Category Archives: just life

multiple losses

August 13, 2010

I haven’t been online for some time and while many of you know why, let me update those of you who may be left wondering….

We suffered multiple losses as a family in late June. First Ken’s father died in Texas. At the time, Ken’s brother, Jay was  in Intensive Care in Boston and my own father was fighting for his life in the Cleveland Clinic – a battle he fully expected to win. I remember him clearly mouthing these words: “Get yourself to Boston. Ken’s sister (who was in Boston caring for Jay)  needs to get to Texas. The family needs you, Jay needs you. If I wake up tomorrow and you’re still here I won’t be happy with you!” My brother promised constant updates and I flew to Boston the next morning  while my grieving husband flew to Texas. This was the plan we’d agreed on months earlier when Jay was so sick and Dad Wadenpfuhl was in decline. Actually, it was impossible to plan anything since we were being driven from crises to crises in three states – but we had to try.

When I arrived in Boston, Jay was on the upswing. Over the next week, we had long days and nights together, talking about everything. He had regained the use of his arms and was speaking through his trach. They began to wean him off the ventilator and within a couple of days, Jay and I enjoyed a bumpy but otherwise entirely uneventful ambulance transfer to his acute rehab facility.  We like uneventful. Though we were grieving with our family in Texas, and I was prayerfully concerned for my Dad, we were so hopeful for Jay. Since the beginning of April we had repeatedly heard the cautious words “he’s not out of the woods yet”.  But the doctors now declared him out of the woods and we were celebrating two whole days without a ventilator! One more day, the respiratory therapist told us, and we’ll move this machine out of your room.

But that one more day brought an unexpected turn of events. Despite the day-long heroic efforts of a dedicated ICU staff – Jay died late on a Saturday night, the day after Dad Wadenpfuhl’s burial. The family couldn’t get flights to Boston until the following day, so I had the privilege of being their arms, delivering their last tearful, loving messages, hugs, kisses and prayers as Jay drew his final breaths. Two days later, my brother called with news about my father that put Ken and I on the next flight out from Boston.

I won’t go into it much here. It’s too raw. But my father died six days later, at home, surrounded by all of his children, many of his grandchildren, his great-granddaughter, Poppy, his best friend/brother and sister-in-law from Ireland and his beloved wife – on a Sunday evening, at 5:05. At exactly the moment of his last breath, there was a clap of loud thunder and a torrential downpour here on earth as his spirit left his body – and my father walked right into the arms of Christ.

I’d like to wholeheartedly thank you for the many cards and condolence messages we’ve received over the past 6 weeks.  Also, thank you to those of you who have so thoughtfully and lovingly assisted us financially. Having sick – and ultimately dying – family members in states as far-flung as Texas, Boston and Ohio has required alot of expensive air travel, car travel, eating out, etc. on funds we simply did not have. We know that God always provides and we trust Him implicitly. But he uses generous and compassionate people to do so and we are always humbled and more grateful than words can express. (And I never thought I’d hear myself say this but – thank God for credit cards!)

I want to say thanks very specifically to Kim and Gary Holsopple who stepped in without a thought to be a second mom and dad to Hana during our extended stays in Boston. They have also taken care of our increasingly disoriented pups as we’ve been here there and everywhere, showing nothing but love, compassion and kindness to us and our families.

Heartfelt thanks to all of our new friends/now family in Boston – and to the Boston Symphony Orchestra community who helped and served us in more ways than we can tell.

Thank you to Cathy Monnin, Kim and the Ancient Path Board of Directors who have worked to keep Ancient Path afloat over the last six months as we have dealt with one thing after another, caring for sick family members.

Thank you to our overseas partners, Pastor Moses in Malawi and Pastor Jonoro and Hanitra and Ibrahim and Cathy Ravoahangy in Madagascar, for understanding when my intended July/August trip had to be postponed. You have been more than gracious.

Lastly, but definitely not least, thank you to all the prayer warriors who stood with and for us in one of the darkest seasons of our lives. You know who you are and we have felt the power of your prayer.

Alot of thank yous, I know, and there could be so many more. But I’ll just say to all of you who have loved us, thought of us, encouraged us, we are in your debt.

Ken and I – and our whole family – are so very grateful.

Obviously, we’re grieving multiple losses and at times it’s hard to know where to start. Since Christmas Eve, when Ken’s precious mom died, we have lost 6 family members in a cluster. It’s alot to process, so now what?

For me, just getting up this morning and writing this simple, clumsy post of thanks is a step forward. Yesterday I answered a few emails, which took more energy than you would think, but it was a goal and I met it. Ken doesn’t have any playing gigs in August, but he gets up and goes to work every morning at a local greenhouse, surrounded by life and dear friends. We stick very close as a family, united in spoken and unspoken grief. Sometimes I weep uncontrollably and alone; other times we share our tears. We also laugh and celebrate the memories of our loved ones when we can. Some mornings I journal, staring out the window at the birds, and other times I watch an old movie or two snuggled up with Hana and/or my mom.

I’ve been writing songs – all Celtic, mostly stories – and playing my Indian flutes frequently when there are simply no words. I stare at anything and everything beautiful. I have always said that beauty is the only thing that goes as deep as grief. We recently took Hana to Washington D.C. for a few days. Camping outside the city by night, and walking for miles toting PBJ sandwiches by day, we hopped from one free museum to the next, drinking in the beauty of art and the flow of history. The war monuments remind us that grief is universal.  It is part of being human; there is no escape.

I breathe in, I breathe out and it is all prayer.

Tomorrow I will breathe in, breathe out and do what I can.  Each day will be different, but we will move forward in faith and pure grace. Yes, we grieve, but we do not grieve as those who have no hope. God is beautifully, compassionately, mercifully here in all His loving comfort – with healing in his wings.

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chant the beauty of the good

June 8, 2010

It’s been awhile, I know. Over the past many weeks I’ve completely unplugged, disappearing from this blog, Facebook, Twitter, and all but the most essential email exchanges. It has not been some idealistic attempt to get back to nature. This time I haven’t been chilling in my cozy, woodsy cabin listening to the birds and the sounds of squirrels scampering and chipmunks chattering.

Not even close.  I’ve been listening to alarms clanging and machines whooshing and the varied and sundry bells and whistles warning that something is wrong, very wrong. And not just in Boston.

The good news is that my brother-in-law Jay has made it out of ICU after 58 days, and is now on his 6th day out of many to come in an acute rehab facility. He’s still on a few of the machines that kept him alive in ICU – such as the ventilator, dialysis, feeding tube. But so many of the machines are now gone and the process begins to – painfully and slowly but surely – wean him off of the remaining devices and get him back onto his feet.

But not long after returning from Boston to get back to work and to life here in Cleveland, my phone rings in the wee hours of the morning. No one wants the phone to ring this early – you just assume can only be bad news. The ambulance is already at my dad’s house and within minutes, we’re out the door and turning what is normally a 40 minute drive into a 20 minute dash.

Dad is quickly moved from the ER to ICU at Medina General, where we hear terms we have grown all too familiar with in the last couple of months. We’ve also learned how to interpret numbers on a monitor and we don’t like what we see. Dad’s heart beats erratically and far too fast, his blood pressure is far too low – along with his oxygen. The doctor and nurse ask about a living will and about intubation. In front of my mom and dad they say that he is on the “cusp”. That he may bounce back or things may “go south very quickly”. They arrange to have him immediately transported to the Cleveland Clinic, telling us that it is his best chance of survival. They also tell us to call the family.

As they prepare to transport him, Dad is very alert – alert enough to ask Ken to cook the mass of chicken and ribs defrosting  in the refrigerator. He apologizes for ruining the family cookout planned for that day before he’s rolled out the door. We were looking forward to some family fun because the two days previous had been painful due to the fact that Dad’s brother died.

While living in Thailand with his wife, my Uncle Ed suddenly got sick and was quickly unable to communicate or move. Because of the language barrier with his wife, we could never understand exactly what was going on with Uncle Ed, until his wife called to say – He is dead. Phone calls started flying between Medina and Ireland and Thailand and back again as the stunned siblings tried to get information and comfort one another. My father simply closed his eyes at the news. Two days later he was in an ambulance heading to ICU. My theory is that he simply imploded.

This  last week-plus has been filled with more frightening reports, terrifying events, clanging alarms, and doctors, doctors and more doctors. Dad is tired, but still his amazing, strong, compassionate self . Each day when I kiss him hello, his first question is about Jay and my sister-in-law, Kathy who is with him in Boston. His next question is always  about Ken’s dad in Texas – who has just recently been admitted to  hospice – and of course about how Ken is holding up through all this. He doesn’t focus on himself. He wants to see pictures of his great grandbabies and maintains his wonderful sense of humor. He loves the nurses and hates the hospital food – which gives him lots of material. Dad always finds the good, even when it’s buried under mounds of difficulty.

Perhaps it is because we are dealing with multiple crises and have a 360 degree view of the entire landscape, but I admit, it’s been difficult to maintain my sense of humor and sunny disposition lately.  It’s just not coming easily or naturally during this challenging season. As I’ve said before,  I  often have to purposefully dig for the treasure of each day, buried under what seems to be an endless amount of frightening news, bad reports, amidst the clanging of alarms and jangling of my nerves.

I recently stumbled on a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote lately that suits my season – one that I keep repeating to myself:

Don’t waste yourself  in rejection, nor bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of the good.

I have been rolling these words around in my mouth and mind for days, thinking about what it means.

I chant the beauty of the good when I sit on Dad’s hospital bed showing him a video of Poppy helping Nana plant flowers.
I chant the beauty of the good with with each picture of Poppy that Leanne or Jacob send me as we laugh over her latest antics.
I chant the beauty of the good, when I call Kathy in Boston to laugh together on the phone or when I collapse in tears in the comforting arms of my friend, Kimmi.
I chant the beauty of the good when I help Hana study for her final exams, rejoicing in the fact that she made it to the end of her school year – something that last fall we did not think possible.


I chant the beauty of the good when I look into the face of God in silence, knowing that He is close. So very close to me and to all those I love. I chant the beauty of the good when I read, or quote to myself,  the unchanging words of scripture:

The LORD hears his people when they call to him for help. He rescues them from all their troubles.The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those who are crushed in spirit. The righteous face many troubles, but the LORD rescues them from each and every one. – Psalm 34-17-19

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. – Psalm 46:1-3

…the LORD who created you says: “Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you go through deep waters and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown! When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you. For I am the LORD, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. – Isaiah 43:1-3

Have you never heard or understood? Don’t you know that the LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of all the earth? He never grows faint or weary. No one can measure the depths of his understanding. He gives power to those who are tired and worn out; he offers strength to the weak. Even youths will become exhausted, and young men will give up. But those who wait on the LORD will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles.They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint. - Isaiah 40:28-31

And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them. – Romans 8:28

And He says “My gracious favor is all you need. My power works best in your weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may work through me.-  2 Corinthians 12:9

Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you. -  1 Peter 5:7

Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. If you do this, you will experience God’s peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus. And now, dear brothers and sisters, let me say one more thing as I close this letter. Fix your thoughts on what is true and honorable and right. Think about things that are pure and lovely and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. – Philippians 4:6-8

And when I cling to the words of Jesus, the One I love and follow, I chant the beauty of the good:

I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world. – John 16:33

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke fits perfectly, and the burden I give you is light . – Matthew 11: 28-31

Even before I finish this post, I receive text messages from Boston. Jay is in distress and is even now being transported back to the hospital and the intensive care unit. I send out urgent prayer requests and think about  what I consider urgent and what I don’t consider urgent during this season. I find it hard to care about things that have no eternal value.

My phone dings again; another text message just now comes in now from Texas and a Wadenpfuhl aunt is en route to the hospital via ambulance.

Now my phone rings -( my ring tone is a fave Joni Mitchell song. I am on a lonely road and I am traveling traveling traveling traveling/ Looking for something what could it be?)

It’s my brother calling from the hospital. The doctors seem to have figured it out and barring any setbacks, dad will soon head to a rehab facility near his home to get his legs back under him.

I chant the beauty of the good.

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what matters

April 28, 2010

I sit watching the monitor for every slight change of heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen rate. It passes through my mind that I would choose different colors for this place – the walls, the chairs, the machines, most definitely the drapes. But then I come back to my senses.

My brother Jay is fighting for his life in a Boston intensive care unit.

It came out of nowhere, this horrible thing that they now call ARDS of an unknown origin. One day he had a cough, the next he was in ICU on a ventilator where he has now been for three weeks and where he remains. They did not expect him to live 48 hours, so the fact that he is here is – though still critical – is literally a miracle.

The details are neither necessary or appropriate – this is not the place. But as I change the cool rag on Jay’s face, I think deeply about who he is. A brilliant man – to use the word genius is no overstatement. He’s the kind that only does the hard New York Times crossword puzzles at the end of the week. The first book I pick up on his shelf in the room where I sleep is by Kandinsky – Concerning The Spiritual in Art , which I read some time ago, but am enjoying  re-reading late at night.

He also loves the sea and his home is filled with model sailing ships and pictures of ships, plants and seashells. He’s an amazing cook and has a collection of hot peppers like I’ve never seen. He’s a Texan, of course and you can take the boy out of Texas and all that…

He’s also a professional musician – a french horn player with the Boston Symphony Orchestra – a town that actually supports the arts. He’s also a keyboardist, a composer, a writer, a singer. There’s so much more and his friends and family could go on and on,  but you get the point.

Most importantly I think of how deeply he is loved by his sister and brother in Texas who dropped everything to run to his side. His sister, Kathy – well there are no words to describe her loving actions and what I’ve watched her do. Ken came as soon as he could and stayed as long as he could, but had to tearfully drive home yesterday morning. The nurse tells us Jay’s heart monitor jumped 20 points as they were trying to say goodbye – but of course, we saw that. He’ll be back, of course.

I think of all this as I watch Jay’s monitors, watching his every wince and expression of pain, and praying not only for survival – that is not enough. But for complete recovery in the painful and traumatic months of acute rehab ahead of him once he is well enough to leave ICU.

Oh – and my own beloved father was life-flighted last weekend. I won’t go into those details either but long story short, it was a blood clot. He was on the floor not breathing and we thought we had lost him. My own brother Kevin, who qualifies for sainthood in my book, texts me daily to assure me that he is doing great. Dad’s home and cooked a great turkey meal for everyone for Sunday dinner, And if I know my dad, there was a little Irish jig involved. My hero.

Of course, all of this leaves me thinking of what matters and what doesn’t. I feel like I don’t know much anymore. I used to have so many answers and now I only have one: God is love and our only safe place is in that Love.

I know that God loves Jay with a love I cannot begin to comprehend with my breaking, and sometime sobbing heart. I know that He loves my family members that are bravely coping with so much stress and loss ( no, I have not told the whole story of all that is going on:) – with a love beyond words. I silently fall back into that Love this morning, floating there as if in a sea that is neither calm nor warm, but definitely safe and familiar and real.

And then, before I close my computer to head back to the hospital this morning I stop to pray over the children that cover the wallpaper on my computer. I stop to look at the latest photos out of the Mikea Forest where I will be heading in July – children so happy to be in school, so many of them are merely skeletons with smiles. And I sink deeper and deeper into the love of God. This love that is deeper than illness, than grief, than poverty, than suffering. The only thing worth clinging to in this unforgiving, unpredictably yet still terribly beautiful world.

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long journey on an ever-changing sea

April 15, 2010

For several months, I have been daily following the blog of a 16-year-old Australian named Jessica Watson. First thing in the morning, last thing at night and several times each day, I check for her latest post, eager for news – always hoping that news is good.  Since October  of last year, this young girl has been sailing around the globe on a small sailboat called Ella’s Pink Lady – non-stop and alone.  And since January, I’ve been tracking her perilous journey – every storm, every doldrum, every freezing night and stunning sunset, every knock-down and broken piece of equipment, every twinge of loneliness.

I am fascinated by the act itself . I think back to Ferdinand Magellan -  the explorer who set out with 5 ships and a crew of over 200 men to circumnavigate the globe in the early 1500’s. The journey was completed 3 years later with only one ship and 19 men remaining. (Even Magellan  himself didn’t make the distance. He was  killed in the Philippines while trying to convert locals to Christianity.) And there are other famous names like Drake and Cook – but now it’s being done in a 30 foot sailboat by a 16 year old girl.

Two 16 year old girls, actually.

There’s an American girl name Abby Sunderland out there now as well. She started her journey from Mexico and has just recently rounded Cape Horn on her 40 foot sailboat, Wild Eyes. And not to be left out, a 38 year old man named Alessandro di Benedetto is circumnavigating the globe in an even tinier 20 foot sailboat. I read with amazement his accounts of petting dolphins and seals, of listening to whales breathe nearby, of dodging icebergs.Last week his mast broke in a violent storm and first reports had him stopping in Chile for repairs, but he simply built another mast out of whatever he had onboard and is even now closing in on treacherous Cape Horn with his jury-rigged mast.

These adventurers all  have smart, sharp on-shore teams behind them – people with knowledge of the sea, of weather patterns, of navigation – but they are the ones out alone out there for months on end, fighting the daily battles – sometimes for forward progress, other-times simply for survival.

I’m surprised that I find all of this fascinating. I’m no sailor, though I have a deep love for the sea. Perhaps crossing the Atlantic by boat twice before the age of 7 left a deep impression on me. But looking at this all metaphorically – which I admit I’m prone to do – I do know why I find it inspiring.

Storms come and they go. Doldrums come and they go. The sea, winds and waves are ever changing – the key is learning to navigate whatever is thrown at you. A knock-down is not the end, – if you’re prepared and know how to get back up.  And no matter how much support I might have – and I have wonderful friends who are much smarter than me -  it still comes down to me riding out the storms, daily choosing  faith over doubt, courage over fear, joy over despair.

It helps that I know and walk with the One who tames the wind and the waves, who sets the boundaries in place  – the only One who can. Even when He’s asleep in my boat- and lately it feels like He’s been in a deep, deep slumber, I still have the promise of His words. When we started this journey together He said “let’s go over to the other side of the lake” – so I know He has plans to get me there, regardless of what rogue wave may slam me broadside or turn me upside down, disorienting me for a day or two.

These words may seem simplistic, and even trite. They  usually do – until a storm actually hits. Or in my case lately , a series of storms.

Jessica, Abby and Alessandro’s  journeys will all come to an end at various times in the weeks/months ahead. Jessica is only a few short weeks from home – though she’s currently fighting lightning storms and wicked seas in the Great Australian Bight. The latest storm knocked her down, tore her mainsail and flooded her cabin. But she’s up again and moving forward with her typical positive attitude.  Abby and Alessandro still  have a ways to go, but all of them want to accomplish the same thing. They want to conquer the storms, the winds, the waves – and themselves – and at the end, sail into safe harbor and hear the words Well Done.

As do I.

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A Great Silence

April 12, 2010

Lately I’ve been mostly silent. Out of words – oftentimes out of thoughts. I’m used to taking the hard times in stride – one disappointment, grief or loss at a time. But these days they come too quickly, each hard on the heels of the one before. I barely catch my breath when a new day dawns and knocks the wind clear out of me.

And I hate watching those I love hurt. Several times in the last few months I have helplessly listened to my  husband cry himself to sleep – over a mom lost, a dad sick, a daughter. Then a few days back, the phone rings and his brother now lies fighting for his life in a Boston hospital. A mystery illness that comes out of nowhere – a suddenly. The kind that knocks your feet out from under you and beats you bloody. The doctors are puzzled; the brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, friends – and his father – are stunned, fearful, angry, grieved. Again.

I pray mostly without words, because my heart is numb – and words are simply not enough. I sink into the great silence that is God. Aimlessly, I thumb through a book and stumble on a Walter Rauschenbusch poem  from 1918  – and, gratefully,

I find words.

The Little Gate to God

In the castle of my soul
Is a little postern gate,
Whereat, when I enter,
I am in the presence of God.
In a moment, in the turning of a thought,
I am where God is.
This is a fact.
This world of ours has length and breadth,
A superficial and horizontal world.
When I am with God,
I look deep down and high up,
And all is changed.
The world of men is mad of jangling noises,
with God it is a great silence.
But that silence is a melody
Sweet as the contentment of love,
Thrilling as a touch of flame.
In this world my days are few
And full of trouble.
I strive and have not;
I seek and find not;
I ask and learn not.
Its joys are so fleeting,
Its pains are so enduring.
I am in doubt if life be worth living.
When I enter into God,
all life has a meaning
Without asking, I know;
My desires are even now fulfilled,
My fever is gone
In the great quiet of God.
My troubles are but pebbles on the road,
My joys are like the everlasting hills,
So it is when I step through the gate of prayer
From time into eternity.
When I am in the consciousness of God
Those whom I love
Have a mystic value.
They shine, as if a light were glowing within them.
Even those who frown on me
And love me not
Seem part of a great scheme of good.
(Or else they seem like stray bumble bees
Buzzing at a window,
Headed the wrong way, yet seeking the light.)
So it is when my soul steps through the postern gate
Into the presence of God.
Big things become small, and small things become great.
The near becomes far, and the future is near.
The lowly and despised is shot through with glory,
And most of human power and greatness
Seems as full of infernal iniquities
As a carcass is full of maggots.
God is the substance of all revolutions;
When I am in him, I am in the Kingdom of God
And the Fatherland of my soul.
Is it strange that I love God?
And when I come back through the gate,
Do you wonder that I carry memories with me.
And my eyes are hot with unshed tears for what I see.
And I feel like a stranger and a homeless man
where the poor are wasted for gain,
Where rivers run red,
And where God’s sunlight is darkened by lies?
May God’s sunlight shine again. Thy kingdom come, God!

Walter Rauschenbusch
Theologian and Pastor
1918

Photo Credit: Silence by Tory Byrne, USA

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wise words from Mother Teresa

February 8, 2010

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I’m cleaning out my files – always an unpleasant task for myriad reasons. For a start, it makes me nervous to find things I dropped through the cracks months ago. I also get depressed thinking about things I wish I had done differently. And then there are the things I don’t know how to act on or I’m trying to forget. That’s why I buried it in a file drawer in the first place. And trust me, buried is the right word.

I am however, turning over a new leaf, as they say. (I have to. I lost the old one.)

Before that can happen, I need to sift through these piles of papers, just to make sure I’m not throwing out anything important, like my passport or the only existing copy of whatever.  While I would rather set the whole mess on fire and move on, I’m old enough to know that this doesn’t work – in life or filing. I have to face the music.

So it’s late afternoon and the vultures are circling, the dark clouds descending and I’m muttering to myself something about quitting  when suddenly, a wrinkled photocopy falls into my lap – words from Mother Teresa, tucked between an old Christmas script and handwritten notes from a Madagascar trip. Don’t ask why these three items would be in the same file. It might have something to do with the color blue, I don’t remember.

But I don’t believe in coincidences. I think God meant for me to see these words today – words spoken by a woman who is my personal hero  – to remind me, to center me.

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered; forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish,ulterior motives; be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough; give the world the best you’ve got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God.

It was never between you and them anyway.

It’s between me and God.

What I do, I do for God, because of God, with God, in full sight of God – no matter how it turns out.

I also remind myself that I am often part of the problem – unreasonable, illogical and self-centered etc etc.  But forgiving myself wouldn’t be out of line.

On the contrary, it would be healing.

I swat feebly at the vultures. I’m not dead yet. I blow fresh breath to scatter the dark clouds and tape the graying paper to my wall. It’s between me and God – which is both comforting and terrifying. But I won’t quit today.

Now back to my files. Where did I tuck those matches?

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a list of 50 simple pleasures for the new year

January 1, 2010

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2010 is here and unlike previous years, I have no great plans, no resolutions – except one: to live in the moment and fully enjoy the grace of God and the simple pleasures of life as they come. This list is off the top of my head and in no particular order….

1. snuggling with my youngest daughter – in our pjs
2. the smile on my grandaughter’s face when she first sees me – and those chubby arms that reach out for me
3. an evening at home with my best friend/husband, watching good films by the wood-burning stove
4. any time I can have all my kids, grown and growing, in the same room at the same time
5. reading books on theology, philosophy, history – anything scholarly, with ideas and concepts I have to wrestle to the ground
5. when my father has enough strength to do a little Irish jig on his way to the kitchen
6. that first morning cup of Irish tea, delivered with a kiss
7. watching wildlife in the woods from my bedroom window – giant blue herons, owls, fox, deer, ducks, to name a few…
8. snow days
9. tooling around in my 69 VW bug when the weather’s nice. (there’s no heat in the winter)
10. homemade mac-n-cheese
11. listening to my husband play his french horn on stage…anywhere
12. meditating to my husband’s cds
13. holding a child who has no one, soaking them in the love of God
14. clean sheets
15. our simple treehouse with it’s cedar walls, oak floors and hickory rockers
16. stuffing dollars in our chifundo jar and watching it fill up, knowing it will buy food for hungry kids
17. reading/writing/praying in my little cabin tucked away in the woods
18. finishing anything
19. old episodes of The West Wing and movies about WWII
20. the possibilities of a new journal
21. the ongoing search for the perfect bag – it’s out there somewhere
22. rain storms, coconut popsicles and the perfect shade of red
23. our two shichon pups and senegal parrot who talks non-stop
24. watching elephants, hippos and crocs from the relative safety of a safari boat
25. art museums – and creativity in every form
26. attending the opera with my 15-year-old, the opera buff
27. laughing with good friends
28. leading worship & teaching/speaking – anywhere, anytime
29. the ongoing search for the perfect mug – it’s out there somewhere
30. playing my Native American flutes
31. singing the Willaby Wallaby song for my granddaughter, Poppy
32. finding comments on my blog from people I don’t know – as well as people I do know
33. good news – like a good report from Dad’s cancer doctor or great reports from our partners in Africa
34. surprise trips to beautiful places
35. the unexpected check that comes at the 11th hour
36. celtic music
37. inspirational stories – where the underdog perseveres and wins
38. making messes in my art journals – with paint, crayons, tape, paper, pens – you name it
39. a good writing day – when that one perfect paragraph, or sentence, survives.
40. time and space for contemplation
41. refusing offense and when I can’t – forgiving
42.forgiving myself and walking in grace
43. my mac (yes, i’m a convert)
44. the sound of a fountain and flowers for no reason
45. strolling through a community greenhouse on a winter’s day
46. drinking  in beauty in all forms – from a spider’s web to a Beethoven symphony
47. capturing an insect that has wandered into the treehouse – and setting it free
48. learning detachment – and that feeling of freedom that comes when I realize I have let something, or someone, go
49. a good cry for a good reason
50. stopping to fully appreciate the heroes -  ordinary people who commit extraordinary acts of bravery and kindness every day

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giving thanks

November 21, 2009

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I’m back from Africa in time for the Thanksgiving holiday – always a harder time of year to cope with “re-entry”.  I still remember melting down in the cereal aisle of a grocery store on my November return from Madagascar a decade ago.

It’s Thanksgiving eve and I’m hunting down pumpkin pie ingredients under screaming fluorescent lights when – without warning – my two worldviews collide in a very public-and messy-manner. The bright faces on the cereal boxes suddenly morph into the faces of dying children I have just left and I begin to sob incoherently about injustice and Lucky Charms. My husband has to carry me from the store.

Malaria may have had something to do with that particlar episode – but even after all these years, I still find it difficult to traverse back and forth between such starkly different worlds. It has, however, taught me to be grateful for even the smallest things – and to find meaning in each day.

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For instance, I’m so grateful for clean water flowing from a tap inside my house. I don’t have to haul water on my head, back and forth from a dirty river or a deep well in a neighboring village – or suck on dirty tree roots for my moisture. I’m grateful that I don’t have to chop firewood each time I want to cook even the smallest meal. I’m grateful that I have meals – even a simple bowl of soup and something as insignificant as a dash of salt.

I’m grateful for a warm bed and a house that keeps snakes out and won’t fall down when the rains come.The children have told me how frightening it is to find huge snakes curled up next to them in the middle of the night. Pythons, no less. (A little mouse would be welcome in their houses. Well, actually it would be breakfast.)  I’m grateful for soap, a hot shower and a clean towel, for books, music, art, beauty and a 1969 VW that still runs.

I know the US economy has taken a hit. We’ve had difficult times ourselves and are one of those families without health insurance – but I’m so grateful that we make more than a dollar a day, like 65% of all Malawians. (And no, you can’t feed and clothe a family on that – even in the Malawian economy.) I’m grateful that I’ve never had to send my children to bed hungry or choose which ones would go to school and which would go to work in a sweat shop.

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I’m grateful that we’ve never been driven into refugee camps through war and violence – like so many African families. As I think of the increasing  violence in Darfur – or in Congo – I’m grateful for the peace in our nation and for the military men and women and their families who give up their lives to keep it that way. When I think of the corrupt and brutal dictators who stand with their boots on the necks of the poor, chopping off the limbs of innocent children, I thank God for democracy – that works better here than anywhere else in the world.

Our parents are all battling illness, and that has been painful to watch – yet I am so grateful for the skilled and compassionate professionals whose care beats back the cancer. And I’m grateful to God who allows us to enjoy our loved ones for yet another day. I’ve just left a country where people are stacked two to a bed – and under the beds – on teeming hospital wards. Where life-saving surgeries are canceled because the national blood bank is dry, where people die of liver cancer with no more than tylenol to ease the pain. Yes, I’m grateful. I’m grateful for a husband who treats me with loving respect, for the opportunities my children have had, for the health and well-being of my beautiful granddaughter.

But I’m also grateful for the songs of the African widows who never give up, for the woman with AIDS who radiates joy as she talks about the goodness of God, the skeletal orphan child who clings to me, laughing, singing, hugging, still hoping, still believing in life and the love of God. These are my teachers.

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And there is one teacher in particular that I think of every Thanksgiving – let me take you back a few years…

I’m in Madagascar.  Since arriving I have preached nine times in 3 days, trudged up and down mountainsides, stood helplessly, surrounded by starving street children and heard more horror stories than I could possibly digest. I’m tired, sick with fever, rapidly sliding into a bad attitude and I’m getting ready to preach again – on love, no less. I’m praying for strength, shivering as the cold concrete floor chills my very bones, when the pastor begins to lead us in the simple worship song:

Give thanks with a grateful heart
Give thanks to the Holy One
Give thanks for He has given Jesus Christ, His son
And now let weak say “I am strong”
Let the poor say “I am rich”
Because of what the Lord has done for us

And out of the corner of my eye, I see her – a woman who looks to be in her 60s or 70s but is probably younger than me. She’s wearing a head wrap, a ragged shirt and simple cloth tied around her waist; she is barefoot on the cold concrete floor.  As she sings wholeheartedly, head thrown back and arms extended, the tears roll down her wrinkled face, soaking her shirt. I learned in that moment how to give thanks with a grateful heart – and have never forgotten. That doesn’t mean I always remember to be grateful – but when I take time to reflect, God takes me back to this humble teacher who still instructs my heart each time I think of her.

I’ll be thinking of her on Monday morning when I have a dentist appointment. I’m even grateful for this – which is nothing short of miraculous. I’m grateful for my dear friend who gives of himself and his talents to care for me and my family in this way. I’m grateful for his skilled, compassionate staff who coax me into the office and into the chair. I’m grateful for sterile instruments, novocaine and antibiotics. An oh yes – let’s not forget the gift of nitrous oxide. (PS – Just meet me in the parking lot with the tank on high and then hit me on the head with something heavy. I’ll be grateful to you.)

But enough from me. What are you grateful for?

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barefoot travels

September 23, 2009

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I was in Washington D.C. last month for a couple of days – supposedly just doing the tourist thing with Ken and Hana – though we’re not really the touristy types. We head immediately for the Holocaust Memorial Museum where we have a little delay getting in since the man directly in front of me is packing a full-sized machete in his pants. The guards are on it immediately. They just lost a comrade in June when a lunatic rifle-wielding white supremacist entered the museum and shot Officer Stephen Tyrone Jones dead – and they’re not messing around.

We eventually get in, but I can’t write about it. I bought the huge official museum book and read it cover to cover – I can’t count the number of books I’ve read on the Holocaust – but I still can’t write about it.  I’ve been to Yad Vashem in Israel and haven’t written about that experience either. I will one day, but I just don’t have words yet – except to say go see and hear for yourself.

Bear witness.

We head to the National Museum of the American Indian – which after the Holocaust memorial is a bit like stabbing yourself repeatedly with a shard of  broken glass. It’s all too much to take in.  And definitely impossible to write about until I have begun to take it in. One thing I did walk away with was a sense of awe at the artistic talent inherent in all humankind created in the image of Creator God.

We need to create art. We need beauty. It’s in the DNA of every people group.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning once wrote that “earth is crammed with heaven and every common bush afire with God, but only he who sees takes off his shoes. The rest sit around it and pluck blackberries.”

For me, D.C. is a barefoot experience from start to finish – crammed with thin places, where the veil between heaven and earth stretches beautifully and terribly taut. God is everywhere.

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There is the stooped Chinese woman fighting the wind to hang her garish red and gold banner protesting something or other in China. Just as she gets one corner tied tight, another collapses – and on and on it goes.  I watch for some time, transfixed by her tenacity and the traditional music squawking from her tiny boom box. No one is paying attention, the world is hurrying by, but she has something to say and she will say it – whether anyone listens or not. (yes, God – I caught that….)

The sound of live jazz drifts out of the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden as we pass by, so we drift in to see what’s happening. Teeming with young professionals picnicking on blankets and carrying large pitchers of overpriced Sangria to friends seated around the large fountain, it is obviously the place to be after work on a hot summer’s Friday night. I notice how well-heeled everyone is and suddenly feel self-conscious in my sorry, well-traveled crocs.

We edge close to the band (an excellent band whose name escapes me at the moment) and I’m just beginning to forget my cracked and crusty crocs and enjoy the scene when I see him. There are at least a thousand people here, but now all I can see is the sole homeless man, grasping his plastic bags, making himself small behind a stone column whenever a guard glances his way.  When it starts to drizzle, the man takes a flimsy poncho out of one of his many bags – the cling-wrappy disposable kind of poncho. He sticks his head through what looks like a crinkled bag with arm holes.

He isn’t strong and shifts his weight constantly to take the strain off his back.  When he spies a sliver of space between two women on a stone bench by the band, he makes himself visible and gestures feebly – silently asking if he can sit next to them. At first, they pretend not to see him, but as he inches towards them, they instinctively curl their  bodies inward, creating enough space for his frail, thin frame.

And there he sits – among the elite of Washington – gripping all his worldly possessions under his grimy poncho. He closes his eyes and his body moves to the rhythms, the emotions changing on his face with each featured instrument, each riff, each exhilarating ride. Here is a man who can see and has clearly taken off his shoes, drinking in the sheer mad beauty of sound. I wonder where he’ll sleep tonight. I wonder if he’ll still hear the music in his dreams. I wonder if he even notices the masses around him plucking blackberries.

We move on to two white-haired men weeping openly at the Viet Nam Memorial wall, tracing the names of their long -dead friends with shaky fingers.  What they have seen they can never forget and I can not even begin to imagine. But I can hear God breathing at this wall. There are angels here.

It starts to rain heavily, sending all visitors scurrying – except for us, of course, and one limping man who looks to be in his early 60’s. Wearing a ragged veteran’s hat and shirt, I hear his dog tags clatter as he passes by. Having just slipped on the wet walkway, and worrying that he might take a tumble on the slick surface, I catch up to him and grab his elbow, cautioning him to take care.

Don’t worry about me, he says with a smile. He stops and makes a sweeping gesture toward the wall – I live here. I spend every day of my life here with my friends.

He asks me where I hail from and when I tell him Ohio, he rattles off these words:

Panel 23W Line 112. Her name was First Lieutenant Sharon Lane and that’s where you can find her name on the wall. She was from Canton, Ohio  - the only woman actually killed by enemy fire in Nam. She was hit in the neck by shrapnel  at Chu Lai as she was bending over a young Vietnamese girl, pressing a wound to keep her from bleeding to death. 1st Lt. Lane  was decorated for bravery and there is a statue of her in Canton. Go there. Go see it.

As this man continues to talk, both of us oblivious to the rain, I realize that over the years he has memorized this wall – not just the names, but the panel and line numbers. He tells me that he spends every day here to honor the fallen, so that they will never be forgotten.  I can see that he’s not well, his arms and legs are swollen, his skin mottled, his eyes glazed. He didn’t survive the war either. There are different ways to die – some are quicker than others.

He walks away and I stare at my soaked shoes. I tend to see more clearly in the rain. This man makes me ashamed at how little thought I have given to the intimate price of war – each precious life represented not only on this snaking black wall but at the Korean War memorial, the WWII memorial, in the daily news coming out of Afghanistan and Iraq. Each life cut short – but their stories living on tortuously in the minds of those who love them, those who trace their names on aging marble or finger photos until the corners curl.

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I think of the price of one human life to God – and what the price of one human life should mean to me. Whether it’s a fallen soldier, a holocaust survivor, or another nameless, faceless genocide victim in Darfur.

Thin places always make me think. They teach me to see differently – and they are everywhere, every day,  for those who can bear to look.

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temporary

September 7, 2009

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This morning I read a random quote by Isak Dineson, the author of Out of Africa – one of my all-time favorite books. (note: if you’ve seen the movie but haven’t read the book, they’re too different animals altogether. I recommend the book…)

I may have read these words before but today they resonate.

“Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before, how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever…”

Time stopped for us yesterday as the grandkids threw an early birthday bash for their Grampa. His real birth date is September 10th, but right now out-of-town family along and in-town family that we don’t often see swells our ranks.  So I take my little niece Chloe and my taller-than-me niece Courtney  out to buy party hats, blowers, crepe paper.

Chloe chooses a Spongebob Squarepants theme. (Or is it Spongepants Squarebob? I can never remember) and a package of shiny plastic sunglasses – eight pairs in bright colors, shaped like hearts and stars. Courtney plucks a special yellow ribbon from the top shelf for the birthday boy to wear and Chloe completes the shopping trip with a tub of cotton candy.

Back at home, the dining room and living room is packed with tables for the Sunday meal. Mom has brought out the red Christmas cloths that set off her country rose china and glasses. I sit at the end table with the kids – to enjoy being with my nieces and nephews but also to watch the scene at the head table from a distance. I’m trying to drink it in, to make time stop – and for a brief moment, it almost does.

The family room is bedecked in pink, blue and white crepe streamers ( Chloe’s color choices), a large handmade  birthday poster hangs from the mantle. The children break out the party hats and glasses and blowers. Someone sticks the yellow ribbon on my father’s shirt. Mom and Dad don their party hats and silly glasses; all the grandkids – young and not-so-young – gather round them and we snap pictures. The kids rush out to the kitchen, whispering and giggling as a single candle is lit on the cake. They march in en masse, singing

Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear Grampa
Happy Birthday to you

And suddenly time slows down to a crawl. My dad can’t blow out his birthday candle, of course. He breathes through a tube in his throat. My mom catches her breath and covers her face for just a moment, before regaining her composure. Dad motions to Carly, the youngest grandchild in the room – she tries to blow it out 3 times and finally someone helps her. My father still has that twinkle in his eye, but his face is etched with both joy and pain.

Joy at being surrounded by the most important thing in his life – his family. Pain because, if the doctor’s prognosis is correct – he knows this is his last birthday celebration.

Right now, outside of his faith in God, his family is the only thing that matters to my father. He used to argue politics and theology, he could argue the paint off a wall – and he can still put up a good debate, even on a white board. But now none of it matters a whit. What matters is the people he loves. Every moment he has to hold the hand of his wife of 58 years is precious. (Before he lost his voice a few weeks back, Dad watched mom climb the stairs one day, and turning to Ken and me, he said : when you look at your mom, you might see an old woman but all I see is my 19-year-old bride.) Every kiss on the cheek, every hug from little arms, every laugh is priceless.

Time begins to move again. Scripture comes to mind – a passage that was burned into my mind when my friend died 5 years ago:

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

(Photo Credit: Happy Birthday by Maria Luisa Menasche, USA)

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