Thursday, October 12, 2017

Letting Go and Letting Love


This is a story of lessons learned and letting go.  It is a story about what happened when I  put my words into action, even when that action was to do nothing.  It is a story about allowing myself to trust and the miracles that followed.  It is a story about getting out of my own way.

The story began two years ago when Jim, my husband, was diagnosed with end-stage kidney failure. It was a diagnosis that was to be taken seriously.  We  were told by a doctor that had Jim waited a few days longer he would have died.  Toxins had been swimming throughout his system for months if not years.  Unfortunately they have had long term effects, and I found myself taking on much of the responsibilities of our lives.  I do not tell you this in an attempt to praise myself.  Rather it is a confession.  I allowed his care to become a burden for me.  I was overwhelmed and consumed by it.  I lost sight of the fact that I was not personally responsible  for everything.  I forgot that I am surrounded by a powerful love that is sent from heaven.  I forgot about a bit of wisdom I found on a magnet at the beach a few years before.

"Do not think you are totally responsible for everything.  That is my job.  Love, God"

  Throughout the nightmarish times that followed his diagnosis Jim set a goal that sometimes seemed unreachable.  It became his touchstone.  He wanted to return to Italy to visit his family and friends there.  As we faced one crisis after another his question remained the same.  "Can I still go to Italy?"  And so I set out to make that happen. Yes, I thought all the responsibilities and challenges of his wish were up to me to figure out.

I raced from one thing to another, priding myself on taking care of it all.  I was so caught up in the demands that I did not hear the quiet voices of the earthly angels sent to us.  Among them were the voices of Jerry and Judi, a loving couple who was traveling with us.  They walked hand in hand and reached out those hands to help others.  More than angels, they were guardian angels who were at our side for the entire trip.

"How can we help?'
"We'll be there too.  Between all of us we'll figure it out."
"I can take care of it."



It is odd that I appreciated those sincere offers to help but still felt totally responsible for all that needed to be done.  There was much on my To Do List, and I had a constant voice running through my head.  

  1. Order the dialysis supplies to be delivered to Italy.  Check
  2. Locate back up clinics in Italy to care for Jim in case of an emergency.  Check
  3. Notify the airline that he would need a wheelchair in the airport and help for boarding the plane.  Check
  4. Clear with the airline that we would have his dialyzer with us as carry on luggage.  Get a copy of the letter explaining the need to do so.  Check
  5. Get a copy of his medical records to carry with us.  Check
  6. Get a converter so that the dialyzer would be compatible with the electricity in Italy.  Check
And so I zipped along with my attention being on the myriad of things that needed to be done.  My focus was on the responsibilities rather than the anticipation of a trip filled with joy that Jim so dearly wanted.  I was setting us up for failure.

Finally, in my mind, we were ready to go.  I had worked for months and patted myself on the back for a job well done.  Then the phone rang.  It was Monday, and we were leaving on Thursday.  The call was from the airlines.  It was the first of many calls that would be made that day.  Frustration and fear came barging in as uninvited companions on this journey.  They were not welcomed but were vital players in a valuable lesson I was to learn. 

The first call was to tell us that we would not be able to bring the dialyzer on the plane with us as carry-on luggage.  It was too big.  It would have to be checked.  When I tried to calmly explain that I had cleared this with the airline weeks before I was told that the person I had spoken with had no right to make that decision.  When I spoke about the need to have it with us in order to prevent the dialyzer becoming damaged or lost I was interrupted and told that it would need to be checked.  I was not quite so calm when I said that my husband's life depended on the dialyzer.  The answer came back that it was to be checked and not carried on.  I was in tears when I hung up.  I had been advised by Jim's health team that the dialyzer had to stay with us.  I was just plain scared.

I located a letter given to me by the dialysis supplier.  It stated that the DOT required that the dialyzer stay with the patient on the plane as it contains a lithium battery.  Jim called the airline back, and I left him to handle the conversation on his own.  I found him a few minutes later sitting at the table and looking very confused.  When he read the letter to the person he spoke with he was told, "I don't care what the letter says.  You cannot bring it into the cabin with you."  He was further confused by what followed.  He was told that if the dialyzer contained a lithium battery we not only could not bring it into the cabin with us, we were not allowed to bring it onto the plane at all.  What????

I reached for the phone and first called his health team at the dialysis center.  One nurse in particular began working on her end to resolve the matter.  I heard the same thing over and over throughout the day.  "This is unheard of.  It has never happened before."  Before the end of the day I had contacted everyone I could think of including our congressman and a hotline for disabled people traveling by air.  I slept fitfully that night worried that the very trip that was Jim's motivation for living was not going to happen.  What then?  Would he just give up?  If it was unheard of, then why was it happening to us?  I tossed and turned as the questions hurtled through my mind.

I woke the next morning and prayed.  I asked how to turn the situation around.  I asked what I was missing.  What lesson was I being taught?  I then quieted my mind and received a surprising answer.  STEP BACK!  I professed to believe that I am surrounded by a powerful love every minute of every day.  I now needed to put that belief into action.  I needed to stop trying to be all-responsible.  I needed to trust.  I needed to get out of my own way.  

I think I shocked the nurse who called a few minutes later.  She paused, perhaps searching for words, after I told her I was letting it go and putting it in God's hands.  I then began my day.  Within two hours a representative from the corporate level of the airline called.  An hour later everything was resolved.  The dialyzer would be brought into the cabin with us.  The lithium battery was a non-issue because it was encased within a medical device.  It gets better.

Once we had checked in at the airport Judi asked where we could get a wheelchair for Jim. She was directed to an area of the airport, but was stopped as she reached for one of the many located there. Someone from the airport needed to push the wheelchair.  They asked to see Jim's boarding pass.  When reading his name they exclaimed, "We've been waiting for you!"  Within minutes someone arrived with the wheelchair. Another person walked with us pushing our carry-on luggage to the gate.  Two others accompanied us through security, allowing us to skirt the long lines, and then waited with us at the gate.  They boarded the plane with us and ensured the dialyzer was secure and Jim was comfortable.  Upon landing in Rome we were again greeted by someone with a wheelchair.  He breezed us through passport control, and stayed with Jim while we arranged to pick up our rental car and were on our way.  Amazing things happen when I get out of my way.



That night we tried to set up the dialyzer.  The converter we purchased was not going to work.  The dialyzer needed to draw more power during its nine hour cycle than the converter could handle.  We needed a heavy duty transformer.  They are not easily available in Italy.  Family and friends gathered around to resolve the new challenge.  Then a member of our Italian family quietly spoke.  "I can make one."  Neither Jim nor I knew that he had gone to school to be an electrician, and his job was to keep all the machines in the plant where he worked up and running.  We did not know.  Another unexpected angel appeared when I got out of my way.

Later in the trip supplies that I had ordered weeks before did not reach our destination.  I took it upon myself to fix it as I phoned the supply company.  It was Friday night in Italy.  I was told the courier was supposed to deliver the supplies that morning.  No one knew why they had not.  Courier services do not work on weekends in Italy.  We would have to wait until Monday.  When I explained that I only had enough supplies for one night of dialysis I was told to take Jim to the hospital for treatment over the weekend.  I used the word unacceptable often during that conversation, but I still hung up with things unresolved.  I had not fixed anything.

Family stepped in.  There was a lively discussion in Italian which I could not follow.  It continued the next morning.  Phone calls were made, but not by me.  I stepped back.  In hesitant English, someone explained that they would go to the hospital and get what Jim needed.  It was not necessary that Jim be admitted.  They would bring the supplies to him.  There would be no fee charged.  As we finished our conversation an excited voice called to us.  A phone call was received.  The order was on its way. It was Saturday.  Couriers do not work on Saturday, but within an hour the supplies were delivered by a courier.  Amazing things happen when I get out of my way.

There were poignant moments throughout the trip.  I watched as Jim struggled to climb stairways in Italy.  His legs are weak, and for him those stairs that I had just bounced up must have seemed like mountains to be climbed.  There at his side was his friend who seemed to know exactly what to say to get him up those steps.  There were sometimes encouraging words and sometimes a bit of cursing.





  It was truly difficult for Jim to get up those stairs.  The effort he made to reach the top left him depleted.  As he struggled to climb those last few steps I would sometimes hear Jim mutter, "Oh God, please help me."  I had to smile when I heard Jerry's ready answer.  "That's it.  Keep praying.  Praying works."

Yes, praying works.  That is especially true if you just get out of the way and let love go to work.









Wednesday, August 23, 2017

One Rose at a Time

                                                                                  
Lisa's Roses...


There exists a neighborhood flower shop located in the heart of one of Pennsylvania's smallest cities.  It is a family business where you will be welcomed with a smile from someone who is most likely a member of that family.  You may find yourself reminiscing with Carmen who founded the shop in 1948.


  Perhaps you will catch up on the latest news with his son, Greg, who now runs the business with his wife, Dorrie, at his side. You enter the shop as a friend and will spend a few minutes in friendly conversation before getting down to the business of the day.  Simply put you understand that love rests between the flowers in that small store, and you will return to it again and again.

 
                     
Once a year that love spills over into the streets of this small city and reaches out to the neighboring communities as well.  In 2004  Greg and Dorrie tragically lost their daughter to cancer.  Lisa was a young woman whose physical beauty only mirrored the beauty she carried within her heart.  I cannot begin to imagine or understand the grief of her parents and all those who loved her.  Yet the glimmer of understanding I may have leaves me standing in awe of what Dorrie and Greg did next.  The hole in their hearts did not long remain a place of darkness.  Lisa'a love began to gently fill them with a flicker of light that eventually grew to radiate over miles.  On the anniversary of Lisa'a death the doors to their shop as well as their hearts are thrown wide open to the hundreds of people who will enter them that day.  Each and every one of those people will be given a dozen roses with one simple yet powerful request.  Keep one rose for yourself and give the remaining eleven away.  They ask that you pass on Lisa's love.  And on that day there is magic and joy in the air as Lisa's love fills this small city and the neighboring communities one rose at a time...one person at a time.

Lisa's love is carried out into this corner of the world by people of every race, religion, and sexual orientation.  The shop is in the heart of what was once a thriving steel mill town.




 It is a city of diversity and has had its share of difficult times.  Some of those difficulties were the result of economics as the steel industry declined leaving many without jobs.  Some of those difficulties arose because of the diverse cultures which led to misunderstanding and conflict.  Truth be told there are those who look down on the city and its residents.  Its challenges are well known and well publicized.  Little room is left for pretense, and therein lies this city's strength.  Many of its residents share what is almost a raw honesty, and that leads to a clearer understanding.  Understanding can then lead to acceptance and mutual respect.  This shop not only lies in the heart of its city, it represents the heart of its city.  You are likely to cross paths with people who sometimes struggle to simply keep moving, who carry the weight of burdens we cannot understand.  Yet these same people find a way to make their corner of the world a better place with one rose at a time...with one person at a time.



Why was Lisa's Roses able to become such a remarkable movement in a city that struggles with its challenges on a daily basis?  Perhaps because it was born from the heart and with love.  Can you imagine what might happen if we each rose above our pain, misunderstandings, and challenges and worked to make our corner of the world better with one rose at a time...one person at a time?  Why not try?


Sunday, August 6, 2017

Pink Shoes Legacy






"I hope that when I die someday people remember me as an ornery son of a gun."  The memory came in a flash.  I  was in my early twenties and sitting in the car with my father as he was drove me back to college.   Those car trips provided rare opportunities for one-on-one time which sometimes led to heartfelt conversations.  I can picture him saying those words with his hands relaxed on the steering wheel and his eyes focused on the road's path before him.  It was a true picture of how he approached life.  Always in the driver's seat, looking forward, and aware of the potential surrounding him.  Always ready to do what was necessary to keep any member of his family safe, yet relaxed and taking life one mile at a time. And of course, always with his thoughts leading to humor.  Always looking for a way to make someone laugh and brighten their day.  A simple car trip that is significant not only for the words he spoke but also for the lessons he taught while simply driving.  The lessons that would one day become part of his legacy.


Legacy has been much on my mind recently.  What exactly is it?  That question kept repeating itself in my thoughts. My time teaching in a 4th grade classroom had me opening up dictionaries to find the definition I was searching for.  The closest I found is the following from Macmillan:

something that someone has achieved that continues to exist after they stop working or die

I imagine my legacy musings began with my father's passing in April.  As I sat and listened to the loving words spoken by those who eulogized Dad, there was a quiet persistent voice inside me that questioned who Dad really was and what legacy he wanted to leave for us.  What did he hope to achieve that would continue to exist long after he died?  Truth be told his wish to be remembered as, "an ornery son of a gun'" has been realized.  The photo below shows him as a man who existed years before I knew him, but I recognize the look on his face.  The smirk that speaks to his orneriness and the joke that is in his mind.  The attitude that when life throws you a challenge just thumb your nose at it, crack a joke, and keep moving forward with your eyes focused on the road ahead.



That was the man I knew as my father.  Yet the question of who else he was lingered in my mind.  That question then led to others.  As I went about the process of simply living I tried to quiet those thoughts.  They were determined however, and I would hear from them again.

Mother's Day was approaching, and I began a bit of a treasure hunt as I searched through the hundreds of photos in my possession for a particular one. It speaks to my priorities that said photos are not well organized, and I never did find the one I was searching for.  That turned out to be a blessing because my search led me to discover the treasure of my hunt.  It was a picture of Mom as a young woman.  She was playfully showing off her legs with her thumb out in that universal sign of hitch hiking.  She was laughing and carefree without the responsibilities of being a wife and mother.  That happy-go-lucky lady was unfamiliar to me.  For me, Mom's legacy was strength, faith, and determination.  She loved us with a passion, but I rarely saw that part of her that was free-spirited.  When I found the photo I stopped and stared.  That persistent questioning voice of my thoughts made itself known once again.  Who were you, Mom?  What kind of legacy did you want to leave for us?  What do I want my legacy to be?



As is the way of the universe, the more I reflected on legacy the more the it knocked at the door of my thoughts and demanded to be let in and dealt with.  It next showed up in an online class I was taking from an awesome and creative woman named Lesley Riley.  The lesson included a Youtube clip of a Ted Talk speaker named Minke Haveman.  There was a glimmer of tears in Minke's eyes as she spoke of a shopping excursion with her mother.  Her mother found a pair of high heeled pink shoes that she was determined her daughter should have.  When Minke demurred her mother insisted and said that everyone should have a pair of pink shoes.  She bought them for Minke, and her smile beamed as she gave them to her.  Minke then went on to explain that her mother was battling cancer at the time, and those pink shoes were to be the last gift she received from her mom.  

Minke spoke of those pink shoes as being a part of her legacy, but only if their story was known.  And therein lies a truth.  At the very least a part of my parents' story is not known.  The same is true of all my family and loved ones who are no longer here to tell me their stories.  The loss of those stories brought about some loss of legacy. 

Minke encourages her listeners to gather their stories and share them.  Write on the back of a photograph, share your memories, and let it be known why some seemingly insignificant object is cherished.  Those are the things that speak to our hearts, and aren't our hearts the core of who we are?  Are not those things we cherish voices of our legacy? 

There is an old chipped mug that rests in a place of honor on a shelf in my home.  Although it bears my name it was given to my parents by one of my aunts at a time before I remember.  It was displayed on a kitchen shelf not only throughout my childhood but through my adult years as well.  It was simply always there and became a touchstone for me whenever I visited my childhood home.  It speaks to my presence as a member of a loving family.  It easily brings back memories of family dinners when we gathered around the kitchen table, shared simple meals, and talked about the day's events.  As that mug held its place on a small kitchen shelf it also seemed to hold my place in my family.  It proudly sat on that shelf in our kitchen, and is it not said that the kitchen is the heart of the home?  Does it not follow then, that this seemingly insignificant object has earned its place in my heart?  And does not my heart contain the core of who I am?







The wonderful truth is that we are each the author of our own legacy, and we are each the lone author who can tell our stories completely.  We can choose what gifts or achievements we leave that will continue to exist long after we die.  However we need to tell the stories of our lives rather than let those stories be hidden in closed books.   We need to show what is in our hearts  for it is those things that give birth to our legacies.  

    As her presentation was drawing to a close Minke asked a question that I will now ask you.  What are your pink shoes?









Saturday, April 29, 2017

Pieces of April



       "April gives us springtime and the promise of the flowers..." -Bread

I love springtime.  What a gift it is to sit beneath a blossom covered tree while savoring the gentle warmth of the sun, the birdsong filling the air around me, and daylight that lingers well into the evening.  My step is lighter when I walk among earth's signs of renewal and discover a rebirth of hope.

I do not enjoy winter nearly as much.  I work to bring light into those cold dark days.  I try to convince myself that it is cozy to light candles and sit in front of the fireplace sipping a cup of tea.  While that is true, I would rather have long days filled with light than days when the darkness appears much too soon.  I would rather the light come to my world with little effort from me.


"I realize that there is something incredibly honest about the trees in winter, how they're experts at letting things go." 
-Jeffrey McDaniel

Effort, however, is necessary in order to learn the lessons that winter...life...teach.   I have come to appreciate at least one of them.  The blossoms and leaves that impress the earth with their showy beauty can hide the trees' strength.  It is only with the letting go of those leaves that we are able to clearly see the trunk and limbs that stand strong against the cold winds that roar about them.  Cannot the same be said about ourselves?  That it is only when we drop our pretenses that we find our true strength?  That only when we let go of what no longer serves us can we make room for the new life that is to come?

It sometimes seems that I have been letting go for years.  Some of it is so easy it is almost fun.  I have way too much stuff in my life.  It is a good feeling to box it all up and send it on its way to someone who has a need for it.  What I find much more difficult to let go of are relationships with people I care about...with people I love.

Six years ago my father suffered from a stroke that only affected his mind.  A relatively small bleed in his brain dragged us into a new and bewildering reality.  I realized I needed to let go of the showy expectations of who my father was in order to gain the strength, understanding, and wisdom needed to appreciate who he  now showed himself to be.  Perhaps it was a truer picture of who he was at the core of his being and not, as first thought, a new person that I did not know.


And from that strength new life began to spring out in that darkness.  Dad would suddenly purposely make a funny comment which would leave me weak with laughter.  His wisdom would come out in comments such as, "People can't talk right if they think stupid."  As I let go of my expectations  I discovered  a version that also had many gifts to offer.  As he became more childlike the walls we create as adults were brought down.  As he let go of the facade of who he thought society demanded he be, he became the man he truly was.  Once released from those demands he was able to make room for the beauty in the new lessons he taught.  His strength was clearly seen.  That strength remained at the very core of who he was.  His strength was his heart.



My father reached the end of his journey on April 3rd.  I sat with him on the day of his death.  Although not truly conscious, he held my hand when I talked to him.  When I spoke of how much he was loved I felt his hand squeeze mine.  He continued to give his gifts of love and strength until the very end of his time here on earth.  They are the very gifts that will allow me to make room for new growth in  my life.  Dad, I love you to the moon and back.

Friday, March 10, 2017

Spring Song




It was a picture perfect day at Longwood Gardens on Wednesday.  The sun was shining from a clear blue sky.  The air was warm and held the promise of Spring.  The predicted snow by the end of the week seemed only to enhance the day.  Couples strolled along the paths, and children played nearby.  Their shrieks of laughter sang a duet with the chirping birds and provided joyful background music.   It seemed that the earth was coming back to life.

My meanderings led me to the Pierce duPont House where I was volunteering that day.  Delicate white flowers were scattered throughout the front lawn of the house causing me to stop and simply breathe it all in.
                                       




I entered the building and greeted Suzanne, my partner for the day.  We enjoy one another's company,
and surrounded by the beauty of the house's indoor gardens we quietly chatted and caught up with one another's lives.

                                         

As visitors drifted into the house we happily talked with them catching brief glimpses of their lives.  A woman from India who's heavily lined face spoke of her ancient wisdom.  A young couple from Japan who giggled as they posed for a photo in front of the orchids currently displayed in the house.  A sprightly woman who is 90 years young and never fails to delight us with her energy and wit.  One man who stopped to declare the gardens were an oasis, and another who simply said it was what heaven must look like.   All add so much to our days.  

In time a woman in a wheelchair entered the building accompanied by her daughter.  At that point they were the only visitors in the house.  With an elegant shawl wrapped around her and a faux fur throw draped over her lap the woman, Connie, buzzed about in her wheelchair determined to take full advantage of the rooms she was able to explore.  Her daughter, Elizabeth, dressed in casual knit pants and a quilted white jacket stayed close to her mother as they chatted about what they saw and learned.  Perhaps 30 years old and with her long blonde hair flying behind her Elizabeth was sometimes forced to trot in order to keep up with her mother.  Eventually they stopped to talk with Suzanne and me.  Oh my goodness, the stories they shared!

Connie spoke of her bout with cancer, explaining that it caused her hips to deteriorate and thus confined her to the wheelchair.  She went on to talk about her initial diagnosis.  She had not felt well and went to her doctor where they drew her blood and scheduled future tests.  She received a phone call the following Saturday.  The man who called explained that he was a doctor who rented office space from her regular physician on Saturdays.  He gently told her that he had seen her blood test results and advised her to go to the hospital immediately for a blood transfusion.  When she asked if it could wait until Monday...she had too much to do that weekend...the doctor replied she would not be around on Monday if she did not have the transfusion immediately.  Off to the hospital she went, and while waiting for the transfusion a doctor approached her.  He introduced himself as the person she spoke with on the phone.  He told her he stopped in to check that she did as he advised.  Once reassured that she had done so he quietly walked away.  So began her battle, and while she detests being confined to her wheelchair she is grateful that she still leads a full life.  In time she wanted to reach out and thank those people who helped her through her battle.  Of course she wanted to thank the doctor who initially called her.  As Connie tried to track him down she was dumbfounded at what she discovered.  There was not then, nor ever had been, anyone who rented office space from her primary doctor on Saturdays!  As far as anyone knew this "doctor" who sent her to the hospital so that she could receive a life saving procedure did not exist.  She considers him an angel who saved her life.

As Connie spoke Elizabeth sat nearby both confirming what her mother said and filling in any details her mother left out.  At one point Connie mentioned that Elizabeth was a ballet dancer up until Connie become ill.  Elizabeth added that she had actually performed at Longwood's open air theater in the past.  Then she casually stood up, did a few twirls around the room and kicked up her leg so that her sneaker clad foot rose above her head!  Suzanne and I laughed out loud with both surprise and delight.

The outside door opened, and Paula walked in. Paula is a delightful lady who is one of the administrators at Longwood.  She was on her way to her office which is located on the second floor of the house.  Paula was drawn into our conversation and stole a few minutes of her busy day to join us.  Connie spoke of her regret that Elizabeth had put a hold on her career in order to care for her. With pride yet almost as an afterthought Connie added that Elizabeth was also an opera singer.  

With a bit of encouragement Elizabeth stood up.  In a way that appeared almost effortless for her she began to sing.  Her voice soared from within her and resounded throughout the building.  There was no laughter as her song seemed to rise to the heavens.  As the three of us watched and listened in awe I felt my eyes fill up with tears.  Suzanne would later say that her arms were covered with goosebumps, and I watched Paula look up and nod to someone on the second floor as she wiped a tear from her eyes.  If it is true that Longwood is a bit of heaven, then on that day we heard the voice of an angel.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Coloring Lessons

                                         

Guests smiled as they watched a man and his wife spin around the dance floor. The couple's energy and zest for life left many smiling in wonder.   When the song ended they held onto one another a bit as they left the floor.  Having been married for over sixty years they knew well the value of loving and leaning on one another in good times and bad.  It was a lesson they taught their children and grandchildren.  A love lesson that would prove to be invaluable in the weeks ahead.

With the dance floor behind them the couple entered the crowd of family and friends that so often surrounded them.  As the man, Tom, glanced around the room his eyes rested on a niece.  First giving his wife's hand a small loving squeeze he walked over to her with a warm smile that reached all the way from his heart to his eyes.  He immediately engulfed her in one of his famous hugs.  In his typical manner, he looked straight into her eyes and listened, truly listened, to the words she spoke.  Later she would say that he made her feel as if she was the only person in the room.

A few weeks later Tom walked into his kitchen.  He smiled as he recalled an earlier conversation with his daughter.  Absentmindedly he adjusted the centerpiece on their family table and turned to open a drawer.  Suddenly the world turned black, and he sank to the floor with a crash.  The music stopped.  His dance had ended.

The message swiftly passed throughout his family.  Massive stroke...doesn't look good.  As his wife, children, and grandchildren gathered at his bedside,  they were joined in spirit by the many people whose lives Tom touched.  They struggled to make sense of it.  How could someone so full of life be so suddenly at death's door?  How could they be without this man who quietly entered their hearts and colored their lives with joy and love?  Within days a second message arrived.  He had passed. As another niece put it, "His wings were ready, but our hearts were not."  His loved ones found themselves stumbling about lost in a gray fog of disbelief and grief.

                               

  But his coloring lessons were not finished, and his love was still present.  Those closest to him reached out through that dismal fog and found one another.  Supporting one another as he had taught them to do they found a way to bring his vibrancy back to life.  His family  knew his wishes.  He had often expressed them.  He did not want a solemn funeral, but rather he wanted a celebration of his life.  He had a specific request that gave his loved ones a direction.  No one should wear black clothes.  He wanted people in bright colors. And so they arrived at his services wearing reds, corals, yellows, and bright blues.  By wearing vibrant colors they honored the vibrancy of Tom's life and celebrated the remarkable man they were blessed to know.
                                       

                                     
  They listened to the loved filled words spoken about him, and struggled to use those words to help fill the void left in their hearts. One man described Tom using the following words.  "Some people see the glass as half empty and others as half full.  Once in a while there is someone who sees the glass as three quarters full.  Tom was one of those people."

His coloring lessons continued as his family carried out his wishes.  They leaned on one another.  They greeted those who gathered with hugs.  Their smiles came from their hearts and reached their eyes.  They looked people in the eyes and listened, not only giving them the gift of feeling they were the only person in the room but also that each and every person there was loved by Tom.  While they would grieve his loss they would also find a way to bring joy back into their lives.  And from above Tom reaches for his glass that is now brimming over.  He pours a bit into each glass held by the people he loves.  Then with glasses now three quarters full they raise them up as he reaches down.  A beautiful sound rings out as those glasses touch in a toast to a man who continues to teach so many how to color their worlds with love and joy.

                                         
God speed, Uncle Tom.
                                                        

Monday, January 30, 2017

Planting Flowers





I recently came across these wise words on a FB post:

"Why so optimistic about 2017?  What do you think it will bring?

I think it will bring flowers.

Yes?  How come?

Because I am planting flowers."




With a contented sigh I stretched out my legs on the bus seat where I sat.  I glanced over to the two girlfriends I was traveling with, exchanged quiet smiles, and let my attention wander out of a window to the Texas countryside.  Fields of wildflowers covered the ground like a vividly colored blanket.  I remembered it was a project started by Lady Bird Johnson who simply wanted to make her part of the world a bit more beautiful.



It was April 2016, and I was taking a much needed vacation.  Life had been challenging for the past year or two.  My husband, Jim, had been ill.  Our lives were changing dramatically, and those changes were difficult.   Much of the time I was feeling overwhelmed and worried.

Jim owned a deli and catering business.  Unfortunately his illness caused frequent trips to the hospital.  That left me to run the business as well as care for him.  I did not step out of my comfort zone as much as I was pulled out of it kicking and screaming.

 The deli was always a bit quieter when Jim wasn't there.  He was the heart of the place, and everyone was a bit subdued when we were without that heart.  Those who felt his absence included the homeless men that Jim welcomed into the deli during the day.  They whiled away the hours there watching television, reading the newspaper, and sometimes even sleeping.  I am not proud to say that Jim's heart was bigger than mine.  While I noticed the ways they seemed to take advantage of him, Jim respected them as fellow human beings.  That is until one day when a simple act caused my heart to open.

Jim was in the hospital, and I was whisking through the deli with my thoughts bouncing from one thing I needed to do to the next.  Suddenly I noticed one of the homeless men sitting at a table and bent over an open sketch book.  Curiously I walked over to him and asked to see what he was doing.  Together we leafed through the pages of his sketchbook.  The depth of his talent astounded me.  As we reached the final drawing I started to walk away.  A thought occurred to me, and I turned back to him.  With the two of us sitting side by side i touched his arm and quietly asked him for a favor.  As he understood my request his eyes began to shine.  With a smile and a nod he agreed to do as I asked.

A week later he approached me with an anxious smile and his sketchbook tucked safely in his arms.  His hands shook a bit as he opened it to a beautiful sketch of the deli's storefront.  The deli was going to be sold within a month or so.  The drawing was a gift to Jim.  I knew it would be something he would cherish not only because it was a beautiful depiction of a major part of his life but also because the artist was someone he cared about. It was the perfect gift for each of them.  Jim loved the drawing, and it hangs in a place of honor in our home.  The artist not only received monetary payment but also gained back his pride and self-worth.  Yes, it was the perfect gift.


Here's the thing.  It almost didn't happen.  I was so overcome with fear that I almost missed an opportunity to open my heart.  I was so wrapped up in my little world of worry that I had all but closed myself off to the people around me.  Change is said to be difficult for us, and everything around me seemed to be changing.

Once again our world is changing.  Many of us are unsure about the future, and that scares us.  Our fear can lead to our closing our hearts and isolating ourselves.  Our world of worry can cause more damage and pain than any one person or group of people can cause.

I realize that I need to step put of my world of worry.  I am going to consciously look for the beauty that surrounds me.  I'm going to take time to smell the flowers.  I am also going to plant some flowers, well at least figuratively.  Mine will be simple acts of kindness.  I'll smile and say hello to you.   I'll open doors for you and pick up what you drop.  I'll let you squeeze into line ahead of me and ask God to bless you when you sneeze.  Most of all I will see you and recognize your worth as a fellow human being.  I'm going to imitate Lady Bird and make my own part of the world a bit more beautiful.

Monday, January 2, 2017

Quiet Winds

"I can fly higher than  an eagle, for you are the wind beneath my wings."  
Lyrics from, Wind Beneath My Wings.

I have a confession to make.  I think I enjoy the days after Christmas as much if not more than Christmas Day itself.   As I write this I am savoring the peace that surrounds me. The lights from our Christmas tree are gently glowing, and Christmas carols are playing softly in the background.  Too often the days leading up to Christmas find me frantically trying to complete the myriad of things that come with this season.  And so it was that I found myself outside one cold night, hurrying across my yard as I worked to complete one more task.  Suddenly my eyes rested on the nativity set displayed in our yard, and I abandoned any thought of those tasks still undone.  I found myself drawn to the statue of Joseph.  Ice hung from his face as well as the lantern held in his hand.  Quietly he crouched protectively over the baby lying in the manager.  Quietly he held the ice covered lantern providing light in the cold dark night.  Quietly he shouldered the incredible responsibility of safe guarding this child who Christians believe to be the son of God.


As a child I was taught the lessons and stories of my faith.  One was the story of the Holy Family's flight into Egypt.  There was always the same kind of illustration that went with this story.  The Blessed Mother was pristine as she sat on a donkey with the Baby Jesus cradled in her arms.  Joseph walked next to them, placidly leading the donkey through the countryside. All in all it was a tranquil picture. Then a few years ago I visited the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C.  There was a statue there which gave a much different version of their flight, and I daresay a much more accurate depiction of it.  It shows the exhaustion they must have felt as they ran for their lives.  


Once again my eyes were drawn to Joseph.  He is slumped down as he tries to rest.  What you cannot see in this photo is that his eyes are not completely closed.  He is on guard even as he attempts to regain some strength in order to push on to Egypt and safety.


As a child I felt sorry for Joseph.  It did not seem fair that this man who shouldered so much responsibility got so little attention.  As an adult I understood the reasons for it, but it still seemed that he did not receive his just due.

As I reflected on his faith and humility I began to recognize similar people in my life.  For every person who returns home from some adventure or service there is another who picks him up at the airport and stands by as the traveler receives attention and accolades.  For many gifted photographers who will receive well-earned recognition for the images they capture there are others who follow close behind shouldering a photo bag filled with equipment.  In my mind they are "Joseph-ing."  They are the foster parents and step-parents who coach the ball games or hug away the tears of a child.  They are the teachers who encourage a child struggling to learn and patiently explain the lesson again and again.  They are the doctors who sit with a patient going through a difficult treatment quietly supporting them rather than going home to their own families. They are those same doctors' loved ones who greet them with understanding and love as they arrive home very late and emotionally drained.  They are the steel workers who work the extra shifts because their child is starting college and the tuition needs to be paid.  From the shadows they are stepping up and tirelessly working on a myriad of tasks all so that someone they believe in, have faith in, can shine.  

Recently one of the "Josephs" in my life taught me a profound lesson about humility in a very simple way.  We were gathering around the table for a holiday meal, each of us randomly selecting the place where we would sit.  As this person approached the table there were few seat options left.  The closest open chair was at the head of the table.  "Joseph" looked at me with a quiet smile and rejected that place.  He did not want the added attention it might bring.  He quietly chose another less conspicuous place.  

We hear much about gift giving this time of year.  Christians celebrate the gift of Jesus to the world.  Joseph dedicated his life to raising and protecting this child.  In doing so his life became a gift to us as well.  It was a gift given in the truest sense of the word.  It came from his heart, and he expected nothing in return.   

The "Josephs" in my life give from their hearts.  Their presence is a quiet breath of air.  They are the quiet winds beneath their loved ones' wings.  The quiet winds that allow others to soar. 
Thank you, "Joseph,"  for lifting me up and encouraging me to fly.