breathe

Breathe.

That's what she told me. Breathe.

Whitewater emotions, nebulae thoughts, as hard to capture and rein in as wild horses.

Breathe?

That's what she wrote. Breathe.

Yes. I can do that.

So many seemingly urgent tasks to accomplish and yet...

Be. Present.

This time is a gift. Maybe long, maybe short. A gift nonetheless.

Presence is what I can give.

To the sounds of thrumming rain, humming fridge and snoring cat, I slow and...

Breathe.

A beautiful post about being present: Brave Girls Club

loppers

One of my favorite "Dad" stories is about the time he came to help me with some yard work. He emerged from the car carrying his loppers, the old-timey ones with the wooden handles.

We headed for the back yard and got to work. I had my back to him, probably weeding or mulching the flower beds, my memory is hazy. But what I do remember is the startling fact that when I turned around after seemingly-few moments, the back yard was covered with branches. (Front yard, too!) "Dad! could you maybe leave me a few trees?!"

Fast forward. Today I decided to tackle the burning bush before they grew to second-story-level. (Just kidding.) The legacy continues. Snip a little here, lop a little there - and there I was with debris all over the front yard.

The loppers hold life lessons for me.

The importance of memory. The afternoon my dad and I spent together those years ago lives on in my memory. It was the dark time after divorce and I didn't know a whole lot about how to take care of a yard. As a matter of fact, I hadn't mowed a lawn until I was nearly 40 years old. My dad drove the 35 miles to my house to help me that day. And every time I lop branches I smile, remembering those piles of branches strewn across the yard.

The importance of heritage. Dad is a gardener, as were others in his family. So there was a gardening gene somewhere that emerged - inevitably? - 15 years ago. It turns out that my dahlia fascination connects back to a previous generation. My love of petunias stems directly from Dad. He talked about them for years, and I had a "Yeah, yeah" attitude - until I planted my first flat of crazy blooming, blooming, blooming purple petunias. Well, he was right. (And not just about the petunias).

The importance of attentiveness. Sometimes there is a gift hidden, one that must be uncovered by lopping. If I'm too busy or hurried, if I don't lop deeply enough, I'll miss it.

In this season of Dad's illness, I'm lopping. 

Lopping the good in order to get the best. 

Saying "no" to non-essentials in order to gain essentials. 

Memory. Heritage. Attentiveness.

Bed

This is the view from bed, my current haven, my port in the storm. It's unusual for me to go to bed mid-afternoon, but I'm hiding out. You see, I'm just not up to having company, even though I love these people dearly.

It's been a hard week. Getting my arms around my parents' finances, sending powers-of-attorney so that people will talk to me. Then Thursday's family meeting with the doctor to discuss what's next for Dad, what this next stage of life might look like. Being told that he won't be able to shower alone anymore, and that help will be needed morning and evening for the basics of dressing and getting ready for bed. We really knew that, but it was still hard to hear it verbalized. Although Dad's eyes rolled impressively, he didn't argue.

So I'm lying on the bed, looking at the serene, blue-green wall. The fan hums and blows a gentle breeze of air-conditioning over me, just enough to keep the humidity at bay. I love the photos - similar because they are black and white, similar because the images are square. At the foot of the bed is my sew-as-you-go quilt from Melissa. It's a grown-up version of a blankie and holds a strange and wonderful comfort.

"Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting," wrote Anonymous. It certainly is. I've always felt younger than I am - until now. A boy told me four years ago that I had "child-like eyes for an old person", and if eyes are a mirror of the soul, he nailed it. Suddenly I am grown up and I'm not sure I like it. The little girl inside is ramming around, banging into adult me, and it hurts.

Then there's the Beach House. This is me at nineteen, on a sunny, wintry day at Oval Beach. Hands jammed into my pockets against the cold, gazing seriously into the camera, shadow pointing toward the frozen Lake Michigan waves. It captures the loneliness and isolation I feel today, enveloped in sadness and fear as I give loving care to my parents.

And finally, the promise of God. "You will be like a well-watered garden..." Isaiah 58:11

I don't know how or when - but grant it, Lord.

irony

I rocked the trail run, yes I did - 5k through woods and field and all-too-brief paved bike path. On my 55th birthday, 28:02, first in my age group.

And that was the start to my day. Breathlessly saying to the volunteers along the path, "I didn't know that this was a trail run! It's my 55th birthday!" Getting a "Good job!" from them as I continued on my way.

Determination. Telling myself that I ran a half-marathon two weeks ago (dammit) and if I could do that I could handle a nasty little 3.1 mile trail. At the finish line, asking the volunteer to open my water bottle. (I was spent.)

Later that day, I took a walk with my dad, his volition. A loop around the Health Center where he is regaining strength after hospitalization. On with the gait belt, "Becky" hand-written in marker. Clinging to his walker with 125-pound me hanging onto the gait belt, he began. Down the first (shortest) hallway and around the corner. Stop to rest. Continue.

Here came my husband toward us. I began to wonder why I was the one holding the gait belt. Let's face it, what could I do if my dad fell?

Around the next corner. Stop to rest.

With determination, he continued. Navigating around hall hazards, abandoned wheelchairs and such. I joked that it was preparing him for Nascar. Stop to rest.

Onto the home stretch and safe arrival at his room. He sank into his chair. He was spent.

Determination got me through the trail run. Determination got him through the hall circuit.

Dad rocked the hallway. Yes he did.

Irony.

59

I don't often see them holding hands, but here they are with hands firmly clasped.

It's difficult to get a good picture of them both. Mom has a tendency to have a sneaky, "I've-got-a-secret" look, and despite his outrageous sense of humor, it's tough to catch Dad with a good smile.

They've been married for 59 years. 59! 

Both of them tell me that they've had a good life. They have good friends. They've been able to travel the world. And of course, they have two wonderful children and two amazing grandsons. Yes, a good life. It hasn't been perfect - there has been illness and trouble - but they both agree, it has been a good life.

Now they are living the "in sickness" and the "for worse" part of marriage.

Dad's heart is failing. Exhaustion and profound fatigue slowly steal him from us.

Mom cares for him diligently and with grace. She keeps track of all the appointments and guards him from doing too much. She helps him dress in the morning (he insists on putting shoes on, then trousers - it's his lifelong habit.) She puts him to bed at night. (It's princess-and-the-pea-like: position just so, covers just so, and every night, what-channel-to-watch-on-TV). And when he landed in the hospital last week, she did the hospital sit, day after day, filling the time with cheerful conversation. 

Post-hospital, she visits him daily at the health center because he is too weak to return home. There is therapy in an effort to get him strong enough to come home. Even then they will still need help.

Mom doesn't complain, ever. She said she promised not to cry in front of him because it's hard enough for him right now. But yesterday, it happened. She cried.

And when it did, he took her hand and said, "Oh honey, we'll get through this."

59 years.

waterfall

"Aunt Susan, can we go see the waterfall?"

What waterfall???

The waterfall that I had walked past time and time again in my haste to get to my dad's hospital room.

The oasis of beauty tucked between parking garage and revolving door.

Four-year old Noah didn't miss a thing. He's smart and observant that way, my tow-headed little nephew.

Off we went to adventure, through the lobby and past the strangely not-hot fireplace and the mysteriously playing-itself piano, through the s-l-o-o-o-w revolving door and across the first street, his small hand in mine as we crossed after checking for cars.

There it was! A series of small, rock-bottomed pools with a stepped waterfall between. Breath-catching wonder of swimming koi, silvery grey daddy and glorious orange-gold mommy (we assigned those roles), with plenty of smaller koi darting between.  Sound of splashing water, tiny bugs darting across the still portion of the pool where the koi hovered below the surface.

We crouched on the rocks at the edge of the pool. The daddy koi belched water at us and eyed us suspiciously. We picked up a leaf floating near the pond edge and when Noah tossed it, the koi family darted toward it, perhaps expecting dinner.

Noah brought me into his childhood, a place of exploration and wonder and timelessness. In those moments, I forgot the stress and sadness I feel about my dad's illness. In those moments, God renewed my soul.

May I see the world through child-like eyes and experience child-like faith.

fullness

People talk about glasses half-empty or half-full.

Occasionally I hear someone say, "My cup runneth over."

Rarely do I hear, "My glass is full."

Yesterday I read, "For in Christ, all the fullness of the Deity lives in bodily form, and in Christ, you have been brought to fullness." (Colossians 2:9-10)

I am not half-empty, not half-full. I am full.

I have been brought to fullness.

Fullness doesn't come from anything I have done or will do. It doesn't come from accomplishment or money or possessions or human relationships. I've been brought to fullness - or led or carried - call it what you will. "Out of His fullness we have all received grace in place of grace already given." (John 1:16)

I have been brought to fullness.

Fullness is something I possess already. Do I know that? Do I realize that I am a glass brimming full, about to spill over?

I have been brought to fullness.