De-Decorating

After so long a time being involved with saying goodbye to Dad, I no longer have any desire to look at Christmas lights or think about the season now past. Normally I wait until New Year's Day to take down the lights and tree and tuck away the nativity set. But today, I begin the process, determined to go as far as my energy will allow.

I ask Drew to bring up the packing boxes from the storage unit, figuring that I should at least be able to remove the ornaments from the boughs of the tree and get them wrapped and settled in their individual spots in the plastic bin. I take my time, carefully inspecting each item before wrapping it up for next year's celebration.

I can't help but think next year is bound to be better than this year! Surely next year I will enjoy a reprieve from health issues not to mention losses. Slowly I putter with other decorations, getting them safely packed in the blue tub, and making sure each figure from the nativity returns to its proper place in the styrofoam case.

I wander about the place, discovering some little delightful decor here and there, delivering it to the proper bin or tub, making sure I have not forgotten anything, remembering when I first acquired the item and any stories about its intersection with our traditions and celebrations.

I realize that over the next weeks and months, Mom will be doing the same thing with Dad's stuff, finding the right place for each item, making sure they will be of use for the next person, remembering what Dad did with it, how he got it, what it meant to him.

One of the most integral parts of life connected with Dad is his library, already spoken for by my sister Deb who has a room and shelving ready and waiting. Dad had been telling her which books were of value, which to dispose of. She will likely discover which he used the most by his underlining and marginalia.

We learned our love of books from Mom, who read to us every evening when we were young. I still remember many of them like Pat the Bunny, Mr. Moggs Dogs, The Pokey Little Puppy, and the entire Sugar Creek Gang series. We learned to hold writing up to the rule of Scripture from Dad, to analyze and understand, to ask questions from every angle, to hold on to that which is sound.

I finish collecting everything and ask Drew to return the bins to the storage unit, knowing that next year I will again enjoy their lights and warm joy. I know with Dad there will come a time when I will once again enjoy his company and conversation sans pain and sorrow. Until then, I will have to be patient.

Celebrating Dad

We packed in a scurry of rushing. We had stayed by invitation at Peniel Bible Conference, an institution with which Dad had worked, a summer camp I had attended as a young girl. We had been housed in the lodge, a rustic building deep in the heart of the Adirondacks where we rattled about like peas in a pod, being the only occupants during our stay.

The living room area offered the comforts of a fireplace which we had used liberally, both for warmth and for the calmness that crackling fires provide. The smell of wood smoke complimented the dazzling whiteness of the snow blowing off the roof, the glint of sun on dangling icicles. The solitude had been most welcomed.

The director shared with me that the last men's conference that Dad had led had been an exceptional time of dividing the word of God, of meditation and reflection, of growth and learning. How like Dad, who relished theological discussion, loved a good debate, enjoyed hashing out differences.

The memorial service was held at Dad's church, Redeemer Reformed Presbyterian Church in Queensbury, NY. It would be the final gathering for our family as we celebrated Dad's life. The service was very typical of Dad's style - the hymns ones he relished, the Scriptures passages he preferred. Both the former and the present pastor spoke, one likened Dad to a New Testament prophet Simeon, the other to an Old Testament prophet. Kind and thoughtful words. Encouragement to think of Dad being in heaven, in his element talking to Luther and Calvin and others whose works he had always appreciated.

Afterwards, a simple repast of cold cuts, cheeses and fruits, and Mom's favorite dessert, Ghiradeli brownies. We pop back to Mom's (how odd to call the A frame just Mom's instead of Mom and Dad's) to change for the drive home and to say our farewells to anyone still waiting to leave for the airport.

It was a good celebration, a good closure. But now, the real work begins, the work of adjusting to life without his smile, his sagacity, his solidness. Therein lies the real challenge.

Interment

A freezing day for a graveside service. Mom asked the pastors to be brief. We gathered at the funeral home for a last goodbye, waiting for everyone to arrive for the procession to Albany Rural Cemetery, a historic and beautiful place where my own final resting plot is located. Kiel and Drew had detoured to Mark's place to pick him up and they had still not arrived when we began the departure process.

Each group of people was called to stand by the casket and say their final goodbyes before proceeding to their car. When it came turn for the last group of which I was part, I found my legs uncooperative, my heart in my throat, tears stinging my eyes. The word "final" stabbed through the fog of sadness, driving home the message loud and clear.

There will be no more theological discussions, no hearing Dad mutter while he works on some obstinate mechanical gear, no more home reconstruction projects, no more adventures into unknown territory, no more forays into money saving scavenging schemes, no more phone conversations that begin with "What's up?" and end with "So, you want to talk to your Mother?"

I stood there numb, unsure, not wanting to leave, not wanting to stay. I refused to let the tears come until I was safely in the car. Mom did not wish to cry in public, and I was not about to be the catalyst to break that desire. Tears poured harder as we watched the pall bearers load the flag draped coffin into the hearse. My sons are still not here. I call them. I will have to dictate directions over the phone so they can catch up at the cemetery. Bother.

Flashers and high beams on, flags flying, we follow the hearse along back roads through Menands and other little historic burgs. The boys are closing the gap slowly. I shout into my Blackberry the names of the roads and exits, hoping they manage to keep on track. If they don't catch up by the time we reach the cemetery, they will be hard pressed to find the plot. It is a huge and confusing place. My irritation with them has cured my tears.

We huddle in a small open sided green tent around the casket suspended above the vault buried in the ground below. Vaults are required in New York state, and this one has Dad's name and dates on it. The cold takes our breath away. We are all shivering while the pastors speak briefly of our hope in Christ, of the promise of resurrection, of seeing our loved one again on heaven's shores.

Mom is presented with the flag, a symbol of Dad's service in the army so long ago, the very activity that brought him to a saving knowledge of Christ. He was in a hotel room, waiting to be shipped out to battle in WWII. He picked up a Bible left there by the Gideons and began reading. So young, so scared, facing such terrible prospects, he promised God that if God kept him safe during the war, he would enter into service as a preacher.

Before he shipped out, victory was declared. Dad's army career was mostly cleanup duty. True to his promise, he returned home and entered college in preparation for the ministry. Imagine! Of course, he believed (and taught his children) in keeping all options open, and that one should be able to work a manual labor job in case things dried up in one's chosen field. Accordingly he worked as an electrician, and eventually ended up teaching electrical engineering at RIT and after retirement at Adirondack Community College.

It is too cold to stand about chatting. We briefly look over the other graves, reading the names of long departed family, the main headstone proclaiming Appleby as the link tying all together. Only two empty spaces remain in the family plot. One for Mom and one for her brother. My plot is nearby, but not within the family area.

Quickly we find our vehicles after short conversations deciding where to gather next. No hearse to lead us out, we hope to find our way on our own. We feel at a loss as to how to proceed, how to return to our places. It will be the same with learning how to pick up with our lives minus our anchor. Somehow, we will find our way, just as we did today, following signs and instinct, sticking together until we are surrounded by the familiar and known, the comfortable and understandable.

Tomorrow we will gather for the memorial service, or, as Mom says, "two down and one to go."

Viewing Hours

Apparently traditional funerals are not common these days. Neither of my kids had been to one that they remembered. The last family funeral anyone attended was my maternal Grandmother and that was back in the early 1990's. Both boys found the custom of having an open casket difficult to deal with. Yes, the body in the casket looked somewhat like Grampa, though the ears didn't stick out quite enough, and it lay so still.

The flowers helped, even though Mom had asked us not to send any. Beauty tempers the ugliness of death so best to have a lot of it. My youngest sister also found the open casket eerie. She kept thinking the body moved, a normal phenomenon. Mom said the missing element was Dad's personality, and no matter how good the embalming, you can't portray what is no longer there.

People drifted in and out all evening, from the different aspects of Dad's life and work. Representatives from the Presbytery that he had participated in came, some from a good distance. Mom's brother and his son were there. Members of the church Dad had helped establish came. Pastors, friends, those whose lives had been touched by Dad's ministry.

They gathered around the pictures of Dad's family and of the churches where he had served. He began preaching at a small church in Suffren, NY (where I was born), then moved on to pastor churches in Vermont, Esperance, Westville, Fort Covington and Johnstown before his final church plant, the Redeemer Reformed Presbyterian Church in Queensbury, NY.

He was an educated man, holding various degrees up to his doctorate (abd from Baylor); a deep thinker who once told me he was working on inventing an infinitely variable gear shift for bicycles so bikers could tirelessly pedal without the need to ever shift. He also invented watermelon Jello long before Jello came up with the idea.

It was fascinating to walk down memory lane with each person, recalling things Dad had said or done, how he had intersected with the lives of so many. How curious that things long forgotten or not even registering on Dad's radar screen had completely changed the course of someone's life for the better. One never knows when some small gesture of concern or simple statement of truth will explode in significant life-altering reality.

Of the eight of us children, only six were able to come, and only five of us in time for the viewing hours, my older brother sliding in ten minutes before closing, my boys the only grandchildren near enough to be there. We are flung to the far corners of the country from California to New Hampshire to Colorado, Tennessee and North Carolina and rarely ever get everyone in the same place at the same time.

As the time of consolation came to a close, we each bundled up against the cold of winter and went our separate ways to the various places we are staying, thoughts of Dad on our minds, heartache for Mom who is doing marvelously well. Tomorrow, the burial. Tonight, a resting from our travels and our sorrows.

A Sort of Anniversary

How odd on a Sunday not to be in church. I haven't the heart or stability to go. I know people will express their sympathy, and I will cry. It's not that I am opposed to crying, its just that I would rather mourn privately right now. And since there is no choir scheduled, I take off without inconveniencing anyone.

Thirty-five years ago on this day, I was getting married, filled with all the expectancy of a new bride, hoping to fulfill major portions of that great American dream of having a loving family, a house, a full life. This year I look back at broken dreams, at unexpected turns in life's path, and the unthinkable. While things certainly didn't go the way I had hoped, I still have lived a good life filled with exploration and freedom, with fulfillment and significance, with love and a share of happiness.

I prepare for the trip to Lake George tomorrow, knowing that in years to come, I will add December 23rd to my list of anniversary dates, it now being the anniversary of Dad's homegoing, just as January 17th is the anniversary of Michael's homegoing. These anniversaries become days of remembering, of celebrating the good aspects of how our lives intersected, of doing little gestures in their honor that bring relief to others still here, people who never knew the one who died, and don't even realize they are benefiting because of someone else's existence.

Not your typical anniversary, but a commemoration all the same of a significant life event. Some people celebrate first dates. I also celebrate last dates. I sort through my closet to find appropriate outfits for the funeral activities. Nothing too stark black or harsh. Something softened and sad. A dusky blue top with black velvet flowers strewn across the fabric. A cozy houndstooth sweater with more black than white. These bring me comfort in my sadness, a touch of beauty and elegance among the harsh realities. I will wrap myself in them as if in a hug and attend with pride these last dates with family.

I will be ready for tomorrow, if one can ever really be ready to say goodbye.

Finding Balance

It is just life. You get pain and sorrow mixed with pleasure and happiness. They come in waves, driven by seasons and circumstances. There is no birth without bloodshed, no death without memories of good times. The trick is finding a balance else you will be completely devastated in the bad times and riding too high in the good times. Mostly its in knowing where to focus - like running a race and focusing on the finish line.

This week has been a mixture of joy and sadness in a way I seldom experience. The sadness of losing Dad, especially in light of his prolonged suffering, coupled with the joy of Christmas, the happiness of my boys as they share the warmth and love of the season with someone special has challenged me to experience fully both ends of life's spectrum.

Its not easy. To know the depths of mourning someone you love one minute and the heights of celebration and gift giving the next seems jarring. Yet the one tempers the other. Although the heights of rejoicing may not have been quite as joyous as in other years, the depths of sadness were not as devastating either.

Perhaps it is remembering other times of difficulties and having come through them to a better place that helps. Perhaps it is remembering other times of exquisite joy that lingers in memory which colors one's outlook. Perhaps it is embracing the time worn adage that "This too shall pass" which allows you a way to endure.

The bottom line for me is knowing that this world is but a blink in light of eternity. As Paul reminds us, the suffering of this present world (and the celebrations) are nothing in comparison with the joy of eternity. Focus on that big picture, and somehow things come into a better perspective, a more handleable mindframe.

This week I have cried and I have cooed. I have mourned and I have celebrated. I have let go and I have embraced. It is good. It is all good. For in the end this present pain shall be exchanged for perpetual joy. And that, my friend, is invaluable.

Christmas

Ah, restful!

No crying babies, no tons of packing, no long drives to get to gramma's house, no clutter, no shreds of wrapping paper coating every inch of space, no kids running around and yelling about the great toys they got that you spent hours buying and wrapping and they spent seconds unwrapping, no hours and hours of cooking and baking and decorating, no Christmas programs to stress over, no parties to have to get some gift for, not even a round of Christmas caroling in the freezing cold.

This year I did Christmas lite. At first because of recovering from months of chemo and radiation and procedures, and then because Dad was ill, I simply decided not to do the "usual" Christmas activities. I have to admit, most of it I didn't really miss. The parts I would have liked were the least do-able, like spending time with friends just chatting and being with my kids and grandkids.

I wonder what parts Jesus appreciates the most on his birthday? Surely the joyous goodwill and generosity are appreciated. And the setting aside of hostilities for a bit, the resolve to "get along" if only for a day. Also the reconnection of family and friends.

The boys actually arose before noon and we gathered around our festively lighted tree to unwrap the few little presents there. Some years our tree bore so many presents there wasn't floor space enough to contain them. This year each person had three small gifts to unwrap, and that was plenty.

Each boy spent time with the gift I gave them, Kiel using his new hair clippers and Drew reading through the directions for his architecture 3-D house kit. We leisurely enjoyed our simple ham dinner, with just mashed potatoes and one veggie (oh yes, and black olives - can't forget those!) and watched a Charlie Brown Christmas video. Then Kiel went to visit his girlfriend while Drew and I played Skip-Bo.

Quiet. Simple. Appropriate. Nice. Hope your Christmas was as enjoyable as mine.

The Details

Bits and pieces of the story unfold as I talk with one sibling, then another. Mom left the hospital at 10pm, Deb was seeing signs of the end, and worried that Dad would panic, struggling for air that would no longer come. She did not want Mom to have to witness that. Mom had been gone not quite an hour when Deb, who had been watching his carotid artery pulse, noticed that there was no longer a pulse. He was gone quietly and without a struggle or panic. She called home, and Mom and Jan returned to the hospital for goodbyes. My sisters gave Mom time to say her private farewells before entering the room one last time.


By all reports, he should have left this world days ago. What had held him here despite all odds? During the day, the nurse suggested that maybe Dad was hanging on for one last person. Who could it be? All the kids had come. Jimmy thought it might be the former pastor of the church with whom Dad had worked so closely. They called him, and Pastor Bell prayed with Dad over the phone. That night when Mom left, instead of saying "I will see you tomorrow," Mom simply said, "Goodbye, Jim."



The time since his passing has been spent making arrangements. The funeral home people have been wonderfully helpful and comforting for Mom. I still find myself dissolving into bouts of tears, but that is natural. I see how it will be for my kids when my time comes. I believe I will have a chat with the funeral home and make a lot of these arrangements in advance so they won't have to. And I realize I need to set aside more money - its expensive to die!



The tasks are numerous - its a lot of work putting together a memorial service and switching all the stuff out of Dad's name. Almost as much fussing as my wedding so many years ago. It was not like this when Michael died. But at last Mom and Jan have things set.



Monday, December 28th there will be viewing hours at the Gordon C Emerick Funeral Home (the one the family has used since time immemorial) in Clifton Park from 3 to 4 for family, then 4 to 8 for others.

Tuesday is the private interment at Albany Rural Cemetery - in the family plot where I now have my own slot.

Then Wednesday morning at 10, the memorial service at Redeemer Reformed Presbyterian Church in Queensbury, the church Dad helped pioneer. Mom has asked that in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to the church.



Many of my siblings will not return for the funeral. They chose, wisely, to come while Dad was well enough to know who was there, to help when Mom needed people around. They do not have the resources and time off to come back from California, from Colorado, from Tennessee. I am glad I am close enough to be there. And I send flowers anyways, despite Mom's druthers.



I too make plans. I make arrangements with the Vet to board Sugar while we will be gone, an odd job amongst running all those last minute Christmas errands. Not the kind of task one wants to handle on Christmas Eve, but its OK. Surprisingly, the warmth of the Christmas lights helps, pointing with hope as they do towards an eternal world beyond our own, a place where there are no tears, no suffering, no death.

I embrace the birth of Christ as I embrace the death of my Father,
with quiet hope in what is yet to come.

Requiem eternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Grant unto him eternal rest, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine on him.

And on us all.

The Call

I rise at my usual 6 am, stumble to the bathroom, then check my phone to see what I have missed with my early going to bed. My heart suddenly stands still and I cannot breathe. A voice mail message from my sister. Is it Dad? I fumble about, punching speed dial to voice mail and work through the menu. Press 1, press 2, listen to the instructions, yeah, yeah, come on already.

Finally. Deb's voice. "Hey, Esther. It's Deb." Her voice sounds weary, stripped of emotion. "It is 12:15 on the 23rd. Dad just passed away." I am stunned. I listen forlornly as Deb tells me she will call later with details. I sit quickly before I fall down. So then. That's it. He is gone. I am at once relieved and repulsed. How can this man who has been such an integral part of my life, of me, be gone? What a relief that he is no longer suffering. I am in anguish. I want to know more, but I am sure no one is up at this hour. I will have to wait.

I return to bed, curl up in a ball, and the tears begin. They roll down my face, washing away the limbo-ness of the last few weeks. It is over. Sugar whines, sensing my distress. I ignore her. I let the tears come. I remember little things about Dad, curious bits of scenes to be recalling now. Dad in his winter hat. Dad sledding down the hill near his house. Dad with hammer in hand reconstructing a wall in the house. I wonder how he is doing now that he is free from the pain and suffering, how he finds heaven. I think of Michael, and what he told me of heaven before he died. Good and wonderful things. I hang on to those images of heaven being a joyfilled place.

Quietly, gently, I am surrounded by the presence of God. I sense his peace, his love, his caring. It is like being held and comforted, knowing that its OK to cry. I pray for Mom. I hope she is experiencing the same comfort. I spend the day alternately crying and cleaning. If I learned anything from Mom, it is that when you are in distress, an excellent remedy is physical labor. I do last night's dishes, I cry. I clean the cupboards and appliances, I cry. I scrub the floor, I cry.

How is it possible to have so many tears? I am surprised that even though I knew he was in his last days, I am so affected by his death. You would think my eyes would be red and puffy, but they aren't. When I finish with the kitchen, I tackle the living room, washing away the dust, vacuuming. Then I head for the bathroom. I am at last beginning to feel that weariness that will allow me to come to terms with everything, to be at peace. The tears slow. Now there is only a fresh outburst here and there as I begin to let people know.

I am glad I had a chance to be with him before the end, to leave my letter of gratitude, to kiss him goodbye. I am glad he did not die on Christmas Day, for Mom's sake. I am glad he lived a long and productive life. And sadly, I am amazed that I have outlived him. He will be much missed.

Bone Marrow Biopsy

We are very thin in staffing at the library. What with people taking vacation, people sick with the flu, people whose children are home from school, people traveling home for the holidays, we are less than half staffed. No matter. We have some local students who are willing to work - thank goodness for their help! It's not a good time for me to have to leave work for medical tests. Maybe I can reschedule my bone marrow biopsy, I think, knowing full well that I will not do so. Just get it over with.


Noon finds me sliding into my coat and heading for the car. I really do not want to have this done. Its not that there is a lot of pain associated with it or that it takes a long time or zaps my energy. I just haven't the heart for it right now. As I walk down the hallway at the cancer center, I realize how much the environment reminds me of what Dad is going through even now - the wheelchairs, the shiny, hard linoleum floors, the medical personnel in their scrubs, the IVs, the older patients, the suffering. Its hard not to cry.

The same nurse who did my last two biopsies will be doing my biopsy today. She is cheerful and we joke around. I just want this over so I can get back to work and not think about cancer stuff. She numbs the site, then a deeper numbing of the bone. I feel it in my shoulder - strange. She tries to extract the marrow, and my shoulder goes berserk. Not working. She repositions the needle and tries again. Suddenly I must breathe like a woman in labor - in, out, in, out, slow, regular, focus on the air and the rhythm. Ten seconds to go. Done. Now for the bone chip - another session of serious breathing - done.

I lie quietly on the table, letting the weight of my body put pressure on the injection site. After all, it would be a waste to leak perfectly good bone marrow all over. They let me lie a bit to collect myself. It is hard not to think about Dad. I hate to see him struggle so for every breath. I don't even want to go down the road about my own future prognosis. After all, one of the areas they watch in my body is the lungs. I shudder, remembering Donna, the woman I worked with in Connecticut who died of lung cancer. Miserable stuff.

Moments later, I walk down the hall and into the waiting area, meeting up with Kiel, my driver of choice. It is as if I have closed the door on disease and entered a much happier place. We head for the car and a lunch at Panera's before I return to the semi-normalcy of the library. A weight off my shoulders. Hang on to the words of the doctor - I should have a good decade of remission before my cancer dares show its ugly head again, and by that time there may well be a cure.

I say a prayer for Dad, and another one for Mom, then jump into the tasks of closing down the library for the day and for the season. Hopefully the PET scan next week will go as well, I think as I ruefully rub my sore behind. This too shall pass.

Port Draw Day

The bleak grayness of the sky shrouded in a light flurry of small, frigid snowflakes matched the sadness in my heart perfectly. One more Monday morning, one more trip to the cancer center, one more port draw, one more day of agony and suffering for my Father to endure.



How difficult to discover that dying is not always easy. I sat with Michael when he died. One minute he was with us, the next, he was gone, just like that. I was with Gram Appleby when she passed, and although she had been ill for awhile as Michael had been, she was gone in a blink. I had just kissed her good night and slipped into the visitor's lounge when the nurse told me she was gone.



But this, with Dad, is not quick. It is not easy. There is no switch to pull when you are ready to move on to heaven, when you realize there is no hope for recovery. It is surely not the process of choice to linger for days, struggling for every breath, panicked at every turn, wanting to let go but unable to turn your body off.



I pull on to the expressway, tears sliding down my face, my every breath a prayer for his suffering to be alleviated. I beg God to intervene. I reason that even Jesus did not suffer for weeks. What purpose this final battle? What reason his delayed homegoing? Surely God has his timing, his design. Though I do not understand, I trust in His unfailing love for his child James.



I park on the third level of the parking garage and make my way down the elevator into the hospital and down the long corridor to the cancer center where I check in. "How are you today, Mrs. Gillie?" they ask me. "Doing OK," I reply even though everything inside me wants to say "Horrible. My Dad is dying of cancer." But it is the holidays and everyone in the cancer center has their own struggles. No sense saying out loud what some of them are facing themselves.



I suspect my blood pressure will be through the roof, but it is not. I sit in the curtained area waiting for the nurse to draw my blood, my heart aching for my Father and for my Mother as well who has lived fifty nine years married to this man. I cannot imagine what she is going through. I feel as if an aura of sadness envelopes me, half wondering if it is visible.



On the drive home, as I am praying, I put on a CD of the Canadian Brass playing Christmas music. It is just the right touch of gentle, comforting music to help me keep my heart from staying heavy. I focus instead on family and friends who surround me, on the boys who need Christmas to be good this year after dealing for months with heavy cancer stuff. I put my hand in God's and sense him wrap his arms around me, loving me, caring about Dad and Mom more deeply than I do. Everything will be OK. I wait on God.

All Keyed Up

I waste no time crawling out of bed today. It is our Sunday for the the singing of our cantata, and I need to be at church early to make sure everything is set up, that all the pieces are in place, that I have a good handle on things like when to indicate to the congregation to stand and join the choir in singing, and what place in the score to get to when the congregation's part is over and the choir sings on.

I dress quickly and locate Sugar's leash to take her out for the usual morning constitutional. We do this every morning, and I leave my keys either in my coat pocket or on the sideboard by the door. I glance at the sideboard and do not see my keys, so I assume they must be in my coat pocket. Sugar is eager to get outside. We stumble down the steps and I open the door. She races out into the cold snow and ice, immediately looking for a good 'spot.'

I let the door close slowly, hoping it will not quite latch while I fumble in my pocket to make sure the keys are there. In an instant, I hear the solid click of the door closing as my hand grasps thin air. Oh, no! I realize I have locked myself out and the boys are sleeping soundly. I do not have much time before I need to leave. What to do!

Honk the car horn and wake the boys and half the neighborhood? No - car keys are on the ring with the house keys. That won't work. I let Sugar finish her business, then I ring the buzzer in the wild hope that one of the boys will hear it and actually get up to investigate and not roll over and go back to sleep.

After a dozen buzzes (where are all those other dog walkers this morning?), I walk around the building to where the bedroom window is. I pick up a chunk of ice and toss it at the siding next to the window. No response. I toss another chunk. Still nothing. I kick a snowbank of ice until it breaks apart into three huge pieces, then I pick up one huge piece and dash it against the blacktop. It shatters into more manageable sized chunks.

I begin tossing piece after piece, calling Kiel's name. Nothing. I am worried. I have no way to get in and I hear the church bells chime 8 am. I need to leave. I haven't fed Sugar or taken my medicine. I stand directly beneath their window where all the ice chunks have fallen. I no longer care about waking the neighbors. I must get those boys to let me in.

Whack. Whack. Whack. I toss pieces of ice repeatedly. "KIEL!" I yell. Whack, whack, whack. "KIEL!" Whack, whack, whack. "KIEL!" After ten minutes, Drew finally opens the window and looks out sleepily. "What are you doing?" he asks innocently. "Let me in." I plead. "Oh. Why are you out there? Just a minute." At last! Success. I think back to how many times I tried to get spare keys made and tucked in a safe place near the door of the building. If only!

There is no help for it now. I fly about getting ready, barking orders to Drew to feed the dog. At least they finally heard me and I will be OK getting to church, and thank goodness I still have plenty of time to prepare. What I don't get to think about, God will take care of! I settle down as I drive off, thankful that there was no emergency connected with my lapse of sanity. Now all I have to do is concentrate on counting for the upcoming music and all will be well.

Winter Commencement

The term alone is enough to make you shudder. Who would want to commence anything in the winter, unless it's skiing? Yet 200 people have concluded their course of studies at Roberts and are graduating, commencing a new "on beyond college" life complete with a shiny new degree.

Most years I have not been able to attend winter graduation because it falls on the same Saturday as the church cantata dress rehearsal. Even this year, although I knew the cantata was earlier than the graduation, I wasn't sure whether I would need to make a trip to Lake George or not. I was happy to discover I would be able to attend.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that I actually knew a number of the students who would be graduating. Some were students who had worked in the library, some were staff who had been working on degrees for the last several years, some were music majors whom I had met during instruction sessions. Its so exciting to greet them after they descend the platform, fresh with the blush of their accomplishments.

I have always appreciated the pomp and pageantry that sets the stage for marking this particular milestone in a student's life. The flags, the seal, the regalia, the music, faculty marching in together, the president and provost on the platform, the pictures, the presence of loved ones. Its a grand celebration.

Yeah for graduates, yeah for good weather in which to attend, yeah for families, yeah for new starts in life!

Targeted Christmas

I was in Target looking for a particular item that I wanted to give as a Christmas present. I am slowly making progress on my much curtailed, very targeted list. I wish I had a million dollars so I could give all the presents I would like to give. Still, even a million dollars would not feed all the hungry children of the world. I almost cringe every time I hear of the desperate needs of people in third world countries who battle starvation and disease, of how many die every second from issues that could have been addressed.

I sigh. I cannot solve all these problems. Sometimes I think global awareness requires a new mindset. Yesterday I got an email from an adoption agency that began with "It's not too late. You can still give a special child an extraordinary Christmas." For the briefest of moments, I actually began calculating how I could open my home to an orphaned child desperate for love and care. But wait. No adoption agency in the world would consider giving a needy child to an aging cancer patient. Especially since I already have two kids still living home.

I can't even give to all the local charities who need help, especially in this year of economic hardship when everyone is giving the hard sell. I can only open my heart when I am able, or when I am so moved that I can no longer bear it. A handful of change in the Salvation Army bucket. A Food Bank ticket at the checkout in Wegmans. Put a set of hat and mittens on the mitten tree at church or at work. Bring a can of food to the Christmas party. Pick an angel from the angel tree and help a child whose parent is incarcerated have a better Christmas. Opportunities to give are everywhere! You can only tighten your belt so far!

I head toward the aisle where the item I was interested in was located. There standing in the aisle were a Mom and her two girls. The youngest one, probably about five or six, was coughing repeatedly that hard, non-productive kind of cough. She did not cover her mouth, but leaned against the shelf, weary and obviously not feeling well.

Mom paid no attention. She and older daughter, who looked to be about ten or twelve, were discussing the merits of giving one gift over another. I went down the next aisle, waiting for them to leave and the germs to die away before I looked for what I wanted.

Suddenly, there they were heading straight for me from the other end of the aisle. I quickly turned around and fled to the tune of much coughing. But they followed me to the new aisle. I decided to leave the department altogether, and so did they, following me like ducklings follow their Mom. Yikes! I can't seem to get away from them.

After several more attempts to escape, I gave up and left the store. I know the Mom had a list of things to accomplish. I know she was trying to hurry and didn't mean to be dragging a poor little sick kid all over the place. I am sure if she had stopped and really taken a look at her daughter, she would have seen the feverish flush, the tiredness in her eyes, the lack of vim.

So much for getting the gift purchased. I gave up and went home, discouraged. I had only targeted a few people on my list, and I can't even manage to get those few things. My one foray into the mall was equally disastrous. So many people, such rude crowds, too many opportunities to be exposed to bad germs and bad vibes. Too hard to find what I want. No wonder people prefer to shop online! I even tried asking Drew accompany me, but it didn't really help.

I know I must get these gifts purchased, but how to do it? I make a clear decision to brave the crowds again, armed with a determination to be pleasant and kind regardless of how others behave. I pulled into the mall parking lot and sat waiting for a car to back out of a space, intending to pull in only to have another driver whip around the aisle and take the space despite the fact that he could clearly see I was waiting for it. Hum. I wave and smile and drive on to find another space. What does it matter where I park?

In the store, a couple of teenagers push past me on the escalator, almost knocking me over in their hurry. "Merry Christmas," I smile. They look back in surprise, then hurry on without comment. In the department where I was headed, as I am looking at a shelf of items, a rather hefty woman reaches in front of me, pushing my arm aside so she could grab a gift she wanted to look at. She glared at me as if I were the problem. "I'm sorry," I answer her rude look. "I'll wait until you are done."

She paws through the rack, leaving it a mess, then stomps off, not having found what she wanted. She does not acknowledge me at all. I straighten out the mess she left and glance up at a store clerk giving me the evil eye. I guess she thought I was trying to steal something. I smile, wish her a Merry Christmas and move to the next aisle, still searching for what I need. It wears me out, all this being nice in the face of nasty behavior. I suppose they can't help themselves. They are too stressed, too pressed, too unhappy to bother with good manners. They need a touch of Christmas spirit!

I find what I am looking for, it is exactly perfect and worth the effort. I stand in a very long line, hoping I can manage to stay on my feet until its my turn. A new cashier opens up and the people behind me dash to the new line. I smile and stay where I am. Yet another opportunity to respond with joy and peace when all around are wrapped up in self centeredness. I pray for each line jumper as I wait my turn for checking out.

I see a whole new arena of service. I am happy to target the people about me with intentional Christmas spirit. Lord knows, the world surely needs all the kindness it can get. I may not be able to give enough money to help everyone in need, but I can smile and be kind to stressed and unhappy shoppers.

Not a Currier and Ives Day

It would have been a perfect picture postcard of Christmas - the pine trees outlined with snow, little flakes sifting gently downward, the streetlights haloed in the gray morning light. Except that I was seeing it from the kitchen sink with my head hovering over the garbage disposal retching up my guts. A gentle reminder that normal is still a long ways off for me. The meds I must continue taking are pretty strong, not to mention that the drugs I have been given will stay in my system for a long time, wreaking havoc at will.

It's OK though. I am in a better place than I have been. I am at the end of treatment and looking forward to a decade of cancer remission, of not feeling tired or weak or swollen all over. In fact, I have slowly been losing weight without trying. I notice that the red needle on my home scale does not fly quite as far as it used to. This is great! Perhaps my now normal sized glands are functioning better and my system is more efficient. How amazing is that! A new lease on life.

I appreciate the beauty of the day, and the retching passed quickly. I still fight a bit of dizziness as I gather my coat and scarf and head out the door to work. I am so grateful to be able to go to work, to walk fairly easily, to think clearly, to function as I ought. Perhaps it is a Currier and Ives sort of day after all.

Slip Sliding

Oooo. Snowy morning. Wind blowing. Drifts impeding visibility. I dread having to take Sugar out for her morning walk. There is no help for it. We venture forth, she with no protection, I will scarf and mittens and tightly buttoned winter coat. I am wearing my new winter boots. It took me forever to find what I wanted - knee length, black, side zip, warm lining, firm tread, and wide calf. After months of looking, I finally found what I wanted - and on sale!

The sidewalks were buried in snow, but the plow had taken a swipe through the parking lot behind the cars. Sugar waded through the mounds of snow and when she hit the relatively clear parking lot, she took off, slipping and sliding on the icy stuff hidden beneath the coating of snow. I yanked on the leash to slow her down and suddenly found myself lying on the ground, the breath knocked out of me.

How embarrassing! Even had anyone been looking out their window at 7am, they probably did not see me fall since the snow was drifting so hard. Still, I felt ridiculous. Worse yet, I had a hard time getting to my feet. Sure, my knee stung a bit, but with the swaddling coat, I was hard pressed to roll over and get my footing. I finally managed to stand, but Sugar, who had come back to me to see what the holdup was, took off again. I hit the stop button on the leash and she jerked to a halt, turning with accusing eyes in my direction.

We stumbled about and finally managed to return to the door of the building undamaged though Sugar was not a little indignant. I tried to walk in the hallway, but the bottoms of my new boots were so caked with snow and ice I couldn't get an even stance. I scraped my feet on carpet but could not dislodge the snow. Some good the tread is doing! After much work, I was able to clear the soles enough to get up the stairs.

I removed the boots in disgust. So much for traction and safety! I will wear my sneakers until I find a better pair. Too bad I can't return them as all sales items were non returnable. Pooh. At least, other than a dented knee, I was unhurt. But smart enough to know better than to try that again.

No Seal of Approval

It was silly, really. The ladies who had brought me things from the LPGA had delivered several Good Housekeeping magazines, and I noticed they were having a short story contest. First prize was $3,000! Hey, I know how to write. I threw together a little story about a woman facing cancer and sent it off, half hoping it might be considered.

Today was the day the winners would be notified - I went so far as to mark my calendar. Nothing. Not a phone call or email. Oh, well. I could have used the money, but I know my eternal optimism is not universally shared. I suppose they found my ending somewhat unbelievable, even though not impossible. I'll be interested in reading the winning entry in February.

Anyway, I have other things on my mind at the moment. Not the least of which is the upcoming cantata. So I am spending my spare moments ingraining the music in my head. Better to think about that than a contest. My seal of approval will have to come from other sources!

Monday Morning

Sigh. Monday morning means a port draw, a constant reminder of my own cancer, and now a prod to recall Dad's battle. I am tired of cancer. I want a vacation from it. I know that will not happen, at least for the next four years. OK. Adjust your thinking. This is a reminder that your cancer is under control and that you are doing well. Celebrate that!



Yes, a nice cup of steaming Earl Gray tea, a chocolate chip muffin top, and a deep breath before heading out the door for the cancer center. That's better. I zip my Robert Shaw Christmas CD in the slot and fill the air in my car with the joy of the season. Shaw's orchestral renditions are tinged with just the right amount of serious contemplation to fit my mood this year. I pray for Dad as I navigate the rainy roadways.



Back at work, I try to focus on an upcoming strategic planning meeting. I jump into email sorting with a vengeance, following Mom's example. When you are upset or worried about something, the best cure besides prayer is to keep yourself busy. I do just that, smiling as I recall how Mom is cleaning the whole house in preparation for Dad returning home. Spring cleaning at that! The curtains are coming down and being fluffed and folded, the walls are being scrubbed, the floors rendered squeaky clean lest some odor affect Dad's ability to breathe easily.



Half of me is here, the other half with Dad. As I take care of each task, my divided brain continues a constant stream of prayer. Would it be any more effective if I were in a monastery doing nothing but praying, as I have often longed to do? Probably not. For now, I busy myself about the necessary tasks at hand, leaving Dad in God's capable hands. I can think of no better place for him to be.

No Cantata Today

Today our choir was to have sung a Christmas cantata in morning worship. Bad weather Thursday night prevented us from holding our final (and necessary) rehearsal, so I had asked to move the cantata to next week. The pastor agreed and encouraged me to take another day with my Dad, not to hurry back for conducting the choir. I was glad she suggested it. We did take another morning to be with Dad.



He was doing a bit better. Yesterday he had taken a bath, asked for his razor, moved about more. It is encouraging that the little changes in care are helping. We will not be able to stay with him, and another sister will arrive tomorrow. We must take our leave. I bring in a battery operated three candle candelabra and a snow globe with a nativity scene, glitter snow, and a music box that plays Joy to the World. A bit of Christmas to invade the cancer.



We sing Silent Night, Joy to the World. I leave a note for Dad. I want him to know how much he has shaped my life, what an impact he has had on my character, my faith. I recall things we have done together over the years, trips we have taken, projects we have accomplished. We have not always seen eye to eye. My theology is a far piece from his. My decisions and choices would not have been ones he would have made. But despite our differences, I am much like him. It is hard to say thank you out loud. I am better at writing things. I am thankful for the chance to communicate my gratitude.



It is hard to say good-bye. It might be the last time I see him this side of heaven. As we drive home, the weather is sleet and freezing rain, difficult driving conditions that don't turn to the more amenable rain until nearly Syracuse, a good three hours of focused concentration required. The weather was much like this the day my son Michael passed away and I can't help reflecting how often the weather mirrors my anguish. No wonder the sky turned black the day Jesus was crucified.



My heart stays in Lake George. My head is in my prayer closet continually. My body sinks with relief and exhaustion into the blue recliner as I finally reach the shelter of my own cozy home. I thank God for allowing me the privilege of seeing Dad and Mom again. I pray for an easing of Dad's suffering and Mom's anxiety. I am done in. Despite Sugar's exuberance at seeing me, I retire early. Tomorrow will be time enough to unpack.

Hymn Singing

Cancer. I cannot get away from it. After months of struggling with it myself, now I find my Father is dying from it. His cancer is aggressive. There is no cure, no respite. I HATE cancer. It is almost easier to have cancer than to watch someone you love have cancer. When I am battling, I know where my limits are, what I can tolerate, when I need to give in and let the professionals do what they can. I know about preparing myself for the worst, about facing death, the last enemy.

I cannot know those things for someone else. I cannot DO anything to help alleviate the suffering. I am frustrated and distraught that the interventions do not help as I would like them to. This is, after all, my Father.

Today we sisters three (minus two not here yet) have lunch at the Olive Garden after a restless night in the hotel. We are all concerned about Dad. We work with the doctors, trying to find every little help to provide comfort in a comfortless situation. He cannot sleep. He is exhausted. Its OK to give him some morphine so he can rest more easily. The antibiotics give him diarrhea, making him run to the bathroom every few minutes. Stop the antibiotics. Give him Imodium. His catheter pains him. Take it out. The breathing treatments are coming too late to prevent crisis state. Give them to him on a regular basis, don't wait for him to start feeling oxygen deprived.

I remember times when I was at death's door, when I was unaware of who was in my room, what the doctors were doing. My poor sons stood watch for me as I now do for my Dad. I think back. What helped me as I went through my battles? A particular incident stands out.

I was home, invaliding on my couch. Some of the members of Amasong, the women's choir I was conducting at the time, asked if they could come and sing to me. I said yes. So they came, a timid group of women, with candles that they set about in my living room and lighted. They were unsure just how to proceed, but finally began singing. I don't remember the songs they sang that night, but I DO remember how soothing and comforting the music was.

That they cared enough about me to take time from their busy schedules and come to my house and sing was touching. The music was beautiful. It reached deep into my heart. I cried gentle tears of release. Torn places, battle weary sections in my heart began to heal. Their kindness stayed with me for days and even now thinking back I am blessed by their music, uplifted by the sounds.

I cannot fix my Father's broken body. I cannot hold him out of death's way. But I CAN stand beside him and comfort him through the music he has sung for sixty years of ministry. Blessed Assurance. Holy Holy Holy. Tomorrow we will sing Christmas carols. I pray that our a Capella singing blesses and uplifts him during his battles. I hope the words of these hymns both bring him strength as he recalls God's grace and help him to remember times when the same music touched him in the past.

I kiss the top of his head and give him a little, cautious hug around the IVs and oxygen tubes. I love you, Dad. Be better.

Driving to Lake George

7:30 am comes and goes. Still no sister in sight, the one who is driving to Lake George and bringing me along to see my Dad. I call. Things just take longer than anticipated. Finally she pulls into the parking lot and we tuck my suitcase and a satchel of little things for Dad into the back of her van. I buckle up with that peculiar combination of excited anticipation and fearsome worry about what I will encounter.



All reports make Dad out to have one foot in the grave with the other not far behind. I have not seen him since Easter last year, just before my treatments began. I intentionally visited every family member I could back in April/early May, knowing it might be a long time before I would be able to travel again. I half worry that he will die before we get there and I will not have time to say goodbye much less the important things like how much I love him despite the differences we have had over the years.



They have confirmed that Dad's cancer, which appears to have started in his bladder, has spread to his lymph system, his prostate, and his lungs. It is the lung part that is the most difficult to deal with as he fights for every breath with lungs consumed by cancer. The lung specialist who did the bronchoscopy said there was not one spot cancer free in Dad's lungs. He cannot talk much without becoming oxygen deprived, and Mom does her best to limit visits to about five minutes so Dad won't need to talk.



What will I find when I at long last arrive? Dad has always been a strong, stoic man, not given to expressing pain or discomfort nor seeking medical aid. The very fact that he agreed to go to the emergency room on several occasions indicates that things are bad. My sister and I talk throughout the four hour drive. She has an appointment with our parents' lawyer to make sure everything is in order before Dad is unable to address any outstanding issues.



The lawyer is kind and understanding. Everything is in good shape. This is not a conversation I would have arranged and I hate having to have it. At last we grab lunch and head to the hospital. It is a brief visit. Mom does not want us to tire him, but he is coping. He seems glad to see us though we do not talk much. He still looks like Dad, just tired. We leave to get settled into the hotel and deliver things to the house.



A long day. We end by singing to Dad hymns that I remember him selecting often for services, hymns that at some point or another he mentioned that he liked. Mighty Fortress. O the Deep Deep Love of Jesus. The Doxology. Dad closes his eyes and moves his head in time to the music. He taps his fingers on the tray table. He smiles. It is good.

Preparation

Thursday is our choir rehearsal night. We really need to nail down the cantata for Sunday. Though we have worked on it over the last few weeks including an extra rehearsal, we need to be comfortable in what we are doing. But the weather is not cooperating.



In fact, I had taken the day off to prepare for my trip to Dad's. I have given a lot of thought to what little things he likes, what would be a special treat for him. Every Thanksgiving since I was young, there has been a fruit tray on the sideboard filled with mixed nuts, tangerines, grapes, dates and figs. We kids tried the dates and figs, but didn't find them especially enticing. Dad, though, picked at them constantly. Lately he has avoided them because of his heart diet. Not now an issue of concern, perhaps he would enjoy a taste from his past.



And grape juice - from Wegmans! There is no Wegmans near Mom and Dad's house. He might find that engaging. I wanted to bring him a touch of Christmas too - perhaps a snow globe like the one in my office with nativity figures and a music box. And a digital picture frame with Bible verses, the Lord's Prayer, the 23rd Psalm. Stuff like that.



There was no way I could take care of all that and work the whole day at the Library and the whole night at choir rehearsal and have any energy left to find these little things for Dad. So I took the day off from the library. (My boys suggest I am maturing since I am putting family above work). However, midday, as I was heading out to Target's I suddenly found myself in whiteout conditions. The roads were terrible and a dozen or so vehicles had slid off the road around me. I myself did a 360 at the intersection of Union and Buffalo Road.



I turned around and went home, calling the church and agreeing with the pastor that there was no sense holding the evening rehearsal. We cancelled it. I sat in the living room and pondered how to prepare now, glad that I wouldn't be caught in the bad weather trying to get home from work. I would have to trust God that He would allow me to make the necessary preparations before departure. I leaned back and took a nap, building up my strength for the upcoming trip.



Later that night the weather abated, and Kiel cautiously took me places so I could run my errands. Meantime I had thought of a few more things that might be nice for Dad. All is as ready as possible. I retire, feeling as if I have done all I can. Tomorrow will tell.

Massage!

A long time back, my friend had sent me a gift certificate to get a massage. I had often wanted to use it, but since massages help eliminate toxins from your body, I thought it ill advised to try to get the chemo out of my system before it had done its damage. So I waited. Same for the radiation although there were days when my body ached and the thought of a good soothing massage was enticing.

Now, I am over the chemo and the radiation treatments. I am ready to expel toxins. I call for an appointment. The place is easy to find, and I go after work, slowing down with rush hour congestion on 490, and pulling into the parking lot well after dark. I fill out the forms - I am used to listing my various cancers, and think nothing of it until the masseuse reads my litany. She looks up follicular lymphoma to see what is recommended. Nothing to stimulate the circulation system. This is, after all, in the lymphatic system.

I am fortunate that she works at the Unity Cancer Center and is familiar with the ins and outs of massage as it relates to both cancer and treatment. She is careful to just do a half hour of non circulation massage - mostly feet and hands and pressure points. Those are always safe, she tells me. And once I check with my oncologist, she will do the second half hour possibly with more involvement if the doctor is amenable.

The massage table is heated and the music is Christmasy. We chat quietly while she works on my hands and feet and the pressure points in my back. It feels SOOOOOOO good. I sigh. It is, in a way, a marking of the end of treatment, a statement that I am done with inputting toxins and moving into the detoxifying stage. I take my time getting up from the table and dressed.

I leave in a misty rain, the wipers keeping time to O Come, All Ye Faithful on the radio. Nice. Very nice. Thanks, Diane. You have no idea how good that felt.

Directionally Challenged

What a bumpy morning! I don't usually have such nausea to deal with. Keeping everything on an even keel proved to be challenging. There is no help for it. You cannot jump into the day when your stomach is in retching mode. Ah, well. I am still on some heavy duty meds and once in awhile they hit you to remind you that all is not sunshine and roses.

I was a half hour late getting to work. No matter. I can stay after a bit to make it up. I was listening to a delightful performance of Rachmaninoff's Vocalise, and after I parked in the Library parking lot, I just took a moment to continue listening to the music. I love the gentleness of that piece.

But what is that sour note? Surely that doesn't belong in the composition! Where is that coming from? I realize it is outside the car, overhead. Geese - a LOT of geese - fill the air with their noisy squawking and honking. I give up. I can't hear the radio with all the racket. I get out of the car and look up. There are three battalions of geese flying in excellent V formation, yakking for all they are worth.

And NOT flying south. They are definitely headed west. Perhaps that is what the conversation is about. Or maybe the leaders are seeking some draft free passage between two Allegheny mountain ranges. Maybe they are taking roll call or waiting for a few stragglers to catch up.

Like a jet plane, they pass overhead, over the nearby houses and trees and out of sight, their noisy conversation trailing behind them long after they disappear. I wonder if they will ever find their way (I am sure they will). Perhaps verbosity is appropriate when you are lost and need direction. I guess it depends on who you are asking!

Quiet Mode

My day was packed with lab tests, meetings, training, chapel services. A busy day, especially for me as I am just getting back into the swing of things. I have already let go of some activities I normally do around the holiday times like sending Christmas cards. Just don't have the uumpfh to do it this year. It's OK.

While I hadn't shifted into fast mode quite yet, I was no longer limping along at slow speed. Where once a 90 year old guy passed me in the cancer center hall and looked back at me with pity, today I passed another cancer patient moving along slowly with the help of a cane. I smiled to realize how much easier it is for me to navigate the hallways! No more stooping over or shuffling feet or having to sit down on the bench halfway there.

I checked in as usual, had my vitals taken, and was directed to the first room in the lab center. I sat for about ten minutes waiting for the nurse to finish with another patient, when the woman I had passed in the hall checked in, had her vitals taken, and was directed to the first room in the lab center!

She told the nurse that there was already someone in the first room, and she didn't think the person would appreciate having someone sit on their lap. I giggled. We exchanged pleasantries while we waited for "service." I was curious what she was in for, but had no desire to intrude on her privacy, so I did not ask.

We both sat quietly, enjoying the privilege of just sitting still while the world around us rushed and hurried and fussed and stressed. We could hear the punchy conversations, the groaning of patients struggling to walk, the rattle of wheelchairs, the beeping of equipment. Steps echoed in the hall just past our retreat while the golf cart delivered yet another unfortunate to the infusion area.

We just sat, enjoying the opportunity to breathe deeply without interference of drugs or chemo or tubes or IVs. Neither of us felt compelled to hurry the nurse along. We were in no rush to join the moving mass of humanity on the other side of the curtain.

When the nurse did come in, I just smiled, and she immediately calmed down, took her time. After the lab work was complete, I stayed in quiet mode for most of the rest of the day. After sauntering down the hallways and back to the parking garage, I stopped for a hot chocolate which I enjoyed immensely as I watched the scurrying crowds around me.

Back on campus, I took my time and refused to stress about meetings and trainings. Just take things as they come today. Stay at peace. Pay attention to the quiet, for that is when you hear the silent cries of the desperate. And you have the time to do something about them.

He was on my mind all day, despite the busy schedule of chime choir and cantata rehearsals. Thirty-one years ago today Michael first came bawling into the world, all red faced and jaundiced. Twenty-one years ago, he slipped quietly out of it, having left his mark in my heart.



Clearly I remember his smiling round face, his exuberance, his joy and enthusiasm for just about everything and everyone. He was every inch a rough and tumble boy yet tenderhearted towards those having a hard time. He loved dogs and collected rocks and tried his best to keep up with his brothers despite the extra weight the medicine he took added to his frame.



I sometimes wonder what he would have been like as a man. Each of my children is unique, distinctive, following their own path. It is difficult to imagine Michael as a grown man.



Would he, like Drew, have been comfortable with high school and have lots of good friends, love playing soccer, join the robotics team, be good at photography?



Would he, like Kiel, have joined a church? (How appropriate that Kiel did so this year on Michael's birthday). Would he love to work with young children, be passionate about soccer, have tons of friends like Kiel?



Would he, like Mark, have continued to struggle with health issues that impact jobs and careers? Would he have excelled in music as Mark does, be a competent sales person, be able to take anything apart and put it back together again fixed, be an amazing artist, a great cook?



Would he, like DJ, have graduated from college and found his life's calling and also his life's passion and followed them both? Would he lead a Boy Scout troop, be tenderhearted and caring when others do not even see needs, write well, and love horses as DJ does?



Would he have married and had children?



I do not know the answers to those questions. I do know that I love him as much now as I did then, that my memory of him has not faded over time, that I sometimes take out the photo albums and gaze hungrily at him doing all sorts of activities and antics. And I know that I will see him again when I get to heaven.



Today though, I simply wish him a Happy Birthday and celebrate his special day by helping young boys who need a little something extra. They are easy to find but I am sure they will never realize their gain is in honor of my son. And that's OK. It is enough that I know. It is enough that I remember.

Unexpected Light Bath

4:12 pm. I am at work. The Library has been busy all afternoon. As the semester is wrapping up, students are buckling down, getting serious about their papers and studies. They cluster in small groups, urgently forging theses and pushing themselves to complete assignments.

I love the hum of studious effort. People come and go quietly, seek reference materials, type furiously. The reference desk is constantly sought out by students who are stuck, need one more resource, can't figure how to cite something. It is a librarian's dream.

Suddenly there was a break in the questions, and I leaned back in the chair to stretch. As I did my face turned towards the little windows near the roof of the building. There along the stone wall and the light olive plaster overhang shone a swath of sunlight so bright I thought at first someone had turned on a floodlight.

Instinctively, I turned and looked out the lower windows near the reference desk. The sky was a dull gray with not a spot of sunshine in sight. I looked again towards the ceiling at the bright path of sunlight painting the top of the building with glory. How uplifting the warm sun appeared. I sat still and watched it for a full ten minutes before it moved beyond the walls and disappeared.

In another ten minutes, the world was bathed in that unique dusk that makes everything stand out in vivid relief as the sky blushes pink, then purple, then fades to velvet black. The near full moon obligingly continued reflecting the wash of light over the waiting world. It is a night of magic, of wonder; a night when miracles happen.

I want to reach out and take a miracle for my Father, who continues to struggle with breathing difficulties. I want to wave a strand of light over him and make the dis-ease go away. Alas, I cannot. I do the only thing I am able to do.

I bow my head beneath God's amazing heavens and pray for my Father, for strength and ease of breath, for peace and a close sense of God's presence. I send my prayers winging to the throneroom of grace, followed closely by my tears.

God collects my tears. He hears my prayers. Help is on the way. I know because Dad prayed faithfully for me during my cancer bout, and I felt God's presence and help. My words cease, but my heart flows on in love and concern for Dad. Send your light, O Lord, and deliver him from distress.

Prism Peace

It had been one of those days at work where no matter how hard you tried, you got yelled at for something you knew nothing about but somehow the buck stopped at your plate. In fact, the whole week had been rather like that. Maybe its me being extra reactive because I am concerned about my Father.

Maybe I have been away too long and things have veered enough off course that everything is a bit off kilter. All I know for sure is that I am done being gracious and understanding, done cajoling and wheedling and giving the benefit of the doubt. You yell at me and I will be hard core letter of the law. No grace.

I realized I was out of control in the afternoon when someone asked me a simple question and I started defending my action vigorously. She looked at me in surprise and said, "It was just a simple question!" (ie, pull in your claws!). Whoops. Wrong mode. I went to my office to ask God's forgiveness and help in getting back to my normal self. I was determined not to let the overbearing rudeness of the few affect my interactions with the many.

I was glad I had made plans to attend a choral concert at Houghton College in the evening. There is nothing as soothing and calming as sweet vocal music. And for a bonus, I was going with a friend. Still, it is difficult to ratchet down from being offended. You somehow feel the need for someone to hear your plight and agree that you have been wronged and deserve restitution from the injuries suffered at the hands of some barbarian. I'm afraid I chewed my friend's ear off with my tale of woe, though it did help to hear her say "Fire the clod!"

We arrived on the Houghton campus where we discovered beautiful lumieres scattered liberally about the place. Every building had three or four on each step. The administration building had them in every window. The library was equally as lighted. The white light transformed the snowless grounds into a winter wonderland, setting a perfect stage for the concert. We perused the art gallery while waiting for the doors to open, then found our seats, marvelling at the huge quilts covering the chapel windows, quilts that spelled out JOY. And then the music began.

What an amazing collection of world musics and art from every imaginable corner of the world Shri Lanka to Korea to Brazil, performed by every ensemble and artist in the school. The pictures projected behind the performers had been carefully selected to augment the theme of the evening which was Joy to the World, the Lord has come. We were wrapped in music - from all three balconies, from in front of us, from behind us, moving around us, from the foyer. Instruments ranged from harp and shakahashi flute to acoustic guitar, drums, orchestra and a Capella voice.

Sound swirled, ebbed, flowed, softened, boldened, reverberated, whispered the good news that all the world celebrates the Christ child, not just us. How wonderful it was! We could not help ourselves as the concert was concluding with Joy to the World, a wonderful arrangement by one of their professors, Dr. Hijleh. The auditorium was plunged in total darkness. Suddenly, a sound. A single light. Then the sound spread as did the light, growing and growing until we were caught up in the excitement, in the beauty, in the pure joy of candles and drums and trumpets and all singers and performers and audience joining together in celebration of Christ. We rose to our feet, singing, uplifted.

All thoughts of bad days and stressful events and rotten summers slid away. We stood in the healing light of Christ, laying it all at his feet, enveloped in his love, his care, his provision. Yes, it will be alright. I needed that - the reminder of God's love. I already want to go again next year. This prism concert is good medicine!

Stained Glass

I have always appreciated the beauty of stained glass windows. Every time I hear of stained glass windows being destroyed by bombs in a war, I am distraught. What is there about light streaming through their colored glass that touches one's soul? Even the simple squares of colored glass in the hospital corridors brings a sense of peace and comfort.



The church where I worked in Champaign, IL had a gorgeous rose window above the chancel area. One day I mentioned my desire for the window to be lighted at night for the world to see, for passersby to be reminded of all the beauty and wonder God built into his world. Suddenly, a project was underway, a light was installed outside so that when we were having evening services we would see the cobalt blues, the brilliant reds and warm yellows of the window rather than a black round nothing.



I was so touched I pulled together a RoseLight concert series. After all, beauty begets beauty, and what better coupling than music and stained glass? It was wonderful to listen to excellent sound while bathing in the joyous light.



For our Christmas cantata this year, I asked the music librarian if she would put together a powerpoint that would go along with our music. We are doing 4 vignettes of Christmas carols, and I had thought maybe she could find a picture of each carol's music to project as we sang. She looked for that, but couldn't find many. Instead, she decided to select pictures of stained glass windows that depicted the scene or story of each carol.



Tonight I got to preview the presentation. It was wonderful! I had no idea stained glass windows existed in so many different shapes and colors, not to mention portraying so many scenes, so many Biblical friezes! And each one matches the carol we are singing. In addition, during the narrations, she added pictures of the stained glass windows that used to be in their building! Local color if you will.



I am looking forward to putting the sights and sounds together. I hope people will be uplifted and blessed. She and I agree that someday we would like to see these windows up close and actual. Maybe next year!

Christmas Tree Decor

Last year as I packed away the Christmas decorations, I sorted through the conglomeration of Christmas tree items. What a mess! Over the years I have accumulated a hodge podge of various things and there seems no connection between one item and the next. As each son has moved out, they have taken the decorations they wanted, little things that had significance for them. I am left with an strange assortment of stuff that no longer looks good thrown together on a tree.



So I selected everything that was cracked, broken, mismatched or ugly and found them a new home (some of them in the trash). Then I identified stuff that just wasn't my taste and passed them on to others. The bin seemed much lighter but more harmonious when I packed it away last January.

So much for the getting rid of stuff. For the last few months, I have been keeping my eyes peeled for ornaments that I like. At first, I thought to limit the tree ornaments to a few categories that fit a theme. So if all my ornaments have something to do with the nativity, I would have stars, sheep, animals, little nativity sets, angels and the like.

I have a nice collection of musical ornaments each with a perky red or Christmas plaid bow and sometimes a swatch of pinecones or holly berries. I like them a lot and I love music. Add that to my list.

Then there are the beautiful round glass ornaments in appropriate Christmas colors (purple and peach? really?). Many of them have glittery gold designs, very festive. And I have a handful of glass ornaments that are shaped like a bird or an old fashioned spire. Keepers.

Armed with a sense of what my tastes run, I have collected over the past months here and there some new stars and angels. Some are Jim Shore ornaments that were on ridiculous sale, others are bent silver angels made in third world countries, a few crosses that Kiel gave me of gold ceramic.

They now hang together with the old well-sorted ornaments. I stand back and admire the colors, the shimmer, the light. It almost recaptures for me the magic I felt as a child, waking on Christmas morning to the sparkle of a tree not only newly decorated, but packed with presents. Oh, joy!

I know my tree will not be packed with presents, but our house is packed with love and peace, rare commodities these days, and ones for which I am tremendously grateful.

Snow!

5:55. Drew's alarm radio has been going off for a good five minutes. Ugh. I plop my feet over the side of the bed and shuffle to his room. "Drew. Drew. Turn off your alarm." No sense lying down again. I have been awake for awhile anyway, praying for Dad, for Kiel, for Mark.

I wander to the kitchen to look outside and see if there is frost on the ground. Everything looks pale. I rub my eyes, thinking I am not fully awake, and peek out again. The ground is definitely white! The trees are coated and the cars are blanketed. Dark ruts in the roadway mark where the early risers have driven over the white coating.

How apropo. December 1st brings the first real snow of the season. Winter is upon us. Drew comes out, excited, wondering if school is cancelled. Fat chance - there is only an inch or two on the ground, and nothing in the air except the blobs that are falling off trees and wires. Drew wraps plastic bags around his sneakers, loathe to break out his boots yet. He is still waiting for me to get him the winter coat at Land's End that he wants - the one that zips into a small pouch that will fit into his tiny locker at school. He will have to wait awhile longer.

I can't wait to take Sugar out for her first experience with snow. She races excitedly out the door and is paw deep in fluffy white stuff before she realizes there is something different. She lifts one paw and shakes it, then another one. She sniffs frantically around - all the familiar smells are buried. She doesn't hesitate to take care of business, and then hops like a rabbit back to the safety of the sidewalk where the snow has already melted.

She discovers that when she hops, she stirs up little snowballs that roll ahead of her. She chases them by more hopping until she is leaping about joyously, licking the little snowballs and kicking up more. We stay outside longer than usual while I brush the snow off the car, and then off Kiel's car. Sugar loves the snow, racing around and snuffling about.

We head back inside, breathless and energized. It isn't even 7am. What a lovely start to a brand new day!