Journey's End (or Not)

It's been over a year since I posted here. A lot has happened. I've been to Ireland three times.  As if I were not confused enough about where to call home or what's coming next. It's all good. No, actually it's all truly amazing...this one magnificent life God has gifted to each of us. Insert metaphor here. There are so many that apply to life.  You come up with your's.

I have decided to make this the last post of the Better Than Laughter blog. I set out to understand King Solomon's meaning, "Sorrow is better than laughter because a sad face is good for the heart" from the book of Ecclesiastes. It's been over eight years since Greg died and this blog has spanned six of them. I didn't really write much, considering all that time... 106 posts but most were written the first couple of years, while in Alaska. I can't say that I understand old Solomon any more today than I did then. I still prefer laughter to sorrow, but I have to admit that grief, as a fuel powering the soul in search of God, can take you to speeds that would make Einstein take notice. Not a pleasant drive, but you arrive at a new place with a renewed sense of wonder and understanding.

Maybe the point is... you don't have to choose between laughter and sorrow. Faith can take one end of each and tie them into an elegant bow that is strong enough to hold you together during your worst days.  There is no meaning to anything without contrast, right? Light and darkness create an exquisite twilight that is both calming and reassuring.

I want to thank each one of you who supported me on my journey by reading my words. I opened my heart to you and you treated it with the most tender care and respect. I tried to make it about all of us because Solomon also said, "There is nothing new under the sun."  I know that my feelings were also your feelings even if our circumstances were different. I hope Solomon had friends (which I doubt because he was such a downer) who cared enough to read his stuff and were there for him in his time of need (which may have been his whole life). I have been enormously blessed by you.

I intend to keep writing because I find it so very soothing, like a long exhale after holding my breath. I'm leaving tomorrow to spend the whole summer in Ireland. It's ridiculous how much I love it there. There's a connection that's hard to explain but I'll be exploring it. And I'll be journaling my thoughts and impressions of the place and the people as well as describing some interesting sites I discovered this past year.

I invite you to once again climb aboard my precarious life raft and voyage with me on another fine adventure. Meet me at Dearestireland.blogspot.com. Don't be late! The tide is changing!

Still Searching

I used to scoff and roll my eyes when I heard people talk about "finding themselves". Huh? That just sounded like so much hippie melodrama from lives that would have been better spent working hard, thinking of others and serving God. That was until I opened my eyes one morning, looked around the room and realized that my own life had gone missing. That was over seven years ago.

Since then I've been on a quest of sorts to...yes, er, here goes.......to "find myself".  If you've never lost yourself, you may be indeed rolling your eyes and thinking CLICHE.  But it really happens to people. It's like you get cremated while you still have breath and your emotional ashes get scattered all over. You can either let them lie where they settle and rest in peace, or you can say, "NO WAY" and you can painfully set out on the healing journey, to sweep up the ashes and reconstitute yourself (Does that sound gross?)  I've encountered more of the RIP types in these seven years and I don't want to be one of them. So these days I'm still sweeping up ashes.

I find them everywhere. In new acquaintances who enjoy my company and think I'm smart and funny; in old friends who have stayed close by even when I didn't act so smart and couldn't bring myself to feel any humor at all (God, could I be boring sometimes!); in family that dearly love me unconditionally and never waiver in their trust and support; in noticing when I'm needed and setting the alarm to drag myself out of bed to serve someone else for a change; in the traditional music that makes my heart sing even when my voice seems a little pitchy and the fiddle screeches; in visual art that, in my life, manifests itself best in antiques and architecture; in nature in all her manifestations, blaring eternal truths that you and I could never express; and most of all, in the dynamic, never a dull moment, conflicts and joyous encounters with the God of the universe, who I know is there, but whose untamed God-ness always keeps me off balance.

The most surprising place I have found pieces of myself is in adventure. Maybe not in the adventure itself, but in the way my feelings and perceptions get concentrated and I find myself opening up to possibility. When I leave my comfort zone, unexpected things happen and they are almost always good.  I get glimpses of my old self, before the bomb went off, and I feel comforted in the knowledge that, blown to bits or no, I am still me, just redesigned and reworked.



Of course I don't have to leave home to find adventure but, in the spirit of High Adventure, tomorrow I travel to Ireland, in search of more little Kim-shaped embers.  I'll be traveling alone because taking one of you along would just be more vacation than adventure. I've done my homework, made some exciting plans (no tour buses) and have so much to look forward to. I'm having doubts, anxiety, ugly visions and second thoughts. Is this "finding myself" enterprise really necessary? Why can't I just be hiding under the bed? It would be so much easier to "find myself" there. I really feel the spiritual hand of You-Know-Who once again calling me to come along, trust His judgment and follow His lead. So off I go, just like Alaska, where so many wondrous things happened and I discovered ashes just in the going.

Christmas Day

December has been aggravating. I've been desperately swatting at it but it's kept right on buzzing relentlessly in my ear..... tipping me off balance and hoping I'll give in and melt down.

It started with little things...... the nail that broke to the quick just as I was praying, "Thank you, God, that my nails are long and strong for the Salvation Army fingerpickin' gig." What's with that?

Then there was the dreadful root canal episode. Does it get any worse than this? You're sitting there in the chair with that rubbery thingy holding your mouth open,  you're trying to think happy thoughts (like no root canals in heaven), when, over the penetrating din of the drill, you hear someone burst into the front office and shout, "Wow! Some old lady just side swiped a car in your parking lot!"  How do you instinctively know it's your car? Because it's December, that's why. And you know December is on your tail. And there's nowhere to run. (and then that night when you think you can finally relax, you feel your crown swirling around your mouth in the meat loaf).

My dear friend, Laurie, has been extremely sick these last two months. Two surgeries, then a nasty infection...  bed ridden throughout the holidays. It seems December is creeping up on her, too.  I've warned her.

December started taunting me many years ago when my dad died on December 3. We packed up the kids, kissed our lovely new tree and decorations goodbye, and made the road trip from FL to GA to mourn. Then many years later Greg was diagnosed with a brain tumor in December. We went straight from the neurologist to a Christmas party, hoping to siphon a little merriment from the season before having to process that horrific news. And you may remember two years later, he went to Hospice on the last day of November and died January 2. That December was so..... well you can imagine and I don't have the words. December has been stalking me ever since.

And each one tries to assert its own tyranny, present its own challenges and, of course, lend itself to my spiritual formation and ultimate triumph over the evil that pervades this world.  I find that when I get tired of running, I turn around and face it and, like Gandalf to the terrifying Balrog in the Mines of Moria, I lift up my magical staff and scream out, "You... Shall... Not... Pass!"  December, unlike the Balrog, has a way of cowering. When I get my courage on, I can turn it into a wee mouse and send it scurrying for the nearest hole.

And there stands joy in it's place!  Like when the superglue held my nail back on through hours of performing (and it's still holding). Like when the collision in the parking lot of the dentist miraculously resulted in only a few superficial scratches to the paint (and I DIDN'T swallow my crown that night).

And Laurie and I have spent countless hours together, just being together and having time to talk, talk, talk, and do some serious girlfriend bonding. Some friendships outlast even superglue.

And today. Another Christmas Day finds me back in Hospice...this time with Morris. He suffered a massive stroke on Monday. The nurse just said she thinks this will be his final day on this earth. His adopted family (us) will be gathered by his bedside to send him on his final journey.  Sorry, December, you're not even close to wreaking havoc this time. I got here just in time Tuesday to have him look me in the eye, smile, raise his hand to stroke my cheek and feel my hair, and squeeze my hand.  He's been unconscious ever since. It's just the way he wanted to go, and we were all so worried that the cancer would drag him through the mire before releasing him to the sweet hereafter.

So we are grateful that CHRISTMAS comes in December. And the power of the babe in the manger overwhelms and overcomes the darkness, and lights the way for each of us as we walk this beautifully unpredictable path we call life. From small, silly things to the most profound issues we face, He is our refuge, our strength and our assurance that Love always wins!

Merry Christmas! God bless us every one!

Firsts and Lasts

I was in my hometown, Roswell, again recently and witnessed my great-nephew, Beau,  boldly mastering his first steps. You could tell from the twinkle in his eye that there will be trouble ahead, for the next 18 years or so.  Nevertheless, there was joyous clapping and cheering as he toddled back and forth between the outstretched hands of his beaming mom and dad.  This first year of life has been full of milestones and I was so happy to be there to share in the pride and celebration of my family.

Life has a way of being volleyed back and forth between firsts and lasts, joys and sorrows. I found out this week that the beautiful young Irish fiddler who reluctantly agreed to give me lessons in Anchorage and then became my friend, had decided that "enough is enough" (per her note) and followed Ross in a final act of extreme desperation (Why is it so hard for me to simply say "suicide"?)  She was just 36 years old. Again, I was shocked, disillusioned and enraged. Really? And if you add Robin Williams to the mix, I wonder if we need to call the CDC. What's happening?

I cried on and off for a little while, then got up and determined that I was NOT going to be manipulated by the prophets of the dark side. It's sometimes easy for us middle-agers to struggle with self-worth and the belief that the best years are past. But I have my life and, whiny as I sometimes am, I LOVE IT and wouldn't trade it in for yours and certainly wouldn't throw it in the dumpster. I know where you and I belong and it's right here, right now.

I humbly admit that I have been spared the horrendous suffering that drove my friends to do what they did. Having realized that, I feel more motivated than ever to get out there, take more risks and live my life with renewed purpose, making each second count  (well, we all know that won't last for long, but at least this week I'm not going to be a couch potato).

In my conquer-your-fears-and-just-do-it state of mind, I did something rather impulsive (hmmmm...you may have seen that coming). I was browsing online to start planning my Irish vacation next summer (I know, it was supposed to be this summer, but I was too scared), when I came across an Irish dating site. My thinking was altered, okay? because of my grief. I thought, "How romantic would it be to meet a handsome, roguish laddie online, exchange pictures and emails, then meet when I actually get to Ireland?" I'm telling you it sounded like a good idea at the time.

So I signed up with the user name Florida Girl. That should let them know where I was and what they were getting into. But after the first step of choosing a name and password, I either came to my senses or lost my nerve and logged out before creating a profile or uploading pictures. I thought it was over,  but nay... 'twasn't meant to be that easy. Apparently my membership was initiated and, profile or no, I started receiving mail from Ireland.  Only I guess my user name was rejected and the administrators chose another one for me........."Hello Animal 889"!!! I can only imagine what was on the other side of the messages I received.

Not to worry, I went back in and figured out how to cancel. I should stay away from such things I know nothing about....at least for a while. But I'm feeling that life is just too precious to not peep out of the box now and then and breathe in the fresh scent of adventure.   And sometimes I may need to just lean to one side far enough to tip the box over and feel myself tumbling out. This has always been so hard for me to do. But I'm going to work on it more, because I owe it to my friends who gave up way too soon.

Thoughts On My Birthday

Had I known my 60th birthday would be so grand, I'd have had it sooner. I have been deluged with attention, affection and affirmation. And you thought AAA was an auto club! Nothing was spared nor overlooked.......presents presented, surprises sprung, traditions honored, new ones initiated ....... I've been anticipating this milestone with mixed feelings, as we all do on those "special" birthdays. But my family and friends have made it seem great fun to become old.

I'd never been one of those neurotic people who fret over the passage of time. I'd been more intrigued than disturbed.  In earlier days, every season of life seemed richer and more fulfilling, forming me into the mature, gracious woman I thought I would eventually become.

Then came the ridiculous 50's, the decade from.......well, not exactly Hell, but close.....maybe Alabama. Sorrow upon sorrow, then regrouping, forging and trying to reimagine; an uphill climb I would have thought I was prepared for but, like so many Everest hopefuls, I found the elements severe and spent much of the decade shivering and just wishing for a warm fire.

Not only losing my husband, but losing my favorite hormones and all the little perks they provided, like smooth skin and sanity. My greatest comfort comes from hearing my peers shamefully confide that they, too,  left the stove on when they went to Publix or found their car keys in the fridge.  Every post- menopausal woman knows what I'm talking about. And you men aren't much better. Just the other day my brother told me.........nah, I'd better not say.

On the Saturday before my birthday, Leah took me to Cirque Du Soleil in Orlando. You probably know that it was amazing. The aerial Red Ribbon Man was my favorite, with muscles so pronounced I'm sure he could stay aloft just by flapping them.  I know he was looking for me in the audience as he sailed angelically heavenward, reaching out to me with a pointed index finger like that guy Michelangelo painted inside the Sistine Chapel.  I'm anticipating one of those flying dreams sometime soon and in it, I'm going to levitate off my seat at the circus and float into the arms of Red Ribbon Man. I'll look down at myself and see that I'm in my underwear (because this kind of dream demands it) yet covered in dozens of red ribbons binding me for life with my soaring prince.  Bring on the Ambien!

I believe there's a longing in each of us to be attached to someone else ("no man is an island" and all that). Sometimes I feel the romantic side of that longing (like when I see the RRM in all his "lust"erous glory), and I feel left out of the mainstream of coupled-up love. It's easy to give in to self-pity and wish for what I don't have. There are times when lonely feels....just too lonely.

Then comes Trapeze Man to save the day! Flying through the air with the greatest of ease, he triple somersaulted with some twisty bravado followed by "where are the hands that are supposed to catch me" and then ................he fell. You could hear the collective gasp of horror and disbelief.  It seemed like slow motion...down, down into nothingness....and then....the net. Big net. Everyone exhaled.

Christians believe there is no oblivion, there is no hard thump at the end of life, only a soft bounce or two and then.....on to the next thing. For Ross, it's a new level of existence hidden in mystery from us earth dwellers. He has been gently lifted from the net and carried quietly to a place of ultimate compassion and healing.  For me and Trapeze Man, it's another awkward climb out of the net and back up the ladder, another chance to practice the craft of living that so often foils us and leaves us looping in the air, disoriented and out of breath. 

Trapeze Man made another go of it and this time found his mark and swung triumphantly back to base. And I also am making my go, swinging into a new decade, sometimes a little frantic (like last night when water started pouring from my ceiling from the AC unit), sometimes pissed off that there are apparently no arms strong enough to grab me (or you) out of this season of quasi-dementia and wrinkling.

But knowing I am not alone.  We are all trapezing together, young and old, soaring gallantly through the years, some wearing flashy red ribbons, some....just underwear. But all together.

Away Down The River

"Away down the river, a hundred miles or more
Crossing over Jordan, to the other shore.
I'll be standing, waiting, with all who've gone before,
I'm just away down the river a hundred miles or more."

We played that song by Alison Krauss at Greg's memorial over six years ago. Sometimes it seems like he's far more than a hundred miles away...... but sometimes I feel he's so close I can hear him whisper a smile to me.

I went to another memorial this weekend. My friend, Ross, who grew up just a few miles down the road from me in Georgia, was an Imagineer at Disney World. His colleagues said he touched the lives of millions of strangers by making dinosaurs laugh and presidents dance.  But he also touched the lives of his friends and family by being uproariously funny, thoughtful, and kind.  He once spent all day getting a virus off my computer and I painted the Vermeer Milkmaid with Lobster Claw Hand in appreciation. It's been hanging in his house ever since. I have a copy on my wall if you ever want to see it. I think about Ross now when I look at it......and when I drink my coffee from the enormous Pixar mug he brought me from Disneyland.

I started not to go to the service since it was in Orlando. We have no mutual friends (we met online) so I wouldn't be missed. Only Ross and I would know I wasn't there.  But I knew we would both be disappointed if I didn't show, so off I went. I was anxious about getting there at the right time and finding the right building and all. Why do I worry so much about the logistics? But I do.

After I got in my car, I had to go back in the house twice because I forgot things (a CD and something else I can't remember). I started to go back a third time for my rings but decided I would probably be okay unaccessorized, just this once. Then of course I went by Starbucks so I could have a latte lunch on I-4 where, predictably, there was a major crash and back-up. Almost to the church and I made a pit stop because of.....well, you know, the latte. (btw, NEVER go to a McDonalds in Orlando unless you have a carload of wild and crazy kids and are looking to spend the day. I needed my GPS to find my way out of that place).

When I finally heard the "destination is on the right", I pulled in the first driveway (huge campus) and saw cars. In perfect animatronic synch,  my car and another car drove up side-by-side in the parking lot. The other driver and I slammed our doors at the exact same time and started walking in the same direction. We naturally spoke and I found out he was Ross's cousin from home. His mother taught business at Roswell High School when I was there. Instant affinity. Later, in the reception line, he was first and introduced me to the rest of Ross's family. I thought of all those annoying delays that put me right there in his path at the right time. Think Ross was behind that?

I am extremely angry with Ross. He could have had a stroke or taken a fall from Cinderella's castle. But some anguish deep inside drove him to make a dreadful decision......one he couldn't reverse.  I am looking for words that don't sound like cliches but I'm blanking out. I'm thinking...."at least he's at peace now", "he's in a better place", "no more pain", yada, yada, yada.  They say survivors often feel betrayed. I think that's what I'm feeling. We are a close-knit little band, we middle age Christian singles.  We have sworn an oath to be there for each other and hold on to each other and not let each other fall. Ross let go of the rope. God, I hope I didn't let it slip out of my hand.

A few weeks ago I started training as a bereavement volunteer for Hospice. I've been learning what NOT to say to those who are hurting and heartbroken. What should I NOT say to myself? What should we all not be saying to ourselves when life acts up.

"Away down the river, a hundred miles or more......." My odometer read 99.4 miles from my house to the church.......from my personal sorrow to the healing synergism that grows from shared sympathies.....from my lack of understanding to the place where that just doesn't matter.

"Away down the river ......." I'm standing on the bank gazing in wonder.

The Olympics

My friends haven't seen much of me the last two weeks. It's the Olympics! Since I was a little child I have been mesmerized by all the jumping, gliding, flying, tripping and floating of the winter events.  I swear I could hum the Russian national anthem by the time I was ten. I thought it was the most majestic melody I'd ever heard.  Go figure.

I still love it all, especially the figure skating. If you read my blog while I was in Alaska, you'll recall that I found a frozen lake under a mountain (actually, everything in Alaska is under or on top of a mountain), and skated my little heart out, pretending to be Peggy Fleming (http://betterthanlaughter.blogspot.com/2011/02/skating.html). What was fantasy to me, is real for these competitors this week. And I was able to watch it live in the mornings when there were few interruptions, and I could be among the first to see it all unfold in real time. Thanks for understanding, all of you friends who watched some of it with me and all of you who didn't try to drag me away. Believe me, it was spiritual!

So I had this strange anxiety dream last night (Don't start yawning until you hear it). I was teaching school again, just coming in on a Monday morning. I guess it had been a busy weekend because I had absolutely no idea what the lessons were for the week. In real life, this could only happen if you had just awakened from amnesia ("Oh, am I the teacher?") or discovered you had the winning lottery ticket and were only there to say goodbye. A day without lesson plans lasts ten years, and you are not well at the end of it (Don't ask me how I know).

But in my dream it didn't seem like a big deal. I was getting the children settled when in walks my former principal, the one I had when I taught in St. Pete years ago. She smiled and, with clipboard in hand, took a seat and said she was there to observe for half an hour or so. If you are a teacher, you get it!  Observation equals evaluation. There are only one or two a year (or there used to be) and you'd better be on for this. Your career could ride on it.

I distinctly recall the feelings I was having in my dream. The "OH NO!!!, ARE YOU KIDDING ME????" kind of aggravated panic, but also a "Hey, I can handle this!" kind of  in-your-face optimism. I quickly perused the reading guide to see what story I was supposed to be teaching. With an air of confidence and calmness I picked up my book and took my seat with all the children around me in a circle. The principal was still smiling expectantly, her pen in hand.

For just that moment, I think, in my subconscious mind anyway, I was on the Olympic stage. It had all come down to this one performance. All the college classes, the staff development, the meetings, trainings, experience.......all rested on this reading lesson that I had not a clue about. I knew I was about to experience "the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat" in my own realm. The world stopped turning for that few seconds as I took the ice........er, I mean.... opened the book.

This has got to be why I love watching the Olympics. It isn't about them so much as it's about me......the triumphs, the disappointments, the strength, stamina, and determination to git 'er done, no matter what the challenge. I need some Olympic Spirit!  Don't we all!? I am grateful for the chance to tap into that colossal chunk of inspiration,  then personalize it and use it to take my place among my fellow humans.

Want to know how the dream ended? This is hilarious! Just at that moment of truth, when everything was on the line, the door swung open and a teacher's aid announced, "Ice cream for everyone!" Without hesitation,  she proceeded to pass it out to the explosive cheers of the jubilant (if diminutive) crowd.  The principal left the room.

I have only one question......does this mean I won or lost???????????

Another Move

Beautiful Couple

Back and forth, back and forth.......that seems to be what I'm doing these days. The day after Christmas, my children and I drove to GA to celebrate the season with my family (and to get our presents :  ).  We stayed two days then came home to FL. Then a week later I drove back for a two week stay.

This time I was on a mission.....my brother and I were getting my mother and Morris (her boyfriend of 20 years that you've read about in earlier posts) moved into Assisted Living......the same ALF that my brother's mother-in-law just moved into. 

Morris is actually doing great. He's on a maintenance chemo schedule of every three weeks. He has been driving, preparing his own meals, paying his bills, creaming his poker buddies, etc. as if he were not 92 years old with stage four colon cancer. He has amazed family and doctors alike.

Remember when he met the guy in the checkout line at Publix (or was it Kroger?) who told him all would be well? We had a feeling that guy was an angel or something, and his prophesy certainly came true.

There is a marker number (ascertained from blood tests) that indicates the level of the disease. This particular marker should be 4 or 5 in a healthy adult.  When Morris was diagnosed, his marker number was 186. YIKES!!!!!!! Morris decided to stop shaving (This is not nice to hear from a man of 92) until his number fell below 10. It's now around 12 and holding.

Morris is looking pretty darn scruffy. But when I hugged him goodbye a few days ago, I noticed how surprisingly soft and fuzzy his whiskers felt, so personal and warm.  I hope he forgets to shave, no matter what. There's a new eccentric air about him that makes me feel cool being seen with him...a cross between Socrates and Santa Claus.....a hint of ancient wisdom cloaked in jolliness (cool-sounding word..."jolliness")

In spite of his progress, Morris is tired and was struggling to care for my mother along with himself. We all knew it was time for her to make the move from an adult apartment complex to AL. Morris graciously agreed to move along with her, making it easier on all of us to keep them together.

This is the third or fourth move I've described in this blog. They all have commonalities.......sorting, packing, losing, finding, losing again, giving away, wishing, regretting, remembering, and above all.....hoping. Hoping all the aforementioned things will be worth it. For my mother and Morris, hoping there is still a future waiting even though you're really old, and you're becoming feeble and dependent and you swore you'd never go to a "home". Hoping that life can still deal you a few good hands, even though the aces have long since disappeared from the deck. Believing it's not always the cards you hold, but your love of the game that makes it worth playing. A win or a loss......it's all about how your heart perceives it.

It's good to be back in St. Pete, though it was really cold last week.  I've missed the yellow bungalow and the friends and routines that are defining my own destiny.  More and more I'm realizing it isn't about where I am or what I do, but who I'm becoming, that will bring me into alignment with God's plan for me. The fruit of the Spirit, presented in Paul's letter to the Galatians .......love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control......are not dependent on anything except my willingness to be molded. . 

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I hope, like my mother and Morris, I can stay the course with grace and optimism in these next few unpredictable years.  I know that life has a way of jumping out from behind a bush and scaring the bejeebers out of you.  I hope that doesn't happen to me again, but ya never know. Sometimes it happens in an instant, and sometimes it just happens with the passage of time.

Coats

When I was 9, I had to leave the "new school" and spend my fourth grade year at the "old school". That's what we called them in Roswell. The old school (across town) had grades one through seven, but the new school only housed grades one through three. During my fourth grade year, however, they built on to it so I could return for the rest of my elementary years (through seventh grade). So I just had that one year at the old school.

Attending the old school was considered very cool. After all, that's where the big kids were. My brother went there and all his friends and the older girl across the street who had boyfriends and wore make-up. To me it was like a year at the Academy Awards...sneaking peeks at celebrities in hallways, watching them perform in chapel programs (yes, we had them every Wednesday), overhearing their chatter in the restrooms.

The year I was there, it was trendy for the girls to wear varsity jackets,  the kinds with leather sleeves that are supposed to display the letters you earned in athletics. Of course, being children, no one had earned a jacket or a letter. They bought them at Tolberts (not to be confused with Talbots which didn't exist back then). Adoration would not be too strong a word to describe how I felt watching the 12 year old safety patrols directing hall traffic in their green and white Roswell Hornet Hollywood splendor.

So when I had wiped the drool from my chin and popped my eyes back into my head, I begged my mother for a varsity jacket for my birthday the following August, the month before I went back to the new school. I distinctly remember the look of horror on her face (my mother had a tremendous sense of style) and hearing her ask my brother if it was true, that this was really fashionable for girls my age. He concurred (for which I will forever be indebted to him) and on August 18, 1964 (and all the days after) I could be seen savoring the leathery smell and clickety snaps of the most beloved piece of outerwear I have ever owned.

I could go on recounting stories of showing off my jacket throughout the year (and the torture of not being able to wear it right away in August).  I'm sure I was obnoxious to some, but envied by most. It was glorious!  Now I was the one on the red carpet, having my photo snapped, anticipating my Oscar for Most Gorgeously Dressed Girl At The New School.  I just loved that feeling.

In Florida we don't wear coats much. I bought a bulky, all weather type thing several years ago for the occasional days I would need it. I wore it every single day in Alaska (because it was cold every single day!) I was known in the native village as She Who Walks In A Winter Coat Even In The Summer. I'm not kidding! I wore that coat out and got teased for wearing it.

So I've been keeping my eyes peeled for a new coat. I know I'll be wearing it a long time so I have a check list in my mind: Not too heavy, can be worn with jeans or a dress, neutral color, affordable but not cheap, classic style but definitely not plain.

I was in Roswell yet again this past week. Morris' CAT and PET scans showed no signs of active tumors. He is going on a maintenance chemo schedule.  My brother's father-in-law, who was in so much distress, passed away and his wife is living peacefully and contentedly in a very nice ALF near the family. My mother is thinking seriously about moving there also, to relieve her anxiety and simplify her life and the lives of her caregivers.

The family is daring to exhale for the moment, a little reprieve from the chaos that plagued them all summer. We played cards, my mother shopped for new glasses, Morris went for groceries. Normalcy.

And, at a little vintage style boutique that just opened downtown, I found the perfect coat.  It's perfectly me and I'm so happy of myself for finding it.  It made me think of the varsity jacket and the exuberance of my youth. But it didn't exactly recapture the feeling. Sometimes I wish I could go all the way back to those innocent days but alas, childhood is over and, as William Wordsworth so wisely observed, "nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower" (or in my case, clothes euphoria)..."but we will grieve not". For now, normalcy is enough (and something to keep me warm).

Back Again

I wish I could say I've been going through one of those hectic periods, when life scoops you up and tucks you under its arm, kicking and screaming, heading for a goal line. That would be my excuse for not writing. But the truth is.....I just haven't had much to say. A little down, but nothing serious.

The last two weeks, I was in Roswell (GA) once again. Morris has recovered from his surgery completely. He has started very aggressive chemo treatment and I was there being my favorite thing to be: part of the family. It rates low on the cool scale for ministries and is anything but glamorous, but it's exactly where God wants me to be. And like any good ministry, it tests my patience, makes me sometimes snarly, causes unexplained outbursts of laughter and tears (well actually, I could explain them) and guarantees a good night's sleep.

In the extended family there are six elderly members (three couples) who are in crises varying from Alzheimer's to cancer to broken hips to just too feeble to be alone.  My mother and Morris are the most independent and are the only ones living in town, and so I had it relatively easy. I had time for practicing music, reading and reflecting on all this. My brother and sister-in-law are still on the move between our parents and her parents and full time jobs. It's a mess for them.

Before I left St. Pete,  I took out a bag of letters that I had found about ten years ago in the attic when my mother moved out of my childhood home. They were the letters I had received my first year of college from my parents, grandparents, my brother, high school friends and three (count 'em....one-two-three) boyfriends. I sat in the middle of my bedroom floor and had myself, as a country singer once wailed, "a night to remember" (get it?)

It took me back to another world, another me and yet the same. I wondered what the me who received those letters would have thought of the me reading them on the floor......one me full of anticipation of a college degree and a great career, and the other me savoring the fruit of retirement.......one me anxious to meet the beau who would win my heart, the other me once divorced and now widowed.....one me dreaming of someday moving to the seashore.....the other me recollecting beach walks and snorkeling days with my children ....one me smiling as I read my parents' letters full of pride and encouragement......the other me still missing my dad and wondering how things could change so much so quickly.

This passage of time thing is profound to me. I have gone through periods in my life when I was stuck and couldn't move past this or that. Then I have had times when adventure pounded on the door like Tolkien's rollicking dwarfs, and I couldn't wait to leave a trail of dusty memories and head out for Rivendell.

Right now, I'm somewhere in between.  Spending time in Roswell gives me perspective on my life's timeline.  I have coffee with friends I knew in first grade, revisit stories that help define my place in the family (Yep, I'm definitely the smart one!) and try to forge a highway that will take me back and forth, not just from state to state, but from then to now.

Other World?

I'm sitting here at Morris's bedside in his hospital room. It's been six days since his colon surgery and they say he is recovering well. The white board over his head specifies his diet, records his latest blood pressure and names his staff de jour. (Two days ago Morris groggily asked his nurse if they have much staph in this hospital to which she enthusiastically replied, "Oh yes, we have lots of staff....several buildings just full of staff., more staff than any hospital in this area."  I'm sure she didn't understand the look of horror on Morris's face, unaware of his almost paranoid fear of staph infections).

Since my last post, I have heard from several of you regarding coincidences (or is the plural coincidenci?) And really, when you start paying attention, they're everywhere. It seemed to a couple of you a freaky coincidence that I wrote about coincidences on just that day, because you had experienced one also. I just love that, when I realize that what was on my mind was what was on your mind.

How 'bout this? When I got to Roswell,  I sat down to talk with Morris for the first time since his diagnosis. I wasn't sure what to say (Duh......who knows what to say at times like that?) He is a very independent, self-sufficient kind of old guy and didn't even want anyone to know about his cancer, much less fuss over it. So I just waited to hear what he'd say and it was this (slightly paraphrased):

"Kim, I was in Kroger this morning buying groceries and I was fumbling with my discount card at the checkout counter. I thought the man behind me might be getting irritated so I turned to him and apologized for the wait. He said it was no problem at all, that he had all the time in the world. We compared ages" (What is it with old men comparing ages?) "and he couldn't believe I was almost 92.  He was 72. He said he felt very blessed to be thriving at his age because he had been through colon cancer and had survived. I told him I had just been diagnosed and was about to go in for surgery. He looked me straight in the eye and said I was going to be fine. He said it was a piece of cake. He said I would be absolutely fine. Later, he found me in the parking lot and walked over to again remind me that I would be fine."

Morris concluded his story with........"Coincidences like that don't just happen!"

I told Morris it must have been a man-angel and he nodded, smiling like he believed me. Of course,  my heart was pounding because I had just written about the subject of coincidences and Morris had NOT read my blog.

I know it's all around us, the everyday comings and goings of another realm of existence, what the science fiction writers call a parallel universe and Christians strongly believe in but aren't sure what to name it.  Did you ever read about string theory? ......... the scientific evidence for that other world  we encounter........ confirmation that what we see isn't all there is........that there is "immeasurably more than we can think or imagine" and it's not in some far away galaxy called heaven. It's right here.....right now! God's spirit and His emissaries, busily intervening in ways that make us look up and over our shoulders and wonder who's there.

Last night I talked to Vivian on the phone for an hour and caught up on news. She asked if I was reading anything worth reading and I shared my latest Kindle acquisitions. Then she recommended Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. I had heard of it. She went into detail about the section on the Beatles having played all through many nights, honing their talents and preparing for their big moment of discovery. Sounded interesting.

Over coffee this morning my brother told me, out of the blue, that I should read a book by Malcolm Gladwell called Outliers. Before I could gasp, he started describing the section about the Beatles having played all through many nights, honing their talents and preparing for their big moment of discovery. I wondered if he had told me that yesterday, had forgotten and was telling me again (it wouldn't be the first time),  and maybe I had dreamed it was from Vivian. But no, I clearly remembered it coming through the phone from Vivian, just 12 hours earlier.

As they would say in Roswell, "Wudea mayka that?" (I'm definitely reading Outliers).

Coincidence

Our view

Where do you stand on the coincidence issue? You did know there was an issue, didn't you? Most Christians I know are not believers......they think those things that appear to be random associations are actually providential and have meaning in the scheme of things. They are coincidental atheists.

Yesterday Sharon and I set out to find a place for brunch. We had nothing in mind except to maybe find a new place. After driving a couple of blocks down Central Avenue, Sharon, who has a life and doesn't like to waste time,  reminded me that my iphone knows everything. So I pulled over and googled "brunch places on Central in St. Pete". What came right up was a quaint little cafe one block away from where we were.

We ate at a table on the sidewalk. There were only two tables outside. That was probably because there were ants in the sugar jar and derelict types wandering around being loud and creepy. We didn't mind. The weather was beautiful and we were feeling our urbaninity.

Right across the street I commented on the stately four-story Alexander Hotel. I had never really noticed its classical revival architecture before, though I've driven past it many times. I was wondering when it was built and by whom when Sharon reminded me that my iphone knows everything. I googled it and discovered it was built in 1919 by Neel Reid (and that it was classical revival architecture).

I went on to read that Mr. Reid had once lived in my hometown of Roswell, GA. Roswell is a big city now, but was a small town when I was growing up. My ancestors founded it in the early 1800's. Mr. Reid had lived in Mimosa Hall which is one of the founding father's residences, built in 1830. I would guess that my great-great (and maybe another great, I'm not sure) grandfather, Valentine Coleman, had been a guest there at some point.

AND.............Neel Reid died in 1926, the year my mother was born. AND...............it was on February 14, the day she married my daddy (but of course not the same year because you can't get married the year you're born, unless you're from Alabama where I always heard there were no marriage rules). Anyway, these little connections fascinated Sharon and me, as we flipped ants off our coffee cups and avoided eye contact with the passersby.

Then there's this:  You know that our family has been grieving the passing of Greg's parents, both gone within the last four months. Just as our hearts were feeling the twinges of relief,  we find that Morris, my mother's long time, loving, might-as-well-call-him-husband.... has colon cancer. His surgery is scheduled for Wednesday.  He's 92. I am really worried as I set off for Roswell on another leg of this peculiar, yet familiar journey.

There's a circle of sorrow swirling over my head from the generation of my parents. They seem to have formed a line at the bus stop, as C. S. Lewis mused, awaiting their turn to board the Greyhound that will take them from world to world. Vivian's dear father found his seat just this past week. And another friend's mother has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. 

It hurts because it isn't natural. God never intended death when He created the universe........didn't plan for us to suffer......and yet we do. Man has been googling that one since he left the i-garden........and still no easy answers. Of course, we have to take responsibility for sin (and thus pain) in the world......and believe that God has taken responsibility for redemption. So many cycles in motion, each dependent on the others, interlocking, interwoven......a master plan.........no coincidences allowed (well maybe a few, like Neel Reid from Roswell).

But btw, Morris's last name is also Reid. You'd have to be seriously mystical to read anything into that, but nevertheless, it's there. Just like the grief.

Ideal Date

Sometimes I take myself on a date. Not that I'm that desperate. I do have some cool guy friends who I go out with occasionally. The last one commented that my cute new floral jeans looked like a nurse's uniform from All Children's (I know you're reading this, Date, but don't worry.  I'm protecting your identity so my girlfriends won't come beat you with clubs).

Anyway, sometimes it's just nice to be with me. Like today. I asked myself if I'd like to go to a movie and I said "yes".  I asked what I'd like to see and I said "How 'bout that Oz movie?" So off we......er, I went.

I know how to do movies right.....in traditional Vermeer style. I have a movie purse that has stood the test of time. It holds microwave popcorn,  Reese's Pieces, water and a thermos of vanilla-flavored coffee.  I no longer have to share these with my children, so my date and I can smuggle it in and consume it all...even if that elicits some curious stares from the coupled-up theater patrons (are they still "theater patrons" if its a movie theater?)

I can walk to Muvico from my house. I don't have to ask my date to pay for parking. My date always agrees to sit exactly where I want to, near the middle.  Our opinions of the movie never conflict and neither of us likes to stay for the credits.

When it was over I asked myself if I'd like to walk over to Beach Drive for a latte and people watching. I enthusiastically agreed. Sitting there outside Paciugos, just for a split second I wished I had a guy friend across the table to talk to. I pictured it and almost started a conversation then thought better of it. I could easily get carried away with that (both figuratively and literally). Many of those people you think are on drugs in the street have probably just been single too long. 

I decided it would be healthier and more comforting to picture Jesus sitting there with me. He is, after all, my constant companion and best friend.  But he isn't really my type for a date. That long wavy hair and beard are so .....'60's. I'm really glad we have no sketches or even descriptions of God, the man. That would screw a lot of us up. Bad enough Mary is always showing up in loaf bread and such.

After sipping and people watching I chivalrously walked myself home and heated myself some leftover collards and beans. I told myself I was too full from the latte for supper, but I reminded me I would be hungry later so I might as well eat. Then I could relax, sit with me on the sofa and watch TV and blog.

I like myself. I have a lot of style...for a cheap date.

Distortions

Above my loveseat

When Greg got sick, over seven years ago, the world went cubist.  The buildings all slanted, people's heads dropped below their shoulders and twisted, trees looked like they had been watered with vodka and were swaying under the influence. Everything was slow motion and asymmetrical. The universe was out of whack.

I remember doing simple, ordinary things like grocery shopping. I wondered why all those people in the frozen foods didn't look depressed. Didn't they know what lay ahead? Where was their anguish? What was wrong with them? They should all be in therapy before they cracked, maybe find a way to get those misshapen faces back between the ears.

A few weeks ago I bought some vintage museum posters to hang on my walls. They're by Matisse and Braque and LaFarge. Impressionistic. They are soothing to me. A little surreal but not disturbingly so. Realistically so. The world isn't always "real". Things don't always appear as our reason tells us they should. You've probably noticed that rationality likes to jump the track.

Our pastor has been teaching a series on the book of Job. It may be the oldest manuscript in the Bible. The world hasn't really changed much since then. Read it and see if you don't identify, if not with Job, then with one of his three friends and confidants.

I hope you read "The Gift", a post on this blog on December 12. Greg's mother was diagnosed with leukemia the same year Greg was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  She fought a hard fight to stay with us but finally left this old world three months ago, just before Christmas. We grieved, but it all made sense. She had struggled for seven long years and was ready to go, as they say. It matched the Nocturne on my wall ... a  lone flower, muted and beautiful, open and expressive, but very still and shadowy....a hopeful sadness.

"Paper or plastic?"

Three weeks ago her beloved husband, Wally, began feeling ill on the golf course while visiting his son in Phoenix.  Brent was alarmed and called the paramedics since Wally had hardly been sick a day in his life. On Easter Sunday we will fly back to northwest Iowa to lay him to rest beside his wife.  They're saying he also died of leukemia, only a week after diagnosis. We are all in shock and disbelief. 

When I went to pick up some things at the downtown Publix, I noticed there was something not quite right about the cashier.  Guess she's been that way all along, but I'm just realizing it.....again.

Caffeine?

If you know me, you know that my mind often goes foggy. You've been telling me about your crisis and seen a far away look in my eyes (probably wondering if I remembered to change Daffodil's water). If you don't know me, well....yes, you do...if you know any middle aged, active, multitasking woman.  We seem to be all alike and we're good with us. We've earned this period of flakiness.

But we aren't too proud to want to get better. So today I dropped by Rollin' Oats, St. Pete's primo health food store,  to pick up some caffeine tablets. I find that drinking coffee helps me focus and doesn't give me a buzz like it does most people. I can take my last sip of java at bedtime and fall into a peaceful sleep. (I am often maligned as a coffee guzzler but the truth is......I sip a lot but rarely consume more than two cups  a day). So I thought maybe a greater dose would yield a greater result.

Walking into Rollin' Oats can be intimidating.... All those natural looking people milling around becoming healthier by the minute, just by brushing past so many supplements. All I wanted to do was grab my goods and get out before someone noticed I was wearing make-up. But where to start looking? Someone must have recognized my look of bewilderment and approached  me with "How can I help you?"

"I need caffeine!" Suddenly the milling stopped. I think the entire store came to a grinding halt. I know I heard whispering. You'd have thought I had asked for a piece of fried chicken.

"CAFFEINE???? YOU NEED A BOOST???"

When I think of  Boost,  I think of my mother who drinks Boost.

"No, I don't need Boost, I need caffeine" (more whispering). 

"Have you considered Omega-3's?"

"Yes, I already take fish oil."

"B-12?  Exactly what do you hope to accomplish? " I was pressured into confessing that I wanted to try caffeine to help me focus... that aging is taking its toll on my concentration. They should have at least put me in a curtained booth for this, with an ordained health priest on the other side to grant me absolution (They also had many "ab"- solutions in Rollin' Oats but I didn't want those).

I felt publicly humiliated. Where were the other middle aged women at that point? I think I saw one dive behind the organic pineapples. Others were slinking out the door.

Ten minutes of more interrogation and I was on my way with something called  Up Your Gas (I kid you not!)  It has green tea extract in combination with other health food store sounding additives (although we don't use the word "additives " in there). Guess I'll drop by Walgreens wearing a hoodie and dark glasses to pick up my bottle of Bean-O.  Sounds like I'll need it.

Shopping

Last weekend I went to Bed Bath and Beyond and bought a memory foam mattress pad.  I have still been forgetting things these last few days. I don't think it's working.

It's just another rung in the ladder of extravagance I've been climbing lately. It started with the round rug. Then I bought some interesting museum posters that were a sweet deal, but having them framed negated the bargain.  Then the major spree in BB& B (although I'm happy to say they honored the 20% off coupon that came in my email five days later). All things for the yellow bungalow.

I may be obsessing over it. It is, after all, my dream house. Not because it will ever be featured in House Beautiful, but because it's all mine......my vision, my taste, my sanctuary.  It's a musty old book I chose because the words speak to my heart, and now I have the privilege of some editing and revising. Being single affords you the luxury of personal choice. When you mess up, you face the music on your own.  But you also get to have a lot of things your way, and that can feel pretty good. When I moved in just over a year ago, I focused on the big things: knocking down walls, refinishing floors, adding a bath, etc. That was normal, right?

I'm not so sure about now.  I find myself micromanaging the floor mats and taking things on and off the mantel. I think I dust too much. Productive people don't usually dust, do they? Yesterday I bought a house plant whose teal leaves with a streak of pink match the tiles in the guest bath.

Is this the way of retirement?  All that creative energy has to be channeled into something, doesn't it?  I'm not complaining! It's just that my new priorities are glaring at me against the backdrop of last month's teaching.  I do miss being in the trenches but like I said, I don't want to go back. But neither do I want to become shallow, and spend time on things that don't matter or, worse yet, convince myself they do matter.

It's not the moral dilemma I wrote about earlier, not all about what's right or what's wrong. It's about me being happy with me, being interesting to me, having worthwhile issues to contemplate and satisfying contributions to make.

I'm okay at the moment (still doing my music, volunteering, meeting new friends, etc.) But I see how this shopping thing could get way out of control. I see why homemakers have notoriously had to struggle with it. First a rug, then a poster.  What if I become a hoarder? How will I find Daffodil in the debris? Will she insist I go back to work? Nah, she likes this new gourmet cat food I bought her at the trendy pet store.

Back To Work

Taking a break from the homeless dilemma (before you offer me a room, read the previous post),  I spent these last two weeks subbing in the same second grade class every day.  I haven’t taught regularly in nearly three years, but let me assure you that two weeks ago I started strong. Within an hour I had untied myself and established order. Bribes should not be underestimated when the ratio is 17:1 and you’re the 1. They are to the substitute teacher what the swinging watch is to the hypnotist: MIND CONTROL!

I carefully followed all the teacher’s lesson plans when I remembered to look at them…but you know my memory.  I made sure every student’s needs were met, unless they needed to make obnoxious noises during one of my "be responsible"  lectures. Within just a few short days I became……..not attached……not bonded…..but vaguely  familiar with each child.  That’s the best I can say.

I’ve been passionate about teaching since my junior year of college when I realized that being an astronaut would make me throw up. I set my sights on a more noble cause (that’s not sarcasm, it’s true) and I have never regretted my choice.

These last two weeks have been stressful and challenging and I have loved every minute.  I may not have loved them without the bribes, but a great time was had by all.  It’s much like I imagine grandmothering will be….. over-indulgence, over-stimulation, party party,  then "ta ta"  ("God, please don’t let that principal read this"). 

The teacher‘s plans were spotty since she was not expecting to be out so long. So I whipped out some instructional arrows from my quiver of experience and watched them once again hit the mark.  By my last day, every child in the class could subtract one digit from two digits using regrouping (so it will only have to be taught ten or twenty more times before they retain it),  AND they were using the word "scrutinize" on a regular basis with their classmates (as in "Stop scrutinizing everything I do"). That cut down on tattling.

I worked long full days and came home exhausted. It reminded me so much of earlier days. I even caught a gratuitous sore throat and cold. What would teaching be without sniffling and bumming meds?

 So do I want to go back?

I see it like this:  middle age, retirement, widowhood and empty nest all lined up end to end and connected to form a bridge that has taken me from one side of life to the other. It was one of those swinging bridges for sure, scared the bejeebers out of me. It was high as the sky and many times I lost my footing and almost fell like a bomb into the proverbial "abyss" (I love that word "abyss"…… if a bomb explodes in the "abyss" does anyone hear it…..or get blown up?)

Now that I’m on the other side (not to be confused with dead, of course), I feel a sense of past and future both within view but just out of reach. I don’t want to be a full time teacher again. I don’t want to mother young children again. But… I would like to fall in love again…… and be a grandmother ….. and occasionally substitute teach.

In The Park

I had a dream the other night that went like this:  A group of widows, including myself (I don’t know how I knew they were widows, I just knew) was standing around the conveyer belt in baggage claim at the airport. The belt started moving and out came the “baggage”.  There were no suitcases, just piles of men flopped on top of one another, squirming around like giant scifi maggots as they passed before us. It was an awful sight.

I’m no Daniel when it comes to dream interpretation, but this one seemed like a no-brainer. Kristen and I had just come back from Williams Park where we spent the afternoon with the homeless.  It was the epitome of baggage and much more. There were a few disabled and elderly guys who tugged at my heart strings, but mostly drugs dealers and scary people. We sat with Pops as if we were on a church picnic… snacking on peanuts and french fries, tossing bits to the pigeons, picking out gang symbols (well maybe your church doesn’t do this). Pops was obviously a fixture as he was warmly greeted by everyone who passed. We asked lots of questions about where people go at night, where they go to the bathroom, do they skip from park to park or mark their own territories. 

One young man told us he was selling……he named two street drugs that I’d never heard of and then, surprisingly, looked at us with a twinge of something that might have resembled remorse. He said he knew it was wrong to be doing this and thought of stopping. But he knew someone else would do it anyway so why not get the profit for himself.  Funny, when he said that I felt a twinge of something that might have resembled remorse. I believe I have justified my actions before, using that same reasoning. The mother in me wanted to shake a finger at him, but I knew the drug dealer in him also had a working finger, and I reminded myself I was just there to observe.

About 3:00 Pops nudged me and drew my attention to the stage area. A church van was unpacking rolled up blankets and care packages.  They had a microphone and announced their gifts to the masses. People started heading that way and lining up. Pops told me to go undercover, line up and see how it felt. I did but was immediately asked by a “resident” if I was REALLY going to take stuff. Wow…..busted before I even got started! Pops said I should have worn rattier clothes, but I explained to him that these WERE my rattier clothes.

I have to say I was proud at that moment to be associated with the Christians, who were putting their faith into action, displaying the compassionate heart of Christ through their generosity. But then the scene changed.  Instead of passing out the gifts to the patiently waiting, the leader announced we’d have a chorus of Amazing Grace, which ran into four or five badly sung verses. I saw a few of us politely trying to sing along. Then there was another hymn or two that were less familiar. All this time the blankets and care packages were stacked in the background, hostages waiting for the end of these negotiations.

Then…… a sermon…..a long one………one that was hard for me to follow…… involving Bible characters I can’t remember.  Still everyone stood in line… staring with blank expressions (I think they were used to this drill)……as the blankets stared back. I wanted to shout out, “GIVE UP THE GOODS OR GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!” Gee, was I becoming absorbed into the collective…even with my good clothes?????

I had to walk away. Then Kristin and I vented our frustration with the well-meaning Christians and how we would have done it differently. But… we weren’t doing it.  And I don’t know anyone else who is. And I’m not sure they should really. The question is raised, when does Christian charity become enabling destructive behaviors?  You’ve asked yourself that when you’ve slipped a 20 to a man on the corner with a sign. Or maybe you haven’t .  I don’t know.  There are lots of questions.

New Adventure

So this was a very unusual week for me. I actually worked……..all five days!  By Friday night I was spent but my crisp new paycheck wasn’t. So today in Home Depot when I saw the round rug I’d been looking for since last January…..well, do you like it?

There was a tiny little moral dilemma rolled up in its Belgian threads. You see, I have been spending some time with Linda, who is the semi-homeless woman we met on the street in front of my house the night we went caroling. As you recall,  she walked around singing with us then came in for cider and presents. I remember thinking at the time……this MIGHT not be a good thing! But what do you do when a homeless woman appears on your doorstep during Christmas and wants to join in the fun? Uhhhhhhh…..

I’ve been giving her a little money here and there and some food and toiletries, and then reading online that giving handouts to the homeless is a bad idea. But she tries to work when she can (cleaning houses) and is living at a “no-tell motel” down the road. That seems to be a common practice of the impoverished. They can’t come up with first and last month’s rent and security deposit, so they pay a fortune to stay at a motel at a daily or weekly rate. Does that make sense?

Today I had lunch with Kristen, the young woman who had assisted Linda before, and “Pops”, a local semi-homeless man (moteler) who has been an outspoken advocate for homeless rights. Kristen and I are taking a crash course in Homeless Issues 101 in hopes of helping Linda and maybe others as well. Pops is taking us to Williams Park tomorrow where the seriously homeless hang out.  It will be an adventure on par with Alaska, I’m afraid.

So what’s the dilemma? Oh, you know. Just thinking how decadent it is to spend so much on a rug, when there are neighbors who can’t afford a floor. When I stand at the pearly gates, is St. Peter going to have a photo of my lovely new rug in the power point presentation…..the one entitled, “Why Should I Let You In?”

Talk about contrasts (see previous post)!!!!  I have all these beautiful THINGS to enjoy AND a full week’s work behind me.  I’m squirming!  The good little angel on my shoulder reminds me that Abraham and all the Old Testament guys were blessed with stuff from God (goat rugs and such) and He enjoyed watching them enjoy it. On the other hand, Paul and the New Testament guys apparently took on poverty as an example to us of the righteous living Christ expects.

Sheesh! I’m filtering. Looking for that comfortable place between the testaments. Too bad there isn’t a “Middle Age” Testament  between the old and new, like with people.  I’d be there about now.