Timothy

 Timothy, understand this:

“Now a true widow, a woman who is truly alone in this world, has placed her hope in God.  She prays night and day, asking God for His help.”

And Timothy, this will be true of widows, hope-in-Jesus widows, during your lifetime, past your lifetime, and in the year 2025.  I write this to alert you, you in your young years, to women, who with their whole heart, with their whole soul, with their whole capacity of hope, rely on God.  They pray, Timothy, for God’s decisions, next steps, cheer, answers, smarts — they pray for breath, for life.  They ask God for His help.  night and day.  They lay themselves down to sleep asking God to ease the way tomorrow, bring a friend, plan a joyful surprise tomorrow.  They raise themselves up asking God to hold them tight, speak a new living word, reveal Himself in obvious ways today. 

Hope-in-Jesus widows, know Him, Timothy.  Watch their devotion, learn about their simple pure faith, realize that for them, nothing matters like the promise of being in His presence and with their family forever.  This is their hope.  This is their focus.  This is why they pray for more more more of Jesus. 

1 Timothy 5:5

Change

 It’s not a new concept.
Concept?  How about reality. 

Change often comes by way of pain.  Or at least through discomfort. 

Cavities teach us to brush and floss.  Regularly. 

Traffic tickets teach us to slow down and stop.  Completely. 

Lessons, though brief, inflict their sting… and change. 

Strained relationships teach us to withhold judgement, step in other’s shoes, pay attention. 

Losses teach us to value what matters, thank God, find meaning and contentment. 

Life, though brief, imposes wounds… and change. 

Bad habits are plain irritating. 

Life situations, especially the what-just-happened ones, especially the done-to-me ones, especially the on-and-on ones, can bury and cover in 6 feet of pain. 

Life situations are plain painful. 

Jesus knows… literally… and so He sustains us, even helps us embrace pain so that none of it is wasted. 

One way to embrace pain is to hold out in hope.  Hooold out.  Which means refusing the give up.  Resisting the weary.  Believing the best.  Insisting on the wait.  Talking about the good.  Listening to the good.  Imagining the goodest good.  Praying for only good. 

Which prolongs the pain.  But promises worth-it change. 

As for me, as for all the pain, I will hold out for God’s good change. 

Gentleman

 What is a gentleman?
Ask a widow who once lived alongside a gentleman.  She will tell you that a gentleman, besides the goes-without-saying-opens-a-door-and-offers-his-jacket fellow, he also

– Fetches her bike from the rack.  Or just plain fetches
– Offers to carry the heavies
– Brings her a steaming cup
– Exchanges seats so she can see
– Swoops her suitcase off the baggage belt
– Walks her here, drives her there
– Suggests a game of cards or any game… with her
– Considers her considers, values her values
– Tables his phone to listen to her
– Introduces her to his buddies

A widow will quip a list for you because she notices that a gentleman is not easy to spot, at least by her.  At least for her.  She sees that there are gentleman for girlfriends and wives, sometimes for complete strangers, sometimes for someone who may be watching.  There are gentlemen for some someones. 

Maybe we are past a generation of kind, thoughtful selflessnesses.  Maybe this widow is way too sensitive, expectant, listed and spoooiled.
I mean, women can open their own door for crying out loud. 

But gentlemen, oh gentlemen, you lost gems, where are you?  Help me find you.  Or even better, find me.  Find and wipe the invisible off me. 

Golf

 I’m not an athlete; I do not have a coordinated bone in my body.  But I can spectate.  When I turn on a TV, it’s to watch a game, a match, a race.  Bill and I fanned it up together in front of the screen — coaching, analyzing, managing.  We knew how it should go and what should be done. 

Bill golfed, and if it wasn’t a blazer day, I walked the course with him, helped him push his cart and with his club choice.  Our boys joined us often.  The original family on the course.  Banter, competition, tacos on the 9.  Handicap holes, tee box decisions, shot advice.  Golfing together. 

Bill’s game grew weaker with his body.  But his mind remained in his prime, always believing he could score lower than he could.  He just needed another lesson, new clubs, more practice. 

Now, when I’m invited, I walk the course with one or both our boys.  Images of Bill’s swing, his excuses (“Ugh!  I looked up!”), and his stance walk with us.  I enjoy golf with them just as much because somehow, they bring him.  We still tease Bill and remember his game.  I’m so grateful to keep walking the fairways with the original fam.

Goodby

 This one is for me.  Because, tomorrow is BK day, our goodby day.  And because, for some reason I keep living Bill’s last day, I want to keep it here until I’m not here to keep it. 

It was our goodby day.  Though we had, over the weeks, left nothing unsaid.  “Pack slowly and move, Kath.” “I’m so so sorry for grumping as you were growing weak, Babe.  I’m so sorry.” “Remarriage is for company, right?  Not for love, right?” “Hug my dad when you get there; hug my brother too.” “Please keep my picture up.” Though we talked it all out, we hadn’t said goodby.
Our goodby day had arrived. 

Knowing Bill would soon be leaving, our sons came home.  My parents at our side.  Our sisters were on hand.  Our hospice family stood nearby. 

The morning broke with sun and singing.  We held a small worship service in our bedroom, reciting scripture, singing favorites.  Bill mouthed the words; I put a melody to them.  Bill lifted his bone-thin hand in praise; I sustained it. 

Bill requested a cheeseburger. 

And then he mantled our boys with profound directives: “Jordan, make sure you get Mom a AAA roadside assistance.  Jeffrey, take the sound system wiring through the attic.”

These are words on which to ponder and model our lives.

Entrusting his boys to these burdens, he closed his eyes and held my hand with waning strength.  I held his with strengthening strength.  I sang in his ear, I brushed his forehead, I cheeked his cheek, and I didn’t let go. 

“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Babe.”

Squeeze

“I love you.”

Squeeze

“Goodby, Babe.  I’ll see you before long.”

Squeeze

“Goodby.”
…

“Babe?  Goodby.”

…

My mom noticed first.  A deep breath, a short breath, no breath. 

I wept over this man.  I held him.  I kissed him.  I loved him.  I didn’t let go of his hand. 

And then I let go. 

The truck came.  The hospice folks and medical equipment left.
The boys held me.  We held each other.  They walked me back into our bedroom.
Empty.  Gone.  Over.  Finished. 

Goodby Bill.  YMF.  (You’re my fave.) I’ll always love you. 

Dogblog

 Here’s what I’m learning

About dogs:

• Dogs are the American way, the pursuit of happiness.  I know this because everyone seems to have one.  Eeeevery body.
• All things are toys.  Including me.
• Dogs love people more than people love people.

About living not-so-alone with a dog:

• A dog keeps me from becoming completely self-absorbed.  I have to feed him too, bathe him too, spend time with him too.
• I think I’m giggling more.  Did you just run full blast into the wall?  Are you chasing your tail?
• My dog likes me, which makes me think of my Bill, because Bill liked to be with me.  I like feeling likable.

Have you read this quote?  Jamie Anderson said, “Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love… love with no place to go.”

But… God always gives our love a new place to go.  Snoopy is here because Bill is not.  God provided a dog for my love to land.

Silly

Sitting on a park bench, she wonders what went wrong.  How it went wrong.  Assumptions.  A word that went awry.  A face that soured.  She meant the gift to be a blessing, but it became a source of stress.  How did that happen?

She tried to ease it over, apologize for… she’s not exactly sure what… but like silly conflicts do, they get sillier.  And silly hurts.  Which is so silly.  And without anyone to turn to, she found a park bench.  To sit.  And pray. 

Of course, it’s times like these when she feels his absence.  Her loss.  Everyone else has someone.  Has listening ears.  Has a processor.  Has perspective.  Has help to weather the silly.  Has… someone.  In pairs, they form a crowd around her.  A circle of pairs around a single.  And no one seems to notice but her. 

Jesus, she doesn’t know what to do.  How to make it better.  How to fix the silly.  She tried.  Without wise advice, or a good-sense shaking, or a heavy dose of encouragement, she park benches, waiting on You.  Help her deal with hurtful silly. 

Would-do

 On a trip he would:

Squeeze my hand through the turbulence

Walk the outside of the trail

 Hand me the wheel while he could binocular

Track down the ultimate local cheeseburger 

Check in while I waited

Deliver my morning coffee

Kick the tires

Jam to Pat Metheny jazz

Purchase the whole general store for me

Beat me at Bible trivia

Hold his breath through the tunnel

Squirt sanitizer in my palm

Study the map, check the forecast — again.

 

But this trip I:

Folded my hands through the turbulence

Walked the inside and outside of the trail

Forgot the binoculars

Ate the right-here-and-now salad

Checked in and coffeed myself

Purchased a simple Christmas ornament

Read some Bible details

Breathed through the tunnels

Managed with all-day hands

Followed the signs, noticed the clouds

Thought about all the things he would do.

 

Trips are different now.  I choose the flavor and eat the whole scoop.  I sing kinda quietly.  I checklist a few less or many less things.  I zoom through TSA.  I take the photos… of… landscape.

I trip in a new way.  New trips, new ways.  Which means I can’t help but remember what he would do.  I miss you, tripping husband.  I miss what you would do.

Hills

I lift up my eyes to the hills– where does my help come from?   My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.  Psalm 121

Surrounded by hills, or mountains really, or majestic masses that point to the highest heavens, the hold-my-breath hills, the only-God-could-have-done-this peak, a girl can know down deep where help comes from.  She has only to lift her eyes to behold the unquestionable evidence of an unseen God who is obviously seen.

And she knows again, this girl, where her help comes from.  Where it has come from.  Where it will come from.

The kindness, the compassion, the small acts of service, help me so much.  Where do they come from?   The people that God stirs to help me.  The people that God helps to help me.

But where does help come from to do the ordinary?  The maintain-the-house?  The get-the gas and groceries?  The pay the bills and keep the ledgers?  Where does my help come from?   Because… uh… there ain’t no one else around here.

Where does help come from to step, then string a zillion steps together, then move them a little faster?   And, while stepping, where does help come from to breathe and focus and not stumble?  Where does help come from to assess the course confidently and squash nerves?  Where does help come from to complete a race in the hills?

Just lift up your eyes, Kath.  Your help, your only help, the only One who can and does and will help, comes from the Lord, the maker of those crazy, beautiful, expansive “hills.”   If He made them, how little a thing, to help alone-you.

Training 2

 Run to win!  Paul says.

Was he talking to senior citizens?   Like me?   Win, Paul?   Are you sure?

I never thought of myself as a runner until my Kbear invited me to join her in a half marathon race.  Before then I just walked.  With nerves and trembling I did the race, but I mostly just walked.  Now, 5 trembling and nervous years later, I kinda think of myself as a sorta runner, which means lotsa walking steps.  I am 7 races down the road and about to start and finish my 8th race.  Eight half marathons.  Winning doesn’t happen when you’re a senior.  But what does happen, as a sorta runner, is lots of training — the win.

Paul says, “All athletes are disciplined in their training.  They do it to win.  …So I run with purpose in every step.  I discipline my body, training it to do what it should.”  Athletes and Believers.  In it for the win.  But first for the training.

The coolest thing has happened during this last training season.  Every dark morning.  The stars glisten.  The temps or wind or rain greet me out the gate.  And I step.  Then step.  Then step step step.  And as I step, I listen to teaching, preaching, stories, worship.  I discipline my body AND my mind.  Both are after the prize.  Fearing I might otherwise be “disqualified,” and longing to finish well, I train.

Here’s what I’ve noticed during the day.  Lyrics come to mind without music.  A broader concept of friendship causes me to call a friend.  I put scriptures to life-things like money and work and church and hardship and love.

Now I run with purpose in every step.  I’m a sorta runner, in it for the participation medal.  I’m a Believer, in it for the forever medal.  I train to win.

1 Corinthians 9:25-27

Check-in

 Year 2 check-in time.

Doctor:  Do you have a family history of heart failure?

Kath:  Well, yes.  My mom’s heart failed but has been revived.  My sister’s heart has failed several times.  And my heart is failed but rallying.

Doctor:  Are you on blood thinners or beta-blockers?

Kath:  I take prescriptions of conversations and prayer to regulate flow and block emotional pressures.

Doctor:  How often do you forget to take your medication?

Kath:  It used to be everyday.  But now I remember.

Doctor:  Do you have allergies to medications?

Kath:  Occasionally.  My eyes water a lot.  My throat will tighten.  Sometimes my legs seem locked.

Doctor:  Let’s review your social and mental history.  Are you married, single, divorced, separated.

Kath:  I like to say I’m married but separated.  But really I’m single now.

Doctor:  How many live in your house, including yourself.

Kath:  Snoopy.  Jesus.  That’s 3 of us.  Or really just one of us.  Me.

Doctor:  Do you smoke or drink?   Have you experienced stress, anxiety, depression?

Kath:  No.  Maybe.  Yes?   Is anxiety feeling nervous about hoping to find someone, anyone I know to sit with?  Is depression avoiding a beautiful friend’s phone call?

Doctor:  Have you noticed any changes to your overall health?

Kath:  Hmm…  I think so.  I answer phone calls now.  My giggles are more genuine.  They come from a true giggle-place.  I look forward to morning and my favorite cup of coffee.  I make a lunch date sometimes.  I don’t wish to die anymore.  That’s big.  Don’t you think?

Doctor:  Do you have a health goal?

Kath:  Yes.  I’d like to be completely content.  I’d like to check in and report that all is very well.  I’d like to talk about this goal without choking on more tears.  Do you think my goal is realistic?  Do you think I can reach it?

Doctor:   Prescription:  Continue with God.  Increase your dose as needed.  Check in with me next year.

Inventions

    If I could meet, hug and excessively thank and embarrass an inventor, it would be Mr.  Air Conditioning.  Or Mr.  Ice Machine.  Oh and must not forget Mr.  Automobile Tooshie Cooler. 

I hope these inventors have an award on their mantle.  They have saved my summer life. 

One invention saves me summer and winter.  Saves me any sinking day.  Saves me from forgetting.  Saves me for longing.  I owe one inventor vaults of gratitude.  Would someone hand Mr.  Voicemail a Nobel Prize?  Could we hold a parade down Main Street?  Down all the main streets?

Because on my phone’s voicemail storage are recordings of Bill’s voice.  He tells me again that he loves me, “Baby,” and he’ll see me tonight.  He loves you, Kath.  And if you wonder, just play it again.  Press play.  Today, tonight, next week, when you’re crying, when you’re not.  Summer.  Winter.  Pull up voicemail and press play. 

I’ve always loved his voice.  I always loved getting his messages.  Who knew the voicemail invention would save me.  Anytime. 

Thank you, Mr., Voicemail.  I mean thank you thank you thank you!  Because of you I can hear Bill’s voice.  He told me he loves me today.