Category: Tiny Revelations

Hello to all my blog friends, old and new.

Yea, it’s been a while. A long while, actually.

One of the reasons? Fifteen months ago, my 87-year-old mom, who suffered with some baseline dementia but who was living independently at home (with some basic support from all her kids), was hospitalized for five days for a heart-related event.

Chaos ensued.                                                   

I won’t go into details, except for two important lessons I’d like to share:

1. For those of you with elderly parents with some dementia, beware: Hospitalizations often cause a level of added delirium from which they won’t likely recover. We weren’t aware of this, so we did not take steps in the hospital that would minimize the damage, such as facing her bed toward the window, limiting visitors, etc. While she did eventually recover physically, her mental downfall was precipitous and would have been permanent (and likely fatal) if we had not taken the risk, against medical advice, to get her out of the nursing home where she ended up in rehab after the hospitalization, and move her back to the familiar home where she has lived for 65 years. Not being dramatic here—we are convinced that moving her home literally saved her life. Was it tough on us? Oh yes. Were we prepared to handle our mom’s care at home? Not even close. Do I regret it? Not for a second.  Mom’s delirium eventually faded, but the whole experience did leave her with more advanced Alzheimer’s and the need to have someone with her 24/7. But otherwise, she’s healthy and happy, at least for now.
2. God is in control.   I don’t act like it all the time, I don’t believe it all of the time and I certainly don’t trust it much of the time. But it’s true.  We just have to let him be the one in charge. And nothing like a crisis will reinforce that notion. It would have been so much easier to embrace this fact at the beginning of this debacle, but, me being me, I battled it every step of the way. I was by myself in the boxing ring with my gloves on and punching away at the problems and challenges on a daily basis. I fretted. I worried. I got angry and resentful.  But people, there came a day when battle-weary me with mysterious new health problems that had landed me in physical therapy—twice in one year—and with little energy and motivation left in my life, had to wave the white flag. I can pinpoint it to the night in December when, after a long  day of work and an even longer evening caring for my mom, I came home, went to the kitchen cabinet where I kept my medicine and, in a fog,  took my dog’s drugs instead of my own! That’s right, ladies and gents. I swallowed not one, but two pills that were laid out next to mine but meant for my little Shih-Poo, Sammy, who needed them for his seizures.

Chaos ensued.

When I retold this story to my high school friends at a Christmas gathering a week later, you could have heard the roar of laughter three states away. But the next day, one of those friends kindly got me to admit things might not be OK. I guess if you get to the point of taking your dog’s pills, you should probably take a deeper look at your life.

So that’s what I’ve done the past 5 months, with some success. I made some big changes in my mom’s care schedule and in my prayer schedule.  I made some bigger changes in attitude. And I’ve taken intentional, grateful inventory of the many graces that have resulted from the events of the last year.  I’ve learned so much about myself, in particular what God can do with me and in me if and when I allow it. I’ve learned about bearing crosses with grace (still struggle with that on the daily, but improving) and I’ve learned that Jesus’ Presence is ongoing. He does not leave us orphans. (Much more on this topic to come, God willing).

So there you have it–an account of my whereabouts in 2019. I hope to maintain at least a minimal presence on the blog from here on out. Time will tell.

But this I know more clearly now: Chaos WILL ensue. It’s inevitable in life.

And when it does, my job is to step out of the ring, give the gloves to God and let him fight the battles.

In my former life, I was a family humor columnist. While I was rooting through some old Word documents, I uncovered this gem from eight years ago. Some things never change! I hope you enjoy this little Throwback Thursday!

It’s that time of year again. The fall decor gets pushed aside by all things red and green, the holiday music kicks in over PA systems everywhere, and the gift catalogs jam the mailboxes. And I, as I do every season, get overtaken by a rush of sentimentality and initiate grandiose plans to create lovely and personal gifts for everyone on my Christmas list.

Let’s see. Will I make some aromatic homemade candles this year? Yes! I’ll buy some scented oil and wax tomorrow. What about the pretty layered brownie mixes in quart jars, all tied with ribbon and a hand-stenciled recipe card? They’ll be great gifts for the teachers. And as soon as I can, I need to cut and dry the perennials from my flowerbeds, so I can make beautiful wreaths and pressed flower arrangements for my sisters.

There’s just one problem with all this: I am not what you would consider a domestic goddess. I rarely bake, unless you count Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls on Sunday mornings. When my kids need something sewn, they know they have to call Grandma. I don’t even own a sewing machine. And my attempts at anything craft-y usually end up in the garbage can. I was just not blessed with those skills. But still…

I can’t stop myself. There’s something uniquely motivational about the holiday season. All those home and garden shows touting the many ways you can decorate a home using only chunks of coal and pocket lint are enough to rouse my usually-dormant homemaking genes from their deep sleep. The magazine covers shout at me to bake seventeen kinds of cookies and share them at a cookie swap with neighbors I don’t even know. Yea, I must traipse over the river and through the woods to cut real greens in order to bring the authentic smell of Christmas to my home. That nativity scene hand-carved out of soap doesn’t look too tough to handle, does it?  And of course it’s time to sit down and make elaborate, time-consuming mini-houses out of terrible-tasting dough and a variety of hard-to find-candy (so the cats have something enticing to shove off the counter tops tomorrow). Where’s the gingerbread?? My children scatter when I start posing these questions and my husband suspects I’ve been prematurely nipping into the eggnog. They try to talk me out of these attempts, but it’s too late. I am in a holiday planning frenzy and have already purchased yards of raffia ribbon and brown paper that I can hand-stamp for gift wrap, Martha-Stewart-style.

Now, I know in my mind that most of these projects will remain undone and un-created. It will get to be December 23rd, and with the clock ticking away, I will resort to gift cards and overnight deliveries from Amazon to round out the gift list. The raffia and quart jars will be stored in a basement cabinet, right next to last year’s “ ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” cross-stitch undertaking and the unfinished manger made entirely of pop can tabs. But in my heart, I know I am creating something greater: a genuine sense of anticipation and joy that comes from thinking about the ones I love and the many reasons I have to be thankful that Jesus Christ came as a baby to redeem us. And that’s more than enough.

Except for maybe a pan or two of homemade fudge shaped liked Christmas trees…

Happy Advent everyone!

We hugged, swiped a kiss and exchanged “I love you.” She hopped into her car, flashed a cheesy grin and waved at me with open-palmed gusto, like she did when she was seven. And then I watched her back out of the driveway and speed down the country road, headed to the big city and college life once again. She joins her older brother, who left the day before.

This leaving-for-college thing is never a smooth transition. It is a bumpy one, fraught with last-minute laundry and trips to Walmart for supplies, and overflowing boxes and second-hand furniture in the middle of the living room.  When the run-up to a major change is filled with all this plus teeth-cleaning and haircut appointments, and getting prescriptions filled and oil changed, it feels too herky-jerky to me. There’s no time to just sit down, take a breath and do what I do best: watch my children.

I wonder if my kids will ever realize that my favorite hobby is, and always has been, simply observing them.  I stared for great stretches at a time into their chubby-cheeked faces when they were babies, wondering what they were thinking. I watched them play every day, fascinated by the discovery and learning process they went through. As they grew, I watched them interact with their friends, gazed in awe when they mastered sports and marveled as they developed sunny, unique personalities. And when they were teenagers, I again often stared into their faces, wondering what in the world they were thinking.

I caught myself watching them a lot this summer, knowing that it was likely the last summer the four of us would be together on a regular basis. I noticed a shimmer of red whiskers in my son’s short beard, a testament to his dad’s genes. I saw my daughter’s eyes light up as she talked about the little ones she got to know at the daycare where she worked while on break. I liked watching her make plans for a new apartment with her roommates and watching him intently read a news article on his smartphone.  When I booked a photographer to help slow the hands of time this summer, she artfully caught a true candid of them together—my daughter showing lively emotion, as is her nature, and my son displaying quiet curiosity, as is his nature. I was watching them at that moment, too.

This week I watched them leave home, amid baskets and boxes and piles of their possessions, the excitement of a new school year registering on their faces. My heart was filled with pride and delight and a pinch of bittersweet-ness. The days suddenly stretched before me, void of my children’s presence and the ability to watch them whenever I wish. But as I turned and opened the door to an empty house with a mother’s tears in my eyes, I reminded myself of the simple truth: they were doing exactly what they should be doing now—becoming capable, independent, compassionate adults. And I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing—watching them go about doing that.

 

 

Sometimes, you just have to say a prayer and jump in.

My friends and I were on a cruise around the West Indies islands not long ago when we signed up for a tour of lush St. Lucia. In the afternoon, our driver took us to a dock where we boarded a speed boat.  The boat ferried us to a hidden lagoon nestled between two jagged black mountains. I gasped when it came into view; it looked like something out of a movie. It was pure paradise with sandy beaches, calm sapphire blue water and swaying palm trees. And what did I spy on the tiki hut nearby? A sign that said, “Rent Snorkel Gear Here.” Yes! Snorkeling is one of my favorite pursuits. There’s not much call for it in the flatlands of northwest Ohio, so when I get the chance to snorkel on vacation, I usually jump at it. My friend Rachel and I approached the young man who was handing out the gear. Hmmm. This was going to be different than my previous snorkeling experiences. He did not look like an expert deep sea diver. He did not offer any instruction. And the mismatched gear he was thrusting at us did not look like it had been, shall we say, appropriately sanitized. Or ever sanitized.

I threw caution to the wind, said a quick prayer, tossed $10 in the salesman’s bucket and geared up. Rachel, possessing a great deal more common sense than me, hesitated. I waded out and sunk into the pristine water. I was immediately greeted by a school of underwater inhabitants that I had never seen on any previous snorkeling trip. It was like swimming in the middle of a rainbow! I stood up and waved at Rachel, who was only knee-deep in the water. “Come in, come in!” I yelled. She pointed to the (yucky) snorkel and mask in her hands and made a face. There was no way that snorkel was getting close to her mouth. “Look down!” I pantomimed to her. She looked down at her feet and saw what I had seen—a moving, shifting rainbow of colors so amazing she couldn’t resist. In went the snorkel and in went Rachel. We spent an hour floating along the shore, quietly peering into a spectacular world we were unaware of just 60 minutes before. A world we could have easily missed if we had given in to our fears.

This little experience reminds me: There will be times when we won’t get good instruction and we won’t feel well-equipped and conditions won’t seem perfect, but something still tells us to take a leap of faith. Listen to that little voice, girlfriends. Say a prayer to help you get past the real and imagined obstacles and then move forward. Take a friend along if you can. Delightful surprises await all of us when we obey the nudges of the Holy Spirit.

Don’t give in to your fears. Say a prayer for courage and jump in. You’ll be glad you did.

I was sitting around a table with my old high school girlfriends (note that I mean the friendship is old; we aren’t). There was a bit of music playing and a bit of wine flowing. The subject turned to one friend’s son’s recent engagement announcement. Of course we wanted to know all the details of the proposal: Who, what, where and when, what the ring looks like and how romantic the proposal was on a scale of 1 to 10. Given all the videos on social media that portray husbands-to-be staging elaborate proposals complete with friends, family, photographers and the dog present, we knew the pressure was on for the poor guy to produce a unique and memorable moment.

I know I risk sounding old here, when I just pointed out in the previous paragraph that I’m not, but–my, how times have changed. After hearing a few stories about all the modern proposal fanfare, I posed this question to my friends as we refilled our glasses:

“How did your husband propose to you?”

Every answer was the same.

Each one of our future husbands had stowed an unpretentious diamond ring in the glove box of his car and took his bride-to-be on a drive before popping the question. Right there in the front seat. No cameras, no crowds, no confetti. Just two people. On a back road or a side street or (in my case) an airport parking lot. We didn’t record the event. We couldn’t post the announcement seconds later to gather in the accolades. And we didn’t have parents hovering around. We actually had to drive to our parents’ homes later and deliver the good news in person. And we called our siblings the next day from our landlines.

My friends’ spouses are all from the same hometown. I was in their weddings and they were in mine.  All of our ceremonies were held in the same majestic Catholic Church, where we also received Baptism, First Communion and Confirmation.  Our diamond rings were all purchased at the same jewelry store located on Main Street of the nearby county seat.  I am the only one who moved from our hometown, albeit a mere 15 miles down the road. We are a pretty solid, traditional group, especially compared to today’s culture. And we are all now approaching our 30^th wedding anniversaries.

We’re also pretty happy.

Our hype-free proposal experiences may sound archaic to “kids these days” (yes, another phrase that makes me sound old). But I’m not going to knock it. In fact, I am grateful for it. Our glove-box men are dependable, faithful, hard-working guys. Our glove-box marriages have withstood wave after wave of challenges. Our glove-box rings still shine on our left hands after 30 long years. Thank you, God, for your many blessings on us over the years!

I think that calls for cameras, crowds and confetti.  Don’t you?