Loop

 The loop is quiet.  A narrow, paved strip wraps around a rather large pond that provides a safe haven for wildlife and solitude for exercisers.  The first signs of sunrise silhouettes the houses on the east hill.  She paid special attention on this early morning, one of the first since the winter weeks of shoe-soaking puddles.  She could look up and over and out as she jogged the loop.

For effect, the shadowed water released a mist that rose and floated toward her.  The stars hadn’t completely faded yet.  Some stay put until she notices.  Until she gasps and lifts her praises.  She passed the bench that afternooners use.  She rounded the corner to the hill that temporarily stole her focus.  But there, in a small alcove, a lone duck drifted on the glass.  He depicts the peace that she, as a widow, feels.  Somehow he personifies the calm in her heart.  As she strode on, her neck turned over her shoulder to keep him in her vision longer.  To keep him as a morning gift.

Just as the loop connects, mountains to the west, with laces of snow, and by that time lit in the morning sun’s glow, captured her completely.  She’s seen them many times.  They never fail to speak creator God.  Mighty God.  Majestic God.  She heard His voice.  The loop hears His voice.  They hear and recognize Him.

What could she say?  How could she possibly respond?  Brandon Lake sang a humble answer through her AirPods, “all that I have is a hallelujah.”  And so she thanked God, again, for the loop.  She praised His beautiful handiwork.  She thanked Him for the just-as-beautiful residing peace He created in her to be able to step, to walk a journey, to jog a loop.

Daydreams

Eggs Benedict — a sure choice.  Usually. 

    

Sometimes I daydream.  Some daydreams sprinkle twinkles on my day.  They put smile wrinkles round my eyes.  I can settle into a dream, in the middle of the day, about my Bill—‘s— quirks.  And smile the whole while. 

Bill would impersonate Bruce Bochy’s coaching voice, Phil Mickelson’s tip-of-the-cap, and my dad’s walk to church.  A pretend Bible tucked under his arm.

Bill talked to geese.  Who talked back to him.  They had conversations — in public. 

Bill played the trumpet.  Without a trumpet.  He puckered his lips and played taps and took requests. 

He needed at least 3 bathrobes in the closet, though he never wore one.  He also needed a half dozen pairs of slippers, all over the house, which he wore out. 

He struggled with menus.  Should he order the deluxe cheese burger or the chicken marsala?  After the difficult decision, he stared down every plate, as it passed to its table, and left with a severe case of menu remorse. 

Bill loved music and sang with Stevie Nicks, Boz Skaggs, and church worshippers.  But no one really knew which voice was Bill’s.  I think Bill didn’t really know.  Did Bill have his own singing voice?

Bill had to place the last puzzle piece,  swipe the curly top of the ice cream cone, touch the outside of the plane before boarding.

I’m so happy to have these dreams to dream.  So thankful for this man, his quirks and the long while smiles when I daydream. 

You were fun, and quirky, and fun.  I miss you, Babe. 

A gift from our hospice family

 The answer, I’m pretty sure, is no.  But let’s review.  Do you need help, Kath?

Do you:

• Sleep less than 6 or 7 hours each night, constant fatigue, or significant weight loss.    No, I wake up when Snoopy wakes up, which means I do suffer 7:00 bedtime fatigue.  Definitely no on the weight loss.

 

• Experience feelings of depression, anger, guilt or anxiety.    No, not angry, not depressed, just low on the happy.

 

• Remain isolated from friends and family.    No, I need folks.  I accept invitations and conversations and inclusions.  No.

 

• Overuse of drugs, alcohol, food, money, or gambling.    No.  I think I may be way too addicted to my family.  But that’s all.

 

• Inability to deal with day-to-day problems.    Uh, no?  Well, maybe?  No, if I can put the dealing off until tomorrow or next month.

 

• Feeling overwhelmed by other major life events.  This may include physical health challenges, a family member in crisis, another death, financial difficulties, or other life transitions.    No and Yes.  No, not at the moment, but yes to the event around the corner. 

 

Would you agree, Ginger — Hospice Bereavement & Grief Support Coordinator, that I don’t need help?   Thank you for checking on me these many months.  Thank you for emails that, though automated, scripted and impersonal, nevertheless remember me.  This last one is your way of gently saying that, unless I answer yes to the above, I’m good to go.  I will adjust and heal.  Goodby and have a good life.

The answer is no, only because of Jesus.  I will adjust and heal because of Him.  Jesus is my good life.  And yes, I need His help.

Littlebearday

 

We were there.  The call came; our Kbear was in labor; please come.  And so we pressed the speed limit over the too-long drive to be the first to meet our first and only granddaughter.  We were there.  We will never forget it because she is every ounce worth the remember.

Funny things pop out in the remembering.  Mom had labored, but Dad sprawled over the chair’s edges, exhausted.  Friends hosted us for the night, but their dogs tucked us in and slept with us.  And bathroomed with us.  Bill put out an all-alert-coffee-shop search for me, but apparently most new grandmas don’t need coffee because there were none to be found.

Today she is 10.  10!   Our littlebear is 10!  Happy Birthday to our littlebear from the birthday grandma and birthday grandpa.  We are both still as jazzed as day one.  She belongs to us!

For Gpa Bill’s sake, in case he needs a brusher-up, this is our girl:

She talks about you, Babe.  She “Oh Bother’s” after a Winnie-the-Pooh read, just like you.  She sneaks your green M&Ms and sprays silly string out her nose.   She’s a 9er fan and, especially, a family fan.  Just like you.

She’s absolutely beautiful.  Still as curly and girly, but would rather shoot the hoop than shake the pom pom.  She bakes and draws and sings and reads and runs.  She thinks she’s really good at all of that.  And, as we grandparents both know, she is.  She’s part child, part adult.  Part pretend and act-it-out, part no-nonsense and insightful.  Part fingernail polish, part tromp-in-the-creek.  Respectful, obedient, kind, happy — absolutely beautiful.

I know if you were with us, Babe, she would tightly wrap you around her pinky.  You would be at every event, 20 minutes early, in the reserved-for-VIP seats.  You would take her, pick her up, hang out while she skates, eavesdrop on her friend circles, buy that and two more.  You would take me to her party tonight, be the first through the door, swing her around, oooo over every present, and eat half her birthday cobbler.  For your sake, I will do that for you.  I will be the birthday Gpa and Gma.  I will celebrate this gift we’ve been given, to you and to me, for you and for me.

Ten years old.  She belongs to us.  We, you and me, belong to her.

Easter

Victor.  Have you heard of Him?  Do you know Him?  The walk is named after Him.  Victor Valley Trail.  The trail signs point to Him.  Lifetime loop.  The viewpoints behold Him.  Victor Vista.

He’s famous because,

There was a wooden cross that pained Him, killed Him, buried Him.  Victor volunteered.  The soldiers shamed Him, the title belittled Him.  But He stayed.

There was a grave that held Him a minute.  Though it meant to keep Him buried, it didn’t.  It couldn’t.  So He left it vacant. 

Victor left because,

There was a gal who needed more than her sins forgiven, more than an eternal beautiful home, even more than a family reunion — someday. 

She needs victory.  Right now.  On this earth.  In this place.  She needs victory over sad, over lost, over lonely.  She needs right-now-victory like breathing and stepping and believing and even laughing.  She needs Victor Himself to talk to her, comfort her, love her. 

Because Victor stayed on the cross, and left the grave, He has power to do anything.  He can give her victory now.  Right now. 

Victor stayed and left for her right-now victory.

Oh thank you, Jesus.

Prayer

 

 

Jesus, I miss Bill.  I just need him to know.  So…

Please find him right now and tell him I’m ok.

Put an arm around his shoulders and say, Kath loves you, so much.

Sit down on a grassy hill and share some of my days with him.

Peal a cloud cover back and spotlight me with our littlebears.

Sing a verse of  “I Will Be Here” softly in his ear.

Grab a stick and carve YMF (You’re My Fave) in the dirt.

Assure him that I think about him, wonder about him, imagine about him everyday.

Replay the dream I had of us flying together over the US.  See if he laughs.

Convince him that my driving skills are getting better.

Remind him that I’ll be there soon.  Please make sure he’s there to greet me.

Jesus, would you be with my Bill for me?  Please sweet Jesus, I pray, tell him I miss him.  Tears.  Tell him I love him.  Tears.  Tell him for me.  Tears.

Assignment

   

We have assignments.  Not the pencil, paper, show-your-work kind.  But the Bible, pray, do-your-work kind.

Work assigned by our Father and due on graduation day.

Some assignments you gladly accept like — serve your family.  Show them God’s love.  Be available to them, then be present for them.  Teach them.  Forgive them.  Help them.

Some assignments you sadly accept like — watch children leave your home.  Show them God’s grace.  Offer some funds, buy them an extra, assure them support.  Launch them.  Release them.  Respect them.

Then,

Some assignments you have no choice but to accept like — hold his hand, sit by her side, sing sweet songs, hold the phone near, tip the cup up.  Call the nurse.  Massage soles, count meds, swap pillows.  Watch, wait, endure.  Be brave.  Be strong.  Be patient.  For hours, maybe days, maybe weeks or months.

This assignment is the hardest to accept.  I know.  I know others who know.  We accepted the no-choice, courageous, say-goodby assignment.  We did our work.  It took more than helping and releasing; it took everything we had.

Will we get a sticker?  We think so.  We hope so.  But what we want is to say hello again, forever.

Stuff

   

If you are a widow, the best place to end a week, which was more like 2 to 3 weeks, is atop a bed that swallows you whole.  Everything, all the stuff that should be talked out (if there were a husband), the tweaks, the unsettles, the too-big-to-handles, slowly drain out the back end.  The fluffy covers  underneath deflate as they absorb confusion and hurt and grumbles.  Soon the fluff feels like concrete or as concrete as a mattress layered in pads and comforters can feel.  Which is not exactly concrete.  Except compacted stuff feels like concrete. 

Stuff.  The dog hears about it.  The walls, the journal, possibly the neighbors over the fence hear about it.  None of those seem to listen or care.  The pillow is silent.  The TV talks non-stop.  The phone prefers other matters. 

Husbands are for spewing, for understanding, for agreeing, for perspective.  Husbands care, maybe try to fix, or at least clean the kitchen while you pout.  Husbands are for… stuff.

If there is no husband, a bed with fluff will have to do.  A bed and Jesus and the promise of a new week with not so much stuff, or at least help stuffing the stuff away. 

Trips

 

 Trips like you to look forward to them.  They mark themselves on your calendar and watch you X over the days just ahead of them.  Trips promise sleep, adventure, connection, views, experiences, food, and memories.  They lure you toward them, mostly because of the people, your favorites, they promise.  You’d run their way if you didn’t have work, obligations, and all the regulars to X over first.

Trips are careful to help you prepare.  They remind you to tuck the park pass in, arrange for puppy care, fill the tank.  A trip usually includes a few rendezvous calls and texts, your favorite part because of those same favorites it promises.

Then, the trip arrives.  It says, it’s time.  Let’s go.  No more X’s.  All the X’s are marked.  Yippy!

The trip.  It’s such a diversion, just what you need.  It’s full of life, air, new breaths, just what you need.  It’s full of refreshed relations, catch-ups, new words and topics and learning.  It’s all what you need.

But trips are bad at endings.  They don’t mark or promise or prepare.  They don’t ease you back into the regulars.  They plop you down in your before-trip life, your alone life, your now-what-do-I-do life, and… disappear.  Suddenly the favorites are gone, the calendar is blank, the tank is empty.  They don’t even stick around to hold you while you cry.  They’re trips.  They only know how to enjoy then slap you on the back with an “attaboy.”  So harsh.

You’re the big girl.  You can say no to trips.  They will leave you alone.  Or you can enjoy the enjoy and know that once you’re home, with your new memory, another trip with your favorites will invite you before long.  Maybe someday their endings won’t be quite so harsh.

80

 80.

My new dad turned 80.  What has he done with all those years?   He’s loved hard and served huge.  He anythings for anybody.  He agrees, listens, encourages, yeses, supports, believes, assauges, reconciles.  That’s what he’s done.

80 is a big ol number.  It’s the biggest one in his original family, so he tells me.  His aortic valve is the strongest of them all, though not all that strong.  Yet God has granted him extras.

For me.

I hope that number gets bigger and bigger.  I hope he outnumbers me.  I may not pass him up, but I hope he doesn’t pass me by because I can’t imagine this figure-it-out life without him.  From where does my help come?   My help comes from the Lord the maker of Heaven and earth and of this helper father who helps me walk this road.  He walked his own road which is what helps him help me.

Happy birthday, best helper dad ever.  Bill and I both love you so much!   What an honor to celebrate you.