There's A New Girl in Town!

5:55 AM
My girl was out of bed before me...in the bathroom...not normal operating procedure.
The door to my room opens and she's standing there, a look of distress on her morning face.
"I don't feel good. I think it might be today.  I wish Danny were here." Again, labor arrives early in the morning.

I spring out of bed. "What can I do?"

Again, "I wish Danny was here."

She decides to take a shower. She just wants to shower, put a little make-up on, feel human, be ready for the photo opp' that is surely ahead.  But then, she's overcome by pain and collapses to the bathroom floor in a fetal heap.  The wave passes and she's up, into the shower. But there will be no shampoo. There's no time. And all the while, our little Ru sleeps, blissfully unaware of what is happening outside her bedroom door.  I text Ommie Sandy:

 "CAN YOU COME NOW?"

I gather  clothes,  load the car.  Did yesterday have to be the day the city dug up the driveway to replace it with smooth new concrete? Drat. I back the car into the next door neighbor's  driveway.
I gingerly help my girl get dressed.  She winces, "Where is Sandy?"

"'On her way" And knowing that's true, but hoping she's going to drive up any second.

She stands by Ru's door.  "I have to tell her we're going." She opens it quietly and walks to her bed and little eyes flutter open.   She crawls into the bed and little girl reaches to her Momma's belly-"oh! don't touch baby, momma's tummy is sore." She pulls back her hand and  they lie face to face. Amanda says that baby sister is probably coming today and Momma has to go to the hospital...and Ruby bursts into a flood of tears.

"But Daddy isn't home. We prayed for Daddy to be here."

And Momma soothes her little chick..."I know...I wanted him to be here, too, but it will be okay."

Ommie Sandy arrives and takes charge of our little Ru as  we make our exit.  The 6 mile drive begins and time is of the essence.  We traverse the streets of Long Beach and I am grateful it is still  early and there is little traffic. It is just after 7 am. I am urged to drive faster and I respond accordingly- we are nearly there. Flashback- the urgency of her pleas remind me of another drive to the hospital, 33 years earlier, when I implored her father to drive faster, and to avoid any bumps in the road.  Deja-vu.

She repeatedly voices, "I wish Danny were here."  And I know he wishes the same. He has been in Texas for over a week, getting crucial training to fly a new plane so that he can provide for his growing family. We had prayed that he would return in time to share in the birth of their new girl, but clearly this was not to be.  This is hard for all of them, I know, but I pause to be  thankful for this man who loves this little family so much and who is a faithful husband, father and provider to his precious girls. At this point all he knows is that we are en route to the hospital. I have been entrusted with this sacred responsibility and  am honored to take it on.

I pull into the hospital drive and up to the curb and she is suddenly frantic-she cannot wait.  I jump out, run in and tell the guard I need a wheel chair "right now!"-that my daughter is ready to give birth.  He looks for a chair and there is none. I go back to the car and the urgency has intensified. I return to the guard..."I need help, NOW!"

I return to the car and assure my girl that help is on the way. And within seconds, two beautiful nurses were there with a chair-and summoning a doctor. A birth is imminent.  A cursory exam is done curbside and the decision is made to transport her immediately upstairs. There is time.

Sweet nurses assist her out of the car and I jump back in to park the car.   I turn into an ER-ONLY lot, I ask for permission-"this is a bit of an emergency" and permission is granted. It is 7:15 AM.   Within 5 minutes I have parked,  gathered a mountain of belongings and arrive on the second floor where I am instantly  directed to a room where my only child is about to deliver her second baby girl.

An IV is being inserted and the words "10 centimeters" are voiced.  There is no time for an epidural. It is time.  An unknown doctor enters the room, young and fresh out of med school no doubt. But, she is up for the task and the work begins. Precious nurses encourage Amanda to breathe through the pain. Cameras are in hand  and the hard work begins.

At one point, Amanda prays aloud, through the pain, and one of the nurses does something so remarkable and so brave and so good. She asks Amanda, "Are we praying to Jesus?"

"oh, yes, we are."

And she proceeds with, "then, let's pray.  All activity ceased and  everyone in the room closed eyes and dropped their heads while this precious and courageous young woman petitioned heaven for the safe arrival of,  and blessing on our sweet baby girl.  It was a moment of awe that I will never forget.

And moments later, and I do mean moments, our little Minnie Eloise, was born at 7:34 AM-nineteen minutes from the time we pulled up to the curb at the hospital! And she is perfect!  They immediately placed her on Amanda's chest and left them to bond together.  I cut the cord!
                                         And then I held her as her
Momma slept briefly.  What a privilege and what bliss!

I think she's pretty spectacular. And I'm not the only one.  I'm thinkin' we're gonna  keep her.

Ru meets Minnie for the first time!

Grateful and blessed.

Beware of Pretty Packages

Blue sky-wispy clouds, sun shining through giant trees, leaves swaying in the wind.  T he golden gate bridge, front yards covered in white,  pretty people in slow motion, eyes full of wonder gazing toward heaven.  Surfers, bicyclists,  snow angels, but not in snow, open hands raised as if in praise...and all the while,  a lovely  chorus of sweet melodious young voices singing "California Dreamin'". Finally the tag line ,

"BELIEVE IN SOMETHING BIGGER."

It was truly captivating -all 62 seconds of it.

Even so, about halfway through this exquisitely done project, a feeling of genuine horror came over me.  This white matter wafting through every image was not snow flurries but, instead, a virtual downpour of  ping pong balls. Yes, ping pong balls- and in a sea of white balls floating through the air, in the most beautiful scenes imaginable, one, lone red ball drops from the air into hands held open and a look of absolute bliss comes over the face of the one now holding this special treasure.  His eyes glisten with pure joy- a  look that says, "finally, every  prayer has been answered!"

 This, my friend, describes the newest marketing genius promoting the California Power Ball Lottery.  I  immediately felt a wave of disgust come over me.  Disgust that something presented so beautifully could represent something so vile. Watch for yourself:

I sent a private Facebook message to a pastor friend and double dog dared him to write a sermon around it.  And then I remembered a book I read decades ago, and one line in particular that I've never forgotten.  In his book "The Singer",  author Calvin Miller said,

"Oftentimes Love is so poorly packaged that when we have sold everything to buy it, we cry in finding all our substance gone and nothing in the tinsel and the ribbon.

Hate dresses well to please a buyer."

It's bad enough that this  beautifully done but oh so deceptive ad  panders to those who can least afford to throw money away and who are desperate for a dream to come true- desperate  for something to believe in.  But to insinuate that a one in a billion chance at material wealth is the something to believe in-well, I couldn't stomach it.  Truth is, the facts are in.  Generally speaking, big winners in lottery contests don't have a great track record for living happily ever after.

I am reminded, yet again, that beautiful packaging does not necessarily contain beautiful content.  We are bombarded by so many images of things promising happiness, wealth, money, fame and status.  All of them tout their unique ability to change our lives for the better.  The book of Proverbs says, "There is
a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death."

The lottery web site continues:

"When you believe, the world opens up before you.  The impossible is flipped on its head and dreams become a reality. So believe. Believe that today could be your lucky day.  Believe in something bigger."

So, they have it partially right.  Truth is, there is something bigger to believe in, but, not to burst your bubble (or in this case, your little red ball),  let me be the first to assure you that it is NOT having said little red ball drop into your lap. Nor will it spring from having millions or even billions in your bank account.

No matter what the culture keeps telling us, be confident in this:  Wealth, higher education, the next promotion, having the perfect body, home, car or anything else we're told will guarantee us happiness, is not the hot ticket.  Those kind of riches will never satisfy.

As long as happiness is the goal, we will be looking for quick fixes, longing to be overnight sensations and believing the lie, "THEN, I'll be happy."

Instead, let me direct you to the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 6, also known as the sermon on the mount. Take five minutes and read it today.   Jesus speaks eloquently on the subject of riches so I'm not going to try to reinvent an already perfect wheel.  He knows what we need and He knows we are often distracted by what we think  we need. Still, His words are crystal clear:

"...your Heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. "

True riches are within our reach. Reach for them. Not for a silly red ball. 

Traditions

Tradition.
(truh-dish-uhn)
1. the handing down of beliefs, customs, etc., through generations

Let's just begin by saying I love  traditions.  They anchor us, give us something to look forward to, a reason to gather together and a sense that though relative chaos may be swirling around us, some things remain the same.  I find that enormously comforting.

And, so, maintaining treasured traditions is a priority for me.  Not so much that I cannot bend, but enough  that I am still glad to do the work to make sure they still happen.  My nephew Mike, as he was loading his family into their car after joining us for our traditional Easter family gathering, made the observation, "that was a lot of work to pull this all together and then, much like Thanksgiving dinner, it was done in thirty minutes."  True, that.

There were hours of preparation-a trip to the farmer's market before work to buy just the right flowers, last minute runs to the market, multiple purchases in the weeks leading up to the event to find  goodies to fill eggs for the traditional egg hunt...staying up late the night before with my sister Debi, to prepare in advance much of the food we would consume.  Time in the attic, pulling out all the decor and later to put it away, setting a beautiful table days in advance.  But when everyone gathered around our table, (fourteen this year) it was worth every second--to see each face I love, to remember past gatherings, to see our little ones delighting in eggs found, to relax around our table and enjoy the luxury of their company,  that was, is and will continue to be priceless. 

Just yesterday, the husband and I took our grand girl  (and she is!)  to the garden center where we filled a rolling cart with beautiful things to plant-- notably our traditional tomatoes and beautiful flowers, but some new additions as well.  We spent the day, the three of us, toiling in the back yard, pulling weeds, digging holes, planting, watering and generally getting muddy!  And four year old Ru, while watering our new crop made the observation, "I've been waiting for this day all year!"  She has been part of this tradition since she could walk and she knows that she can depend on it happening every spring...the trip to the nursery, the unloading of our loot, the pulling of weeds, the releasing of lady bugs, the watering, the time spent with her Ommie and Poppa,  the harvesting and the joy of the tradition itself.  

So, traditions will stand for as long as I can.  We may no longer drive to my parents home for Christmas Eve, but we still gather. The faces around our table  may change as some are unable to come and others are added, but there will remain a continuity, a certainty that in this evolving world, some things will remain the same.  Count on it.

Grateful.  

With You, Always

"I am with you always, even to the end of the age."

These are the last words of Jesus, recorded  in the gospel of Matthew, and they are words I cling to these days.   While traversing the  difficulties, sorrows,  anxiety, and challenges that have defined my life of late, I have prayed to fully absorb that.

He is with me.  Always.

I have prayed to fully understand it. To believe it. To live as if I am fully confident that it is true.  To know that I cannot fail when He is with me...that nothing can overwhelm,  defeat or overtake me.  Likewise, to know that I will ultimately be victorious as I abide in Him, and He in me-in every realm of this life~ 

In my home...my relationships...my work...my family...my marriage...my neighborhood...my church...my community and in my day to day life.  He is with me ALWAYS. In every trial. While  I cannot ascertain the purpose of these "brief and momentary" trials,  I do know that they are not random happenings in a life run amok.  I do not see the beginning to the end, but He does. Perhaps He is planning something new for me that I currently have no visibility of.  Hence, my only option is to trust that He sees all and knows all, and then  to leave it in His hands, believing He walks with me.

Right beside me. ALWAYS.

Help me Lord, to stay on the path, even when it is treacherous and dark and scary...when things go from bad to worse, remind me that You are the captain of this ship and that shipwreck is not in Your plan.  Though I am laid low, You are still on high. Though the storms rage and the waves crash and though I am truly humbled by my affliction,  you don't leave me forlorn and alone.  You are with me, ALWAYS. 

Help us Lord, to know this. To really KNOW it.  Show us Your power and Your glory.  Heal the sick. Mend the broken. Feed the hungry.  Visit the lonely. Comfort the grieving. Give rest to the weary.  Be merciful to the unrepentant. Be kindness to the harsh, forgiveness to the failed.  Be a guide to those who are lost and a protector to the careless.  Give  clarity to the confused and peace to the tormented.  Thank you Lord that you are all these things and that you are with us. 

ALWAYS.

Love That Never Fails

Thank you, Lord, for the blessing of this year which  is now drawing to an end.  Thank you for every dark road I've travelled, for every bump in the road,  for every tear I've shed and every sorrow I've faced.  Thank you for each struggle, each disappointment and each trial along the way.  Thank you for the betrayal I endured, the friendship that was tainted and the courage to forgive.  Thank you for every opportunity to reach out, to press in and to connect with someone who needed a connection.  Thank you for giving me a heart for those on the fringes and for letting me experience what it is to be an outcast myself.  Thank you for letting me be unjustly accused and for allowing me to endure and forgive.    Thank you that you never give up on me and that you are teaching me to never give up on others, because-you love them as you love me. Thank you for the strength to reach out despite being shut out and to trust you for every outcome.   Every heartbreak has been an opportunity and I am thankful for each one, though I would not have chosen any of them. I may fall and I may fail, but your love never will. I am grateful.

RipTide

The writer has been largely silent. Paralyzed, and unseen. Uncharacteristically in the shadows. 


From the outside in, all seems "normal.' I get up, drink coffee and make smoothies most mornings.  I go to work and I come home. I open mail and I make dinner.  The husband and I eat together and talk about the day. I water my garden and I do my shopping.  I've mostly returned to my routines, such as they were before.  Life appears largely uninterrupted.


But, as we know, appearances can be deceiving.  Yes, despite the smooth, glassy surface, there is a persistent current, deep, alarming and invisible,  kind of tugging at my feet.  Throughout  my day, it tries to pulls me down and I fight to stay afloat. Silently, surreptitiously it grabs at me,  threatening to suck me under. When I least expect it, the dreaded sense of  danger and momentary  panic surfaces. I quickly push it under, but it lurks nearby, never far from my mind. 


I drive home from work and as I transition from one freeway to another, I am  reminded, this is where I would command my phone to "call Mom".  It was this stretch of my trip home after a day's work,  where I would call her to check in and see what her day had held.  The calls are over. 


In the formerly simple act  of opening of mail lurks the threat of the unknown.  This, too, can pull me under, as much of it is hers.  "A third party" (who? how?) has advised us of the death of...". Six weeks later, the occasional card from a loving friend arrives, sending condolences and some with sweet remembrances.  A call from my Aunt Marguerite, marking the four year anniversary of my Dad's death. A  handwritten note from my Aunt Wilma, reminiscing about days gone by and her love and appreciation of my parents and now me. Sweet, precious expressions of love. But the piles of paperwork, legal issues to be attended to, decisions to be made and an estate to be distributed all weigh me down like a smothering blanket in the desert. Moments of sheer panic well up in my chest. 


As I write, tears roll down my face.  Daily they hover in my eyes, ready to roll, but mostly contained. 


There is sorrow and there is also joy.  The kindness of friends and loved ones have been an enormous comfort and encouragement. A church who has prayed for and with us...the generosity and the remembrances and the memories, they are all priceless jewels in my heart. Simple kindnesses are now the fuel that remind me that there is hope and there is good and there is still much life to be lived. Grief is a road that allows no shortcuts.  I have no doubt that I will travel it for awhile and that the traveling of it will make the roads beyond that much sweeter.  

Loss is a precious reminder to treasure what remains. And, there is much that remains. I am grateful. 

Grief Exposed

"What is central to your life is peripheral to others." Author and radio personality Dennis Prager said it at a lecture the husband and I attended earlier this year. I jotted it down in a little journal I carry in my purse, thinking it was true and that I would want to remember it down the road.

Down the road I am. Pacific Coast Highway, Hermosa Beach, just South of Pier Avenue to be specific, and it hits me like a ton of steel: the world is carrying on, completely unaware that a huge part of me has disintegrated into thin air. There is a hole in me you could drive a hummer through, yet no one around me notices. The oxymoronic invisible hole that is me, or more accurately, what used to be me. This event, through which everything else is now filtered, is unknown to the masses I rub elbows with as I move through the days and nights since that day.

Mother's Day. Ironic, yes? Just hours after her four children gathered around her hospital bed, the one who carried me in her body, gave me life, pushed me into the world and gave me my beginnings, left this world. She, who had been with me from the very beginning, an anchor of sorts, gracefully slipped from this life to the next.

We met with a kind doctor. A man with warm eyes and a caring heart. He told us what we long suspected but hadn't spoken; that her body was telling us what she wanted and that it was time to think about what her wishes were. We decided it was time, to let go. After more than two weeks of ventilators, dialysis machines and round the clock 24 hour one on one nursing care, it was time. She was tired. The evidence was clear. There was no going back to the life she had once had.

We returned to her room. Tubes were disconnected. Machines shut down. Medications stopped. The room that had relentlessly hummed with beeps and gurgles and flashing numbers grew mournfully silent. A curtain was drawn. We removed our gowns and masks. We touched her skin to skin...massaged her feet and arms and hands with warm lotion. We played her favorite songs and we prayed. We bid her farewell and urged her to her to look for Poppa. We knew he'd be waiting for her. For Jesus, who saved her. For her own dear Mother and sisters and brothers and friends who had gone ahead of her.

She slipped away quickly, painlessly and gently. We said our good byes. And there was peace, trusting that the satisfaction she always yearned for and never quite found on this planet was finally hers. That was over a month ago. And, I am still paralyzed.

I did not expect this depth of sorrow. I really thought there would be a greater sense of serenity, more relief that her battle was over. I did not expect to feel so adrift-the proverbial ship without an anchor. Whatever her issues, she grounded me in a way no one else ever could. She was ever present in my life. My only remaining parent, and now she is gone. There is an enormous void I was not prepared for.

This is going to be a long journey and I've only just begun.