team are very different this time around. There is an urgency to these prayers of mine. It's hard to explain. I'll just have to pray as God directs me, I guess. There's really nothing more that I can do than that. I realize that I have absolutely no control over what goes on in this world. All I can do is pray.
I am wondering now how many more trips there will be. Is this the last one? Or just another one of many more to come? I know where his heart is. It's with the people of Congo. He loves them. It shows in his facial expressions as he speaks of them. So why would I ever talk him out of going?
He just called. A local missionary lent him his phone. He is missing home, and although he's hot, tired, and a little dehydrated, he sounded happy. They are working hard on this project. The rest of their team will hopefully be joining them in a few days. I hope they make it. I hope they get to experience what he is feeling. Joy, happiness, thankfulness, and most of all obedience to his God. He is doing what God has called him to do. He is content. He is in Congo. Need I say more?
Thursday, February 4, 2016
My Dog Ate Your Handbag
Oh, the horror. Can you even imagine how I felt?
This is what happened. My daughter and I have a love of handbags. If you don't share the love, you won't even begin to understand what I am writing about. You have to genuinely love handbags, and not just any old handbag--I'm talking designer bags. You know, the good stuff. Why I have this affliction is beyond me. My mother doesn't have it (although she does like purses), and she doesn't care about the designer aspect. My daughter and I, though — well, we are lost in handbag designer heaven. Or hell?
So, as any mother and daughter sometimes do, we decided it might be fun to swap a couple of our bags for a few months and see if we like each other's purses before investing in another handbag. Brilliant idea! As we traded, I set her handbag on my puppy's crate for later use and walked away. And that's when it happened. We had left for a few hours of shopping and fun, and when I returned home, I realized that my little dog had jumped up, grabbed my daughter's handbag, and chewed the tabs on either end of the zipper, as well as a couple of other areas. I was devastated. How could that have happened? She'd never gotten anything off her crate before. Was she even tall enough to reach?
I knew that I would eventually have to fess up to my daughter. So, with sweaty palms, I told her what happened. I also told her to send it to the store for repair, and that I, of course, would pay for the damages. Which came to $425. Gulp. I couldn't believe it. So today I mailed her a check, and hopefully, before long, she'll have her handbag returned to her, good as new.
I guess the reason I am writing about this is twofold. One, puppies are crazy and will destroy many items if left unattended. Even if they are attended to, they sometimes manage to damage our things (or treasures) right under our noses. I think of myself as being a darn good dog mom. I obedience train, crate, leash, and socialize my dog, etc. However, sometimes stuff just happens. And two, things are things. I want to always remember that. Things are nothing more than things. This little puppy of mine brings me more joy than I can put into words. She makes me happy. I smile when she walks into a room. She's silly and clumsy and loving all at the same time. And what's a handbag anyway? They can be replaced (or, in my case, repaired), whereas my little puppy? Well, now that would be a horrific thought.
So, as I mailed the check to my daughter today, I kissed the money goodbye, gave my puppy a hug, and let bygones be bygones. I will, however, keep her crate clear of any valuables.
I learned a hard lesson. And I'm OK with that. Lessons learned have value and are sometimes costly, but they are never worthless. Mine aren't anyway. However, next time I hope they aren't so expensive, right?
No, no, bad dog!
This is what happened. My daughter and I have a love of handbags. If you don't share the love, you won't even begin to understand what I am writing about. You have to genuinely love handbags, and not just any old handbag--I'm talking designer bags. You know, the good stuff. Why I have this affliction is beyond me. My mother doesn't have it (although she does like purses), and she doesn't care about the designer aspect. My daughter and I, though — well, we are lost in handbag designer heaven. Or hell?
So, as any mother and daughter sometimes do, we decided it might be fun to swap a couple of our bags for a few months and see if we like each other's purses before investing in another handbag. Brilliant idea! As we traded, I set her handbag on my puppy's crate for later use and walked away. And that's when it happened. We had left for a few hours of shopping and fun, and when I returned home, I realized that my little dog had jumped up, grabbed my daughter's handbag, and chewed the tabs on either end of the zipper, as well as a couple of other areas. I was devastated. How could that have happened? She'd never gotten anything off her crate before. Was she even tall enough to reach?
I knew that I would eventually have to fess up to my daughter. So, with sweaty palms, I told her what happened. I also told her to send it to the store for repair, and that I, of course, would pay for the damages. Which came to $425. Gulp. I couldn't believe it. So today I mailed her a check, and hopefully, before long, she'll have her handbag returned to her, good as new.
I guess the reason I am writing about this is twofold. One, puppies are crazy and will destroy many items if left unattended. Even if they are attended to, they sometimes manage to damage our things (or treasures) right under our noses. I think of myself as being a darn good dog mom. I obedience train, crate, leash, and socialize my dog, etc. However, sometimes stuff just happens. And two, things are things. I want to always remember that. Things are nothing more than things. This little puppy of mine brings me more joy than I can put into words. She makes me happy. I smile when she walks into a room. She's silly and clumsy and loving all at the same time. And what's a handbag anyway? They can be replaced (or, in my case, repaired), whereas my little puppy? Well, now that would be a horrific thought.
So, as I mailed the check to my daughter today, I kissed the money goodbye, gave my puppy a hug, and let bygones be bygones. I will, however, keep her crate clear of any valuables.
I learned a hard lesson. And I'm OK with that. Lessons learned have value and are sometimes costly, but they are never worthless. Mine aren't anyway. However, next time I hope they aren't so expensive, right?
No, no, bad dog!
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Same Time Next Year
Do you know what I am hoping for next year? I am hoping for stability. I know that sounds a little melodramatic; however, this past year has hit me a little hard. There have been way too many changes for me. To some, they might seem like simple changes; to me, they were more like life changes. And to tell you the truth, I am tired. I feel emotionally worn out, and I would like things to become simple. Quiet, calm, unchanging...Am I asking for too much? Probably.
It's not going to keep me from praying that way, though. I don't want anyone to die, I don't want to move, I don't want to lose another dog, and I don't want to be lonely. What I do want is this — I want lots of time with family and friends. I want to travel and play with/train my new puppy. I want to eat healthily and have the pain in my hip subside. I think all these things sound reasonable.
And there is one thing I know for sure, one stable thing. God has never ever failed me. Does that mean that everything will be just how I want it to be, or go just how I want it to go? No. It just means that, like this year, He will walk me through all the processes of change. If there are any. Which I hope there aren't. However, you and I both know that there will be. There always is. Change. I won't be alone, though, no matter what happens, no matter if I move again (gasp) or if someone I love dies, or if, if, if--God will shield me. From what? Myself. He will shield me from myself. I need that more than anything. I need to realize, moment by moment, that He is in complete control of my life and the lives of those around me. And I need to accept those changes in my life as good things because all good things come from Him and Him alone.
So, in all my talk about stability, maybe I should be trying harder to be aware of all the work that God is doing around me. Maybe this year, I'll be more in tune with what He's doing in my life and others, and maybe just maybe by this time next year--I'll be just a little wiser. Maybe.
It's not going to keep me from praying that way, though. I don't want anyone to die, I don't want to move, I don't want to lose another dog, and I don't want to be lonely. What I do want is this — I want lots of time with family and friends. I want to travel and play with/train my new puppy. I want to eat healthily and have the pain in my hip subside. I think all these things sound reasonable.
And there is one thing I know for sure, one stable thing. God has never ever failed me. Does that mean that everything will be just how I want it to be, or go just how I want it to go? No. It just means that, like this year, He will walk me through all the processes of change. If there are any. Which I hope there aren't. However, you and I both know that there will be. There always is. Change. I won't be alone, though, no matter what happens, no matter if I move again (gasp) or if someone I love dies, or if, if, if--God will shield me. From what? Myself. He will shield me from myself. I need that more than anything. I need to realize, moment by moment, that He is in complete control of my life and the lives of those around me. And I need to accept those changes in my life as good things because all good things come from Him and Him alone.
So, in all my talk about stability, maybe I should be trying harder to be aware of all the work that God is doing around me. Maybe this year, I'll be more in tune with what He's doing in my life and others, and maybe just maybe by this time next year--I'll be just a little wiser. Maybe.
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
This Christmas
What a strange year this has been. Everything was seemingly normal until 6 months ago, when wham, everything changed. Our lives as we knew them were turned upside down. Sometimes I like that. I like it when things change, and there's an air of expectancy; you just know that something fun is about to happen. That wasn't the case this time.
No, we had gone and done exactly what I never wanted to do. I had plugged in and made friends in the new little town we had moved to 5 years ago. How dumb was that? We knew we weren't staying long. As I mentioned, I expected 2 or 3 years, at most. And then we'd move back to a place closer to our kids and grandkids. However, those 2 or 3 years turned into 5 years, and my heart (at least a piece of it) now belonged to them. They are the friends and neighbors we made while living there. You'd think I'd learn, but no. I like people, I like to make friends, I really like to explore my surroundings, and then I fall in love with all of the above.
Why do I do that? I know it's only going to hurt when I leave. I guess it's just the way God made me. I'm a plugger inner. Who knew? So, for 5 years, I either spent Christmas in our new little town or we'd go to one of our kids' houses. Either way, it never felt normal. To me, it felt strange and temporary, almost as if we were all staying at a hotel. And while that may sound like fun, it's not. Not at Christmas. I need those warm fuzzy feelings of hearth and home. I need the smell of cookies and firewood, trees, and bread to make it feel like Christmas.
One of the Christmases we did manage to all end up at our house, 14 of us. It was so much fun for me that I almost forgot that we all lived in different towns, cities, and states. Almost. After they all went home, I cried. I missed my old house, my old life, and my kids.
This past August, we moved back to Ohio, close to 2 of our kids and only 6 hours away from another. That might sound like a long way away, but after a 13-hour drive to visit them, well, this seems like a cake walk. I am over the moon with happiness to be so close to my kids. I love it. I love everything about it. The babysitting, the visiting, the lunches and dinners, the holidays. It's wonderful. Almost.
What I didn't realize is that this Christmas I would be desperately missing my friends and neighbors. I thought (I hoped) it would be an easy transition. After all, isn't this what I wanted? Didn't I want to live close to my children and grandchildren? And yet, even though the answer to that question is a resounding YES, I still miss and long for my friends. What a strange year this has turned out to be.
One might think that the moral of this story would be to avoid friendships altogether--if you live a nomadic life such as mine, that is. But that just isn't my personality or character. I happen to make friends wherever I go, whether it's on vacation, on a business trip, or when moving across the country. I am the type who plugs in, makes friends, hunkers down, and nests. That's what I do, I nest. And I'm OK with that. For I have found that over these many years of bouncing around, and all these years of collecting friends, and all these years of meeting the most incredible people, well, I wouldn't change a thing. They have influenced my life in ways they'll never know. I wouldn't be who I am today without them--they have been such a huge part of who I have become.
So, this Christmas, I am asking that you allow me to be a little sad. I'm OK. I just miss my friends. It isn't that I don't love my family or that I didn't want to move back to Ohio. It's just a very simple fact of life--when you make friends and move away from them, something deep down inside is missing. I'll hold on to my memories, though, and hope and pray that they'll come visit me. And I them. For I deeply love them and can't imagine a life without them.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Hold tight to your friends and family this year. For you never know where you'll be next year. You just never know.
No, we had gone and done exactly what I never wanted to do. I had plugged in and made friends in the new little town we had moved to 5 years ago. How dumb was that? We knew we weren't staying long. As I mentioned, I expected 2 or 3 years, at most. And then we'd move back to a place closer to our kids and grandkids. However, those 2 or 3 years turned into 5 years, and my heart (at least a piece of it) now belonged to them. They are the friends and neighbors we made while living there. You'd think I'd learn, but no. I like people, I like to make friends, I really like to explore my surroundings, and then I fall in love with all of the above.
Why do I do that? I know it's only going to hurt when I leave. I guess it's just the way God made me. I'm a plugger inner. Who knew? So, for 5 years, I either spent Christmas in our new little town or we'd go to one of our kids' houses. Either way, it never felt normal. To me, it felt strange and temporary, almost as if we were all staying at a hotel. And while that may sound like fun, it's not. Not at Christmas. I need those warm fuzzy feelings of hearth and home. I need the smell of cookies and firewood, trees, and bread to make it feel like Christmas.
One of the Christmases we did manage to all end up at our house, 14 of us. It was so much fun for me that I almost forgot that we all lived in different towns, cities, and states. Almost. After they all went home, I cried. I missed my old house, my old life, and my kids.
This past August, we moved back to Ohio, close to 2 of our kids and only 6 hours away from another. That might sound like a long way away, but after a 13-hour drive to visit them, well, this seems like a cake walk. I am over the moon with happiness to be so close to my kids. I love it. I love everything about it. The babysitting, the visiting, the lunches and dinners, the holidays. It's wonderful. Almost.
What I didn't realize is that this Christmas I would be desperately missing my friends and neighbors. I thought (I hoped) it would be an easy transition. After all, isn't this what I wanted? Didn't I want to live close to my children and grandchildren? And yet, even though the answer to that question is a resounding YES, I still miss and long for my friends. What a strange year this has turned out to be.
One might think that the moral of this story would be to avoid friendships altogether--if you live a nomadic life such as mine, that is. But that just isn't my personality or character. I happen to make friends wherever I go, whether it's on vacation, on a business trip, or when moving across the country. I am the type who plugs in, makes friends, hunkers down, and nests. That's what I do, I nest. And I'm OK with that. For I have found that over these many years of bouncing around, and all these years of collecting friends, and all these years of meeting the most incredible people, well, I wouldn't change a thing. They have influenced my life in ways they'll never know. I wouldn't be who I am today without them--they have been such a huge part of who I have become.
So, this Christmas, I am asking that you allow me to be a little sad. I'm OK. I just miss my friends. It isn't that I don't love my family or that I didn't want to move back to Ohio. It's just a very simple fact of life--when you make friends and move away from them, something deep down inside is missing. I'll hold on to my memories, though, and hope and pray that they'll come visit me. And I them. For I deeply love them and can't imagine a life without them.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Hold tight to your friends and family this year. For you never know where you'll be next year. You just never know.
Friday, December 18, 2015
Making Adjustments
I'm thinking I might be one of those people who learn a little differently or a little more slowly than most. I tend to be a slow processor or a visual learner. Even when God drops something profound into my heart, it takes me a while to assimilate and make it a real part of my learning experience. And then, eventually, I grasp it fully and move on.
It's happening like that now. Slowly and surely, adjustments are being made to my life. I'll be honest with you, though, sometimes those adjustments hurt. I really don't like them much. However, afterward? Well, afterward, I find that in looking back, I wouldn't have it any other way. Those adjustments save me in so many ways. As I was sitting in Bible study the other morning, surrounded by friends old and new, God began to speak to me in his soft, clear, strong voice — He talked while I listened. I really didn't hear much of what the other ladies said for the rest of the morning, for I was stuck. Stuck on what He was showing me. We had just read the verse in the Bible about Him being the vine, and we are the branches--and then my brain took off. That's kind of how God works with me. He's very patient, kind and loving, He never pushes me, He just waits for me to keep up and learn. I appreciate that.
I think the best way to describe this exercise is to explain it this way. I have a new puppy. She is 6 months old, and I've named her Coco Chanel #4. She is a bi-black Shetland Sheepdog. I could tell you the whole long boring story behind her naming, but I'll make it short. She's my 4th sheltie, and I wanted a Chanel handbag for my 60th birthday — thus the dog and her name. So, as I do with all my new puppies, I signed us up for puppy training classes. Puppy 101. It consists mainly of simple commands and socializing said puppy. She's learned to sit, stand, and come--with heal and stay in the near future--Puppy 102 when she graduates. I'm not kidding. And yes, there will be a 3 and a 4, as I continue to train her for future agility and obedience courses and shows. We're going all the way with this puppy; she's fast, and she's smart, and for the most part, pretty compliant.
And while it might sound like I am talking about puppy training here, I'm not. Not really. I'm actually talking about the way God trains me. I've been in classes with Him my entire life. From the minute I accepted Him into my heart, I've been in training. I've learned to sit, come, down, heel, stand, and just about any other command that He might throw my way. Yes, I've been obedient for the most part--as far as I know. However, along the way, in classes 1-10, maybe not so much. I'm thinking I probably pulled on the lead, lagged behind, raced forward, and downed when I should have sat, etc. I think you get the point. And yet, He never once hit me, kicked me, yelled at me, or got rid of me. He was patient, kind, understanding, gentle, and loved me unconditionally. Yes, once in a while, he jerked up on my choke chain. He might have even given me a stern NO, or two, but never, ever, out of hatred. No, it was always out of love.
And that's kind of how I am with my new puppy. First off, she has managed to worm her way into my heart. And secondly, I am training her out of love. I want her to be obedient, as much for her benefit as mine.
So, back to the branches thing. What God showed me that morning was the importance of always remembering that He, and He alone, is the vine. It's when I take that role upon myself that I find I get into trouble. I'm the branch. I need to remember that. It's a very simple analogy. However, I believe that most of us humans complicate. And I think that that morning God was gently reminding me of my place. At His side, not pulling or lagging. Just right beside Him, my eyes looking up to His face, waiting for my next command.
I watch my little puppy do this at 6 months old. She sits there next to me, looking, waiting, willing, trusting. I wonder — can I do that with my God? That was my real lesson that morning. One of teaching. And no, you're never too old to learn. I am proof of that.
It's happening like that now. Slowly and surely, adjustments are being made to my life. I'll be honest with you, though, sometimes those adjustments hurt. I really don't like them much. However, afterward? Well, afterward, I find that in looking back, I wouldn't have it any other way. Those adjustments save me in so many ways. As I was sitting in Bible study the other morning, surrounded by friends old and new, God began to speak to me in his soft, clear, strong voice — He talked while I listened. I really didn't hear much of what the other ladies said for the rest of the morning, for I was stuck. Stuck on what He was showing me. We had just read the verse in the Bible about Him being the vine, and we are the branches--and then my brain took off. That's kind of how God works with me. He's very patient, kind and loving, He never pushes me, He just waits for me to keep up and learn. I appreciate that.
I think the best way to describe this exercise is to explain it this way. I have a new puppy. She is 6 months old, and I've named her Coco Chanel #4. She is a bi-black Shetland Sheepdog. I could tell you the whole long boring story behind her naming, but I'll make it short. She's my 4th sheltie, and I wanted a Chanel handbag for my 60th birthday — thus the dog and her name. So, as I do with all my new puppies, I signed us up for puppy training classes. Puppy 101. It consists mainly of simple commands and socializing said puppy. She's learned to sit, stand, and come--with heal and stay in the near future--Puppy 102 when she graduates. I'm not kidding. And yes, there will be a 3 and a 4, as I continue to train her for future agility and obedience courses and shows. We're going all the way with this puppy; she's fast, and she's smart, and for the most part, pretty compliant.
And while it might sound like I am talking about puppy training here, I'm not. Not really. I'm actually talking about the way God trains me. I've been in classes with Him my entire life. From the minute I accepted Him into my heart, I've been in training. I've learned to sit, come, down, heel, stand, and just about any other command that He might throw my way. Yes, I've been obedient for the most part--as far as I know. However, along the way, in classes 1-10, maybe not so much. I'm thinking I probably pulled on the lead, lagged behind, raced forward, and downed when I should have sat, etc. I think you get the point. And yet, He never once hit me, kicked me, yelled at me, or got rid of me. He was patient, kind, understanding, gentle, and loved me unconditionally. Yes, once in a while, he jerked up on my choke chain. He might have even given me a stern NO, or two, but never, ever, out of hatred. No, it was always out of love.
And that's kind of how I am with my new puppy. First off, she has managed to worm her way into my heart. And secondly, I am training her out of love. I want her to be obedient, as much for her benefit as mine.
So, back to the branches thing. What God showed me that morning was the importance of always remembering that He, and He alone, is the vine. It's when I take that role upon myself that I find I get into trouble. I'm the branch. I need to remember that. It's a very simple analogy. However, I believe that most of us humans complicate. And I think that that morning God was gently reminding me of my place. At His side, not pulling or lagging. Just right beside Him, my eyes looking up to His face, waiting for my next command.
I watch my little puppy do this at 6 months old. She sits there next to me, looking, waiting, willing, trusting. I wonder — can I do that with my God? That was my real lesson that morning. One of teaching. And no, you're never too old to learn. I am proof of that.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Watching God
Yes, I am a God watcher. I have been watching Him since I was about 5 1/2 years old. I watched Him change my parents' lives. I watched Him change the lives of other adults around me, too. And I watched Him meet my basic needs and then some. Always. Never once did He let me down.
As I sit here today, thinking about God during this time of year — Autumn —I always wax nostalgic. I become even more aware of all the things in my life that I am thankful for. My gratitude swells, my eyes mist over, and my heart leaps in my chest when I think of God and all that He has done for me.
Not to dwell too much on my childhood (but just enough to make my point), I watched God move in and through my life. I watched Him draw me to Him, and then I watched as He protected me, provided for me, and comforted me. He was always there, just a breath away. All I ever had to do was call for Him. I would and still do feel His presence immediately.
Yes, I am a God watcher. As an adult, I have watched Him heal my family and friends, mend their marriages, and provide them with jobs. It's kind of funny, though--as I prayed for them, there was never any doubt in my mind that He was not hearing me. No, I knew that I knew that He heard every word I spoke. And I also knew that if it was in any way going to benefit the people I love, well, He would answer my prayers for them.
As I raised my own little family, I watched Him work in my children's hearts and lives. And now, the same with my grandchildren. My prayer is that they, too, will become God watchers. And that they will come to rely on Him the way I do.
When it comes to praying for myself, it's much the same. I pray, He hears. I then watch as He works. It's always been that way, and I see no reason for it to change. As long as I keep watching, I'll keep seeing. Notice that I did not say — as long as I keep watching, He'll keep working. Nope. I meant what I said the first time. He is always working. He'll never stop working. And I am always watching. I've got my eyes on Him. That awesome father of mine. He hasn't failed me yet.
I'm watching Him right now. I'm watching as He heals my heart — it's a little broken. I miss my friends, and right now I'm watching Him add to my collection. I'm making new friends. I'm watching Him watch me as I play with my new little puppy. He watched me all those nights as I cried myself to sleep, mourning the death of my beautiful little Sheltie--yes, He cared enough to watch over me even then. He's watching me heal, from the inside out. He's right there watching me smile, laugh, run, and play with my new little pup. And I feel Him smiling. He wants me happy. He's my father.
To have this kind of relationship with God is life-changing. I rest in His arms, He holds me and protects me, and I really don't worry about too much at all. What I do is watch. Because I am a God watcher. And he is a me watcher. How about that? He's watching over me. Every single minute of every single day. For the rest of my life--He's watching over me.
That is what I see and feel as I look at autumn colors, feel those cool fall breezes, close my eyes, smell wood burning in fireplaces, and hear the crunch of leaves under my feet as I walk my little dog. God is watching me, and I am watching Him.
Grateful, thankful, humbled before God my father--as I watch Him.
As I sit here today, thinking about God during this time of year — Autumn —I always wax nostalgic. I become even more aware of all the things in my life that I am thankful for. My gratitude swells, my eyes mist over, and my heart leaps in my chest when I think of God and all that He has done for me.
Not to dwell too much on my childhood (but just enough to make my point), I watched God move in and through my life. I watched Him draw me to Him, and then I watched as He protected me, provided for me, and comforted me. He was always there, just a breath away. All I ever had to do was call for Him. I would and still do feel His presence immediately.
Yes, I am a God watcher. As an adult, I have watched Him heal my family and friends, mend their marriages, and provide them with jobs. It's kind of funny, though--as I prayed for them, there was never any doubt in my mind that He was not hearing me. No, I knew that I knew that He heard every word I spoke. And I also knew that if it was in any way going to benefit the people I love, well, He would answer my prayers for them.
As I raised my own little family, I watched Him work in my children's hearts and lives. And now, the same with my grandchildren. My prayer is that they, too, will become God watchers. And that they will come to rely on Him the way I do.
When it comes to praying for myself, it's much the same. I pray, He hears. I then watch as He works. It's always been that way, and I see no reason for it to change. As long as I keep watching, I'll keep seeing. Notice that I did not say — as long as I keep watching, He'll keep working. Nope. I meant what I said the first time. He is always working. He'll never stop working. And I am always watching. I've got my eyes on Him. That awesome father of mine. He hasn't failed me yet.
I'm watching Him right now. I'm watching as He heals my heart — it's a little broken. I miss my friends, and right now I'm watching Him add to my collection. I'm making new friends. I'm watching Him watch me as I play with my new little puppy. He watched me all those nights as I cried myself to sleep, mourning the death of my beautiful little Sheltie--yes, He cared enough to watch over me even then. He's watching me heal, from the inside out. He's right there watching me smile, laugh, run, and play with my new little pup. And I feel Him smiling. He wants me happy. He's my father.
To have this kind of relationship with God is life-changing. I rest in His arms, He holds me and protects me, and I really don't worry about too much at all. What I do is watch. Because I am a God watcher. And he is a me watcher. How about that? He's watching over me. Every single minute of every single day. For the rest of my life--He's watching over me.
That is what I see and feel as I look at autumn colors, feel those cool fall breezes, close my eyes, smell wood burning in fireplaces, and hear the crunch of leaves under my feet as I walk my little dog. God is watching me, and I am watching Him.
Grateful, thankful, humbled before God my father--as I watch Him.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
My Belgian Lace
This week, we said goodbye to our beautiful Shetland Sheepdog. She was only 10 years old, and she had cancer. We've known since January, when a large tumor was removed from her lower back. I guess I should be thankful — she lived another 9 months. Everyone (the Vets) was surprised at how well she was doing. Right up until the very end, she played, loved her walks, and was seemingly happy. However, those last couple of weeks — well, things went downhill quickly. I won't go into detail, but we knew, we just knew, our baby dog was in pain. She wanted us to let her go.
Putting a dog down is one of the hardest things in life for me. I am a total and complete dog person. I grew up with dogs, my kids grew up with dogs, and now, as an empty nester, I still have dogs. I will always have a dog. And I have loved this dog, my Lacey, with all my heart. She was super intelligent, very intuitive, and completely and unconditionally loving. We took her everywhere with us, we traveled with her, romped through parks with her, took long car rides--yes, she was a trooper.
Each and every time I go through this horrible ordeal of losing a dog, I wish I had never owned one.
And then I go and do it all over again. Because I love them. Their hearts are so big, their love so undying, how can one not love (or have) a dog? So, if you are not a dog lover, you will probably have a very hard time relating to this blog post. And that's OK. But I have to write about it. This is part of my everyday life. My life with my dog. I have sacrificed many things for my dog. Time, money, trips--you name it. I did it willingly because I love my dogs.
God has given us, no, blessed us with such companions. I am so thankful for that. I know that in time I will grow to love my newest little sheltie. I know that she, too, will hold a special place in my heart. And even though I am telling myself--don't love her quite so deeply, I will. I know I will. For I am a sheltie mom — through and through. I just love them.
So, Monday afternoon at 2:45, I hugged my Lacey girl goodbye for the very last time. After she died, I sobbed for 24 hours straight. Now I'm down to making it a few hours without breaking down crying. I'm almost afraid to go anywhere or do anything for fear of crying. Everything reminds me of her. I miss her so much.
I'm getting better, though. I'm letting myself have time to grieve. I'm allowing myself to feel sad. I know that as each day passes, I'll feel a little better. I know she is pain-free; I know she felt tremendous love; and I know God put her on this earth just for me.
And I am so thankful for a husband who understands. He has held me when I cried my eyes out, and he has cried right along with me.
I do know that this pain is real. This love for my Lacey girl is real. And I also know that God will heal this pain and mend my broken heart. He always has, He always will.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
City Glasses
I have a major defect in my personality. My daughter told me it's called City Glasses. It's a malady known to/by optimists. I think we all (optimists, that is) might be guilty of it. Although most of the time, I seriously doubt that we are even aware of this affliction. And some might agree that not all afflictions are bad; no, some are rather good, some are ones to strive for, and some are ones to cherish. I do, I cherish my optimism, I truly do. For without it, I'm not so sure I would have emotionally survived my life thus far. It's been a gift. And I'm thankful for that gift.
Why is it called City Glasses? Well, because when I have had to move, and move I have, I have embraced each and every city. With arms wide open, I rush in, grab on, and hug each city with all my might. For me, it's a form of self-preservation. I guess I have a tendency to view my new city through rose-colored glasses. I have to; otherwise, I would die inside, and then before long, there would be nothing left of me that would be vibrant and alive, and that surely is not my personality at all.
So, I put on my rose-colored city glasses, look at my new city, and find everything there is to find that is positive. New restaurants, parks, festivals, etc., if it's there, I'll find it. I'll know more about my new city in one year than most long timers will ever know. I embrace it, research it, enjoy it, and look forward to my future. Yes, sometimes it's hard. Sometimes, it is almost downright impossible, and yet, I do it. I find something. In each city, I find something.
So, with my city glasses on, I move forward. It isn't that I forget about my old city, or that I've changed my mind as to the previous discoveries in my old city. I am, however, moving on. I have to — to remain positive.
Here is my advice — for what it's worth. Wherever you live, wherever you go, whatever God has called you to do--put on a pair of City Glasses. View things through God's eyes rather than your own. Look at people and places with new eyes. Embrace your surroundings and ask yourself this: What can I glean from this experience? If I'm here for a day or a lifetime--what can I learn?
In a nutshell, that's what I do. Right or wrong, it's how God has shaped my personality and attitude throughout my life. It's the ability to refocus and lean into my surroundings. And I like it. I like my City Glasses. They are so pretty.
Why is it called City Glasses? Well, because when I have had to move, and move I have, I have embraced each and every city. With arms wide open, I rush in, grab on, and hug each city with all my might. For me, it's a form of self-preservation. I guess I have a tendency to view my new city through rose-colored glasses. I have to; otherwise, I would die inside, and then before long, there would be nothing left of me that would be vibrant and alive, and that surely is not my personality at all.
So, I put on my rose-colored city glasses, look at my new city, and find everything there is to find that is positive. New restaurants, parks, festivals, etc., if it's there, I'll find it. I'll know more about my new city in one year than most long timers will ever know. I embrace it, research it, enjoy it, and look forward to my future. Yes, sometimes it's hard. Sometimes, it is almost downright impossible, and yet, I do it. I find something. In each city, I find something.
So, with my city glasses on, I move forward. It isn't that I forget about my old city, or that I've changed my mind as to the previous discoveries in my old city. I am, however, moving on. I have to — to remain positive.
Here is my advice — for what it's worth. Wherever you live, wherever you go, whatever God has called you to do--put on a pair of City Glasses. View things through God's eyes rather than your own. Look at people and places with new eyes. Embrace your surroundings and ask yourself this: What can I glean from this experience? If I'm here for a day or a lifetime--what can I learn?
In a nutshell, that's what I do. Right or wrong, it's how God has shaped my personality and attitude throughout my life. It's the ability to refocus and lean into my surroundings. And I like it. I like my City Glasses. They are so pretty.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Birthday Love Letter
Normally, I wouldn't do this. I wouldn't post something that someone else wrote to me. However, this is different. This is a love letter from my husband. It means more to me than any gift I have ever received--ever. The reason I am posting it is that I want my children and grandchildren to know what kind of man their father and grandfather truly are and were. I want them to be like him--to love someone the real way, the right way, the Biblical way, unconditionally. There really isn't a day that goes by that I do not thank God for him. He is and always will be the only one for me. I hope and pray that this letter touches their hearts the way it did mine.
To: The Love of my Life September 16, 2015
It seems almost unbelievable that we have been together for over 43 years and now find ourselves celebrating your 60th Birthday. I can't imagine a life without you. You have blessed me so much over the years that a simple note will never capture or convey it all. I want to at least share a few ways you have made this life of mine the happiest and most loving I could ever want.
Funny, I wrote a dozen lines, and when reading it back, it sounded like a press release about a new CEO. Scrapped that…
"Take II"
I love you in so many ways I cannot even begin to express them. You are beautiful – yes, beautiful and charming. You are unique, not the cookie-cutter person that some are attracted to, and that is one of your best qualities and one of the many things I love so much about you. You love me unconditionally, and that has meant we were together for better or worse, through thick and thin. Easy words to say when the romance is fresh, but tough to live out – you showed me how to do that, and words can never express what that has meant to me. A love for a lifetime, a companion through all times, and my best friend. I even tear up writing this because you mean that much to me, you are truly the greatest love in life one can have this side of heaven.
Aside from falling in love with a cute brunette that drove me crazy every time I thought of her (and you still do), I never imagined the other important things a soul mate would mean over the long haul. You are my most ardent cheerleader, mentor, spiritual advisor, friend, companion, lover, helper, and guide when times are tough. Your wisdom and tenacity see us through. I would never be the professional, man, husband, or father I am today if it were not for you and your loving care and wisdom. I am who I am because of you.
You are the best parent a child could ever imagine, and that meant my children would grow up in a balanced, structured, loving, and God-fearing household. How does a love-struck boy, dating a girl, ever think of that or have a clue what a mother would be like? You are the reason our family is a loving, thriving example of God's ways.
So here we are, celebrating your 60th year. And I get the feeling you are just getting started. I get so excited thinking about our next "60" or whatever God chooses to give us. Travel, dining, exploring, and yes, even shopping are in our future…
So here's to the most beautiful, vivacious, hippest, and young grandmother anyone will ever meet.
I love you so much.
It seems almost unbelievable that we have been together for over 43 years and now find ourselves celebrating your 60th Birthday. I can't imagine a life without you. You have blessed me so much over the years that a simple note will never capture or convey it all. I want to at least share a few ways you have made this life of mine the happiest and most loving I could ever want.
Funny, I wrote a dozen lines, and when reading it back, it sounded like a press release about a new CEO. Scrapped that…
"Take II"
I love you in so many ways I cannot even begin to express them. You are beautiful – yes, beautiful and charming. You are unique, not the cookie-cutter person that some are attracted to, and that is one of your best qualities and one of the many things I love so much about you. You love me unconditionally, and that has meant we were together for better or worse, through thick and thin. Easy words to say when the romance is fresh, but tough to live out – you showed me how to do that, and words can never express what that has meant to me. A love for a lifetime, a companion through all times, and my best friend. I even tear up writing this because you mean that much to me, you are truly the greatest love in life one can have this side of heaven.
Aside from falling in love with a cute brunette that drove me crazy every time I thought of her (and you still do), I never imagined the other important things a soul mate would mean over the long haul. You are my most ardent cheerleader, mentor, spiritual advisor, friend, companion, lover, helper, and guide when times are tough. Your wisdom and tenacity see us through. I would never be the professional, man, husband, or father I am today if it were not for you and your loving care and wisdom. I am who I am because of you.
You are the best parent a child could ever imagine, and that meant my children would grow up in a balanced, structured, loving, and God-fearing household. How does a love-struck boy, dating a girl, ever think of that or have a clue what a mother would be like? You are the reason our family is a loving, thriving example of God's ways.
So here we are, celebrating your 60th year. And I get the feeling you are just getting started. I get so excited thinking about our next "60" or whatever God chooses to give us. Travel, dining, exploring, and yes, even shopping are in our future…
So here's to the most beautiful, vivacious, hippest, and young grandmother anyone will ever meet.
I love you so much.
Happy Birthday,
Jerry
Jerry
Monday, September 7, 2015
This Mother's Heart
I have three adult children. I view them as adults. I do not tell them what to do, nor do I boss them around. I raised them to be independent, self-sufficient, hard-working, kind, loving people. And they are. All three. They are that and more. And yet...there is this place in my heart where they remain my little ones. It's hard to explain, to say the words out loud, but I understand. I know what I mean.
Deep down in my heart, they are still my babies. They always will be. And by that I mean--they will always be a part of this mother's heart.
These crazy thoughts of mine hit home last week when my oldest, my daughter, had to have neck surgery. Two of the discs in her neck were crushed, so surgery was her only option. While I tried hard to remain strong and reassuring for her, I failed. Big time. Fail 101.
When she first told me of her symptoms, I prayed for her. She was in so much pain, and after two different doctors gave her the same diagnosis, she was told that she was facing surgery. I encouraged her as best I could over the phone and then after hanging up--I cried buckets. I was afraid. I thought of all the horrible things that could go wrong, and I begged God to protect her. And then God would comfort me. He would tell me not to be afraid--fear not. He would tell me how much more He loved her than I do — after all, He died for her. He would tell me so many things, and afterward, after praying, I would feel better.
Surgery was inevitable. She asked us to come down and help with the house and grandkids while she was in the hospital and recuperating. Of course, we said yes. It was an honor for us to help in any way that we could. We arrived a day early to have a little fun before she would be housebound. We shopped a little, ate a lot, and tried not to think about what lay ahead. However, Monday morning came. We were all up early, saying our goodbyes, hugging, and crying. Most likely all thinking the same thing--what if...what if.
I tried so hard to be strong. To not cry, but as I stood there hugging my daughter, as her husband was waiting to take her to the hospital, I couldn't help it, I cried. And there she was--comforting me! Isn't that just like a daughter? She kept saying it'll be OK. It'll be OK. I was so very afraid for her. I held her a little longer, cried a little harder, and then released her into God's arms for protection.
That morning, I got my 2 oldest grandkids off to school. With lunches packed and new clothes laid out, they were off to their first day of the new school year. As a child, I couldn't imagine how difficult that must have been for them. Fortunately, they don't yet comprehend the horrors of a botched surgery. They fully trusted us as we told them that everything was going to be just fine.
When we got the phone call later that morning from our son-in-law that all went well, we were so relieved. I thanked God over and over for the outcome, and that evening we all went to visit our daughter/mom at the hospital. She looked tired and drugged up, but good.
This mother's heart can't begin to describe the gratefulness I felt towards God in that very moment. I was thankful for so many things--she wasn't paralyzed, she lived through it, she didn't have a heart attack or a stroke, her vocal cords weren't damaged, and on and on. So very thankful. So very grateful.
We stayed for a week. We cleaned, took care of the grandkids, went grocery shopping, cooked, but most of all, we watched as our daughter healed. Her husband stayed home from work and took great care of her. She's doing wonderfully, healing up, and making progress each day. Yes, we are thankful.
It's funny, though--all that mom stuff. It comes up at the strangest times. This mother's heart. No matter the outcome of that surgery, no matter her age, no matter, well, anything really, she is still and always will be my little girl, my daughter, my friend. I will always be there for her, always take care of her, and always give her my heart. Always.
Deep down in my heart, they are still my babies. They always will be. And by that I mean--they will always be a part of this mother's heart.
These crazy thoughts of mine hit home last week when my oldest, my daughter, had to have neck surgery. Two of the discs in her neck were crushed, so surgery was her only option. While I tried hard to remain strong and reassuring for her, I failed. Big time. Fail 101.
When she first told me of her symptoms, I prayed for her. She was in so much pain, and after two different doctors gave her the same diagnosis, she was told that she was facing surgery. I encouraged her as best I could over the phone and then after hanging up--I cried buckets. I was afraid. I thought of all the horrible things that could go wrong, and I begged God to protect her. And then God would comfort me. He would tell me not to be afraid--fear not. He would tell me how much more He loved her than I do — after all, He died for her. He would tell me so many things, and afterward, after praying, I would feel better.
Surgery was inevitable. She asked us to come down and help with the house and grandkids while she was in the hospital and recuperating. Of course, we said yes. It was an honor for us to help in any way that we could. We arrived a day early to have a little fun before she would be housebound. We shopped a little, ate a lot, and tried not to think about what lay ahead. However, Monday morning came. We were all up early, saying our goodbyes, hugging, and crying. Most likely all thinking the same thing--what if...what if.
I tried so hard to be strong. To not cry, but as I stood there hugging my daughter, as her husband was waiting to take her to the hospital, I couldn't help it, I cried. And there she was--comforting me! Isn't that just like a daughter? She kept saying it'll be OK. It'll be OK. I was so very afraid for her. I held her a little longer, cried a little harder, and then released her into God's arms for protection.
That morning, I got my 2 oldest grandkids off to school. With lunches packed and new clothes laid out, they were off to their first day of the new school year. As a child, I couldn't imagine how difficult that must have been for them. Fortunately, they don't yet comprehend the horrors of a botched surgery. They fully trusted us as we told them that everything was going to be just fine.
When we got the phone call later that morning from our son-in-law that all went well, we were so relieved. I thanked God over and over for the outcome, and that evening we all went to visit our daughter/mom at the hospital. She looked tired and drugged up, but good.
This mother's heart can't begin to describe the gratefulness I felt towards God in that very moment. I was thankful for so many things--she wasn't paralyzed, she lived through it, she didn't have a heart attack or a stroke, her vocal cords weren't damaged, and on and on. So very thankful. So very grateful.
We stayed for a week. We cleaned, took care of the grandkids, went grocery shopping, cooked, but most of all, we watched as our daughter healed. Her husband stayed home from work and took great care of her. She's doing wonderfully, healing up, and making progress each day. Yes, we are thankful.
It's funny, though--all that mom stuff. It comes up at the strangest times. This mother's heart. No matter the outcome of that surgery, no matter her age, no matter, well, anything really, she is still and always will be my little girl, my daughter, my friend. I will always be there for her, always take care of her, and always give her my heart. Always.
Friday, August 28, 2015
Weather--As I See It
In the past 6 decades of my life (oh gosh, did I just say that?) I have had the privilege of living in 4 different States — 2 of them twice. I'm still assessing whether that's a good or bad thing, and whether I should acknowledge it, but I will. Yes, 4 States. California (2 times), Florida, Ohio (2 times), and Illinois. So with the knowledge I've gained from my living experiences in these States, I am declaring myself the Seasonal Weather Queen. At least for the areas that I've lived in.
Let's start with California, since that is where I started. I was born in Northern California and lived there for almost 45 years. Therefore--expert. Wouldn't you agree? I lived predominantly in the valley — hot, dry, and extremely foggy. Foggy? Yep, I said foggy. Here is how the seasons went down where I lived. January and February--foggy, sweater weather. March--get out the swimsuit. April through September, wear the suit and sweat because the temperatures are often near 100 degrees or hotter. If I had to determine whether there was a Spring where I grew up, I'd say it was March and April. The flowers bloomed, the grass was green, and the weather was comfortable.
However, by the time May arrived, I was usually in summer hell. And each day it just kept getting hotter. We would make outdoor plans, and I would be panicking on the inside. I hate the heat. By September, I was dreaming and praying for Fall. Autumn in Northern California was October and November. I would wear sweaters and pretend it was cooler--as sweat rolled down the center of my back. Yep, still kind of hot. We'd decorate, though, and bake and think about those cool Fall crisp days--happening somewhere other than where I lived. The leaves on the trees would turn brown and fall off; there just wasn't any real "color" where I lived. And then there would be Christmas. And it was still warm. Warm enough for our kids to play outside on Christmas Day, warm enough for me to have the windows open because the oven was making the house too hot, warm enough for me to finally give up, throw off my sweater, and replace it with a cooler shirt instead. Seasons in California? Hot and Fog. Yep, just those 2. But that's just my opinion. That's just as I see it.
And then there was Florida. We lived in Ft Lauderdale for 1 year. 1 year too long. Let me be frank, I hate the heat. Throw in humidity, and I am suicidal. Put me in Florida for a year, and you are left with a whacked-out basket case. No, to be fair, there was 1 month, I think, that I might have liked living in Florida. Maybe. What I do remember is this--it's hot, humid, sticky, rainy (every afternoon at 3:00), and there were the notorious Palmetto bugs, i.e., gigantic beetles! And by gigantic, I mean some were 3 to 4 inches long, I kid you not. Yep, I hated Florida. I hated that it was so warm that we went to a park on Thanksgiving, to the beach on Christmas Day, and went camping in February. Florida has 1 season--humid. No colors, no mountains, no waves on their ocean. It's a monotone state, and it's just not for me. That's just how I see it.
On to the Midwest. Oh my, oh my, is it different from California! We moved to Ohio for the first time in 1999. I can vividly remember landing at the airport with our 3 (almost adult) children. It was freezing--literally. And as we disembarked with teeth chattering, well, let's just say that I'm glad we were in public, or I'm not sure what they (the kids) would have done to me. We had just landed at the beginning of a long Cleveland winter, 6 long months of snow, ice, and wind. I loved it. They hated it. And me. They hated me. This is how Winter shakes down in Cleveland.
Let's start with California, since that is where I started. I was born in Northern California and lived there for almost 45 years. Therefore--expert. Wouldn't you agree? I lived predominantly in the valley — hot, dry, and extremely foggy. Foggy? Yep, I said foggy. Here is how the seasons went down where I lived. January and February--foggy, sweater weather. March--get out the swimsuit. April through September, wear the suit and sweat because the temperatures are often near 100 degrees or hotter. If I had to determine whether there was a Spring where I grew up, I'd say it was March and April. The flowers bloomed, the grass was green, and the weather was comfortable.
However, by the time May arrived, I was usually in summer hell. And each day it just kept getting hotter. We would make outdoor plans, and I would be panicking on the inside. I hate the heat. By September, I was dreaming and praying for Fall. Autumn in Northern California was October and November. I would wear sweaters and pretend it was cooler--as sweat rolled down the center of my back. Yep, still kind of hot. We'd decorate, though, and bake and think about those cool Fall crisp days--happening somewhere other than where I lived. The leaves on the trees would turn brown and fall off; there just wasn't any real "color" where I lived. And then there would be Christmas. And it was still warm. Warm enough for our kids to play outside on Christmas Day, warm enough for me to have the windows open because the oven was making the house too hot, warm enough for me to finally give up, throw off my sweater, and replace it with a cooler shirt instead. Seasons in California? Hot and Fog. Yep, just those 2. But that's just my opinion. That's just as I see it.
And then there was Florida. We lived in Ft Lauderdale for 1 year. 1 year too long. Let me be frank, I hate the heat. Throw in humidity, and I am suicidal. Put me in Florida for a year, and you are left with a whacked-out basket case. No, to be fair, there was 1 month, I think, that I might have liked living in Florida. Maybe. What I do remember is this--it's hot, humid, sticky, rainy (every afternoon at 3:00), and there were the notorious Palmetto bugs, i.e., gigantic beetles! And by gigantic, I mean some were 3 to 4 inches long, I kid you not. Yep, I hated Florida. I hated that it was so warm that we went to a park on Thanksgiving, to the beach on Christmas Day, and went camping in February. Florida has 1 season--humid. No colors, no mountains, no waves on their ocean. It's a monotone state, and it's just not for me. That's just how I see it.
On to the Midwest. Oh my, oh my, is it different from California! We moved to Ohio for the first time in 1999. I can vividly remember landing at the airport with our 3 (almost adult) children. It was freezing--literally. And as we disembarked with teeth chattering, well, let's just say that I'm glad we were in public, or I'm not sure what they (the kids) would have done to me. We had just landed at the beginning of a long Cleveland winter, 6 long months of snow, ice, and wind. I loved it. They hated it. And me. They hated me. This is how Winter shakes down in Cleveland.
November through April is Winter; May and June are Spring; July and August are Summer; and September and October are Fall. You can pretty much set your calendars to this; it was that way the first 11 years that I lived there. Long, cold, snowy Winters, just how I like them, and short Summers, just how I like them. It does get humid sometimes in the summer. But nothing like Florida. Nope, we had glorious fall colors, waterfalls, hiking trails, and even waves on Lake Erie! Weird, huh? It sort of reminded me at first of Lake Tahoe, meeting up with the Pacific Ocean. Maybe they had a baby and called it Ohio? Maybe?
When we moved to Chicago 5 years ago, we noticed that the winters were shorter, which meant the summers were longer. Bummer. And whether this is true or not, it seemed more humid there. Double bummer. I hate Summer, and I hate humidity. But, I think I have already stated that fact.
So, Winter started in mid-November and lasted through March, then came Spring, which lasted through May. Summer started in June, and it was warm through September, leaving October and part of November for Autumn. Not too bad, if you like longer summers, which I don't. While living there, we did have a couple of mild summers — low humidity, cooler evenings, and boy, did I love that. However, I was in the minority. Even on the news broadcast, the news anchors would complain--where's summer, where's the heat? I'd yell at the TV--go to Florida, you crazy people! I really did yell that.
We are back in Ohio now. And this time it's for keeps. I plan on retiring with my long Winters and short Summers. I love my 100-plus inches of snow every year. I love my crazy weather, my wind, sleet, rain, and drizzle. I don't miss the fog, nor the humidity. I now get my cold Thanksgiving Day mornings, my white Christmas, my fireplace, and also, just a couple of months of warmer weather--not too much, however, but just the way I like it. At least that's the way I see it.
It's interesting to me how the weather affects our moods. Some are happiest in the Winter. Me! And some in the Summer. Everyone else. And that's OK. If we all work together and try hard not to complain too much when it isn't our "season," we might just make it through. After all, it changes. Right?
When we moved to Chicago 5 years ago, we noticed that the winters were shorter, which meant the summers were longer. Bummer. And whether this is true or not, it seemed more humid there. Double bummer. I hate Summer, and I hate humidity. But, I think I have already stated that fact.
So, Winter started in mid-November and lasted through March, then came Spring, which lasted through May. Summer started in June, and it was warm through September, leaving October and part of November for Autumn. Not too bad, if you like longer summers, which I don't. While living there, we did have a couple of mild summers — low humidity, cooler evenings, and boy, did I love that. However, I was in the minority. Even on the news broadcast, the news anchors would complain--where's summer, where's the heat? I'd yell at the TV--go to Florida, you crazy people! I really did yell that.
We are back in Ohio now. And this time it's for keeps. I plan on retiring with my long Winters and short Summers. I love my 100-plus inches of snow every year. I love my crazy weather, my wind, sleet, rain, and drizzle. I don't miss the fog, nor the humidity. I now get my cold Thanksgiving Day mornings, my white Christmas, my fireplace, and also, just a couple of months of warmer weather--not too much, however, but just the way I like it. At least that's the way I see it.
It's interesting to me how the weather affects our moods. Some are happiest in the Winter. Me! And some in the Summer. Everyone else. And that's OK. If we all work together and try hard not to complain too much when it isn't our "season," we might just make it through. After all, it changes. Right?
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