$10

 "...and Lord, during this alone day, help me not to feel alone.  Help me sense Your presence.  Recognize Your presence.  See You in my day."

"Hmmm, she wants to see Me.  She needs to know again that I see her.  Bless her heart, Kath needs constant, daily reminders.

How shall I show My love today?  I know!  Kath loves a bargain.  I will save her $10.  That will thrill her.  If anything can rouse an out-loud hallelujah, it's a few dollars saved.  Yes, silly, but that's the way I made her.  Kath jumps to give Me glory when the price is lower, the discount is higher, the sale is half or more.  

And then, I'll arrange for a dear friend to call so that she can share the good news!  The God-story!  Both will awe that I know them well, love them so well, and am always right beside them.  They'll laugh, agree and glory together.  Perfect!"

"Dear Lord, thank You thank You!  I asked, and you answered.  You delight in my delight.  You know how thrilled I am.  I am!  And because of you.  Thank you for knowing me.  Thank you for loving me.  I love You!" 

 

Bark

 

I used to hate it when Snoopy barked at... anything.  A lady strolling her baby.  A jogger jogging with a jogger.  A delivery man.  A friendly neighbor coming up the walk.  A bird, a squirrel, a leaf!  Good grief!

People don't like barking dogs.  They don't.  

I'd scold him, pointy finger him, even clam shut his barker.  Once I bought a bark collar. 

The bark.  The annoying, loud... clambering... bark.

The beautiful, loud, clambering bark.  

Would you think I'd flipped a lid, if I admitted I welcome a whine?  A growl?  A flat out barking frenzy?

Noise.  Living, breathing, fully alive noise in a desperately quiet house.  Is welcomed.  Wanted.  Sometimes wished.  Now I bark along.  I join the noise and make more noise and like all the noise.   

The bark.  The beautiful, loud, clambering bark.

Tears

Tears are no respecter of shoulders.  They will splash a dear, always-ready shoulder or soak an awkward, barely-known shoulder.  They don't care about the passing of healing time.  They rarely provide a courtesy notice.  They refuse to be controlled.  They insist on their own timing.  They're unreasonably emotional and thrive on the surprise effect.  

Embarrassed, a tear-shedder first wonders, Where did these come from?  What prompted such a scene?  What happened?  It's just another Sunday.  Confused, she will slip away after a few apologetic words to... recover.  Hopefully.   

But wonder away.  Ask until the end of time.  Tears are not to be understood.   

After the last one dribbles from the corner, the brimming pool recedes, a tear-shedder will need a drink of water, maybe a Tylenol and a nap.  But a mysterious Heaven-cleanse rinses her heart.  An inexplicable Holy Spirit-balm strengthens her.  She knows that God sees and bottles each tear.  His shoulder understands tears, and tears respect His shoulder. 

 

The God of all comfort keeps watch over your weeping.  He gathers up all your tears and puts them in His bottle.  Psalm 56:8 

 

 

 

Mark

Lives leave marks.  On us. They leave a taste, an influence, a legacy, a mark.  They leave us shaped or changed in some ways. 

 

If the mark is made through a single encounter: a visit, a letter, a book, the imprint can be seen. The mark made a noticeable difference.  It may have even prompted a choice or at least a perspective. 

 

But if the mark is etched over years, many together years, the mark engraves itself into the original life.  Infuses itself.  Though the mark makes more than a difference, it cannot be so easily seen. Because the life changed along the way, was shaped along the way, was expanded along the way. The mark became the life. 

 

When the mark has made its final indent, set its last gem, then the life can more easily recognize the mark. 

 

He readily forgave, he trusted a promise, he sought scripture, he gave extra, he loved people, he said yes, he put God first.  The life wasn’t quite like this— but the mark — and now it is. 

 

A mark has been engraved on this life.  

Wonder

A widow often wonders how it’s done. How other widows do it.  How other widows manage grief and single life and looking straight into a lonely future.  How do they do it? 

And so, their antennae seeks signals.  Their radar transmits entail. 
Their systems are on high alert for clues and cues from crews of widows. 

Widows will ask:  When did your husband leave? Do you live alone? Are you ok?

Widows will observe: can they function, do they join, have they laughed? 

Widows will notice: are they involved, do they serve others, are their homes aright.  Are they aright? 

Widows conclude that if they function, join, laugh, participate, serve and are flat out together… these widows don’t wonder.  They’ve been widows awhile.  They don’t think of themselves as widows.  They don’t look into a lonely future, they live a fulfilled now. 

They don’t wonder how it’s done.  Anymore. 

People

Summer is a time to people.  Summer likes to people around water, at cafes, on back porch swings, along paths, under tents, with lemonade or crisp green salads.  Summer goes with people. 

People people.  Two or more join two or more.  For a summer outing. 

But summer is not necessarily a time for persons.  Persons typically stay home where cool is, where a glass of ice water will do just fine, where fans stir air over beds, where TV offers scenery, where neighbors, at the mailbox, are the people.

Persons don't have people to suggest summering.  Or to plan summering.  Or to do summering.  Single persons just don't summer well.  They need people.

So thank you to all the people who swoop up this person and help her summer.  She needs people.  

Company

 

Company  Friends  Guests  

Hosting  Serving  Cleaning

Music  Food  Flowers

Talking  Sharing  Listening  

Laughing  Agreeing  Discovering

Connecting  Caring  Relating 

Lingering  Hugging  Leaving

Musing  Contenting  Soaking

Waiting  Planning  Anticipating

Company  Friends  Guests   

Calculator

Calculators save us number numbskulls.  If we didn't worship Jesus, we might worship our other savior, the calculator.  

Our checker, our correctioner, our estimator, our briefer, our budgeter, our planner -- we need you, oh calculator!

Times 10!

We need you in our junk drawers, office drawers, backpacks, contractor belts, purses, and study halls. 

And on our phones.

Everyday.

Unless... unless there is a handy alive and breathing Mr. Calc.  The man who can, in a breath, add, divide, square the root, estimate the total, or solve for X while the number numbskull is still digging up a pencil to carry the 2.   

Just ask what it would cost, how long it would take, the resale value after 10 years of use and 10% depreciation.  With 10% interest and 10% service fee.  And 10% markup.  Mr. Calc can tell you, faster than you can think to punch in numbers, never mind the formula. 

Some number numbskulls, though they once relied on a live-in Mr. Calc, must resort to the drawer-in calculator at some point.   They sure miss Mr. Calc, who, by the way, could cribbage or blackjack or domino anyone under the table.  But the junk drawer version does the job -- thankfully.  

We number numbskulls gladly reach for his replacement. 

Secondthought

 

Just head straight to the table and wait in complete pleasure.

That's what widows used to do.  They didn't give it a second thought.  They placed their order with the man who headed straight to the counter, stood in line, payed for it, received it.  The widow reserved seating -- her only job.  And smiled when he brought the food.

Now widows give it a second thought.  If they want food, a ticket, a room, they second think it.  They first think it.  

On second thought, they realize that unless they stand in line, get to the counter, make the transaction, they will miss out.  Everyone else will be hamburgering, movieing, baseballing, and she will be stuck in thought.  

First thoughts don't come naturally.  But thankfully, after a few embarrassing skipped thoughts,  after a couple awkward moments, widows learn, on second thought, to head straight to the counter. 

Bold

"But He knows where I am going.  And when He tests me, I will come out as pure as gold.  For I have stayed on God's paths; I have followed His ways and not turned aside.  I have not departed from His commands, but have treasured His words more than daily food."  Job 23: 10-12

Can I be bold, like Job?  And state his faith and claim for myself?  Out loud?  Written down?  In public?  That bold?  

Because I so completely resonate with this scripture.

The test -- not as severe as Job's.  Nowhere near.  But crushing nevertheless.  Yet, here I am, not crushed, but refined. 

God's paths are my commitment... my life.  Straight down the walk.  No veering.  No doubting.

God's Word -- treasured words.  Repeating, reflecting, reminding myself of life-sustaining words.  Rescue words.  More life-giving than food.

So I will be Job-bold.  I will make his claim and for myself.  God knows where I am going.  He will not fail me, which is why I can be so bold.  

Week

Lonely weeks are quiet, still, empty.  No one meets for chats or pops-over during a lonely week.  All lonely weeks can offer is dull TV chatter, dog barks and growls, clattering ice from the machine, distant airplane drones overhead.  And the I'm-lonely thoughts.  Which swivel around in the swivel chair.  Which drip tears in the coffee in the swivel chair.

A brave lonely week asks a gal to call a relative, who doesn't answer, requires a response to volunteer, starts an exchange with a well-loving sister, and finally sends a girl off to church.  A church where she's sure she knows a few.

But remember it's lonely week.  The ones she expected, aren't there.  Amid several possibles, no one is there.  

Lonely week takes her back to her usual church, her usual know-no-one church, in desperate search of a someone, anyone, to chase the lonely away.  But remember it's lonely week, and this church...

Hold everything.  Lonely week squeezes a gal into a seat just beside.  Nancy.  Hello Nancy, I'm Kathy.  What?  You've just started a group?  For women?  Three blocks from my house?  You're inviting me?

Here's my number, and my lonely week.  I'm coming.  I'll be there.

And now a new not-lonely week is starting.  Not-lonely week has some somebodies in it. 

Leah

 

First baby name:  Reuben because "the Lord has noticed my misery, and now my husband will love me."

Second baby name:  Simeon because "the Lord heard that I was unloved and has given me another son."

Third baby name:  Levi because "surely this time my husband will feel affection for me, since I have given him three sons."

Fourth baby name:  Judah because "now I will praise the Lord."

On the fourth time, the fourth round of hormones and sleepless nights and excruciating labor, the fourth son, Leah -- dejected, unloved Leah-- turned her sadness to the Lord.  She had been looking to her husband, her children, her fertility to satisfy the deep longing to be noticed.  To be wanted.  To be... loved.  

Just to belong, to have a place, to have significance.  Oh Leah... your aching heart. 

...and aching because, really, a heart can't be bolstered or even sustained in family.   Created-by-God, given-by-God, intended-by-God, bless-ed family.   An aching heart finds solstice only in Jesus.  An aching heart can endure because it knows down deep that He fills the longing.  

So praise the Lord, oh my heart.  Fill me. 

Genesis 29-32-25 

Lunch

 

Lunch.  I like lunch.

Ladies meet for lunch.  Littles giggle at lunchtime.  Lovers woo over lunch.

Lunch can be late, usually doesn't last long, and is rarely lavish.

Lunch is a time for both lament and laughter.  Ones linger in its list and land in its light.

He invited me to lunch sometimes.  Often on a holiday, like Memorial day, when we leisured together over burgers and lemonade.  We listened and learned more about each other.   Until it was time to leave, or at least until a lull.  Lunch let us lean in and lay in.  Lunch lended us like-minded life.  

I like lunch.  Still.  Especially lunch and its leftovers.  Leftover lettuces and delectables.  Leftover light-hearts.  Leftover lingerings and longings of Bill -- my lunchable.  

Day

"Have a great day,"  said the cashier offering a receipt.

Said the receptionist after the last question.

Said the neighbor over the fence.

Said the robot -- whenever and whatever for whomever. 

"You too."  What does your good day look like, I wonder.  Does it look like a 5 star rating?  An acclamation or promotion at work?  A hug from your teenager?  A tasty, quiet, paid-for meal?

Does a great day mean that you feel energetic?   That your problem is resolved?   That you were invited to the group?

Does a great day mean spirits are high?  Tasks are accomplished?   A  plan is on the calendar?

What does my good day look like, I wonder.  What day do those kind folks, with the standard good-by, want me to have?

They don't know it, but they want me to enjoy the blue-sky backdrop to my front-yard trees, my lovely, very simple home with its 2-picture walls, my lap-seeker cuddly dog, a call from our son, dark roast, ice cold, Psalm 3, a 4-miler, and restful, blissful sleep.

A great great day!

Sunday

Sunday means the whole world holding hands walking into church.  Means every arm wrapping each other while worshiping and praying.  Means being squished to the side as couples take up isles and doorways.  Means walking through a parking lot... alone.  

Means nobody notices.

Nobody notices.

Nobody notices what Sunday means.

Means breathing thick oxygen just to stay the tears, inside the car, before heading home.  

Means wondering if what Sunday means is worth it.

And then, Sunday means a phone call from a mean-it friend.  Sunday means a drop-over from a mean-it neighbor.

Sunday means the God of Sundays sees, cares, notices.  Means He sends, He messages, He loves.  

Means Sunday must be worth it.  

Pressure

 

"God must have something for you to do.  He must not be finished with you yet," said the dear friend to the widow.  With sincere compassionate eyes and a heart to back them up.  With a swing at this-may-or-may-not-be-good theology.  But with sure intent to comfort.    

"There must be a new calling on your life."

"Ok."  I'm waiting.  I'm looking.  I'm willing.  Am I missing it?  This new calling?   Will it descend from Heaven like Jesus coming on the clouds?  Will a preacher speak directly to me during his sermon?  Will I read it in a paragraph from a library book?   Is it to be a librarian?  A missionary?  A never-in-a-million-years somebody?

The pressure is on.  

Should I make plans?  Should I fill out applications?  Should I alert the prayer chain?   Should I fall to my knees in prayer myself?  Morning noon and night?

The pressure is on.  On top of sorrowing, on.   The pressure to find my new calling because God must not be done with me yet.  

And then, from nowhere (ok, somewhere, but an unexpected somewhere) God said to my heart, "All I want from you and for you, the something for you to do is... to love Me.  That is your call." 

Whewwwww!  I can do that.  I can love You, Lord Jesus.  With everything I am, I can love You. 

The pressure is off.  I can stop waiting and wondering and searching.  I am smack in the middle of His call.  Love God, Kath.  Just love Him.  The pressure is off. 

  

Growing

 

Some quiet tree branches ran into me. 

The kind that sport light green glowing tips.  The kind that stretch further than they used to.  The kind that must be noticed.  The kind that cannot not be spotted.  The lovely, tender, healthy, fragrant kind.

The tree branches have grown.

Have I grown?

Do I brighten the way?  Have I stretched beyond my used to's?  Am I noticeable?  Because I'm healthy?  And lovely?  And fragrant?  Is my heart tender?

Am I learning?  Listening?  Accepting?  Trying?  Am I thriving?

If I run into someone, I hope he sees my quiet branches have grown.   

Recovery

 

After experiencing a near accident, recover by stopping the spin, breathing deeply, exhaling slowly, rethinking carefully, processing completely.  It might take an afternoon or 6 months or more months, but recovery will recover.

After a muscle injury, recover by massaging correctly, applying wraps promptly, consulting a professional appropriately.  It might need a physical therapy session, but recovery will recover.

After a relationship breech, recover by asking God for wisdom, smashing pride, acting with humility, offering love.  It might take heal-the-wound time, it will at least send a willing message, hopefully recovery will recover. 

After a long run of many miles, recover by taking a leisure walk, stretching every which way, nutritioning and sleeping.  It might take a day or two, but recovery will recover.

After losing a husband, recover by talking about him, honoring his life, cherishing his memory, sharing and helping others.  It may take a long while, to eternity while, but recovery will recover. 

After recovering from recovery, plan to recover again.  And again.  Because life is recovery.   

Race

 

He would have been there.  Sooner than there.

He would have driven me there, walked me to the start line, held my things while porta pottying, gone back for my coat I decided not to bring, held my stretching leg, reminded me to start my tracker, kissed me blessings and joy, and promised to be there.

He would have camerad my finish, woo hooed my pace, medaled my neck, caught my relieved tears, and swung me off my tired legs.  He would have been there.  Sooner than there.

He would have listened to race talk:  the slip I nearly took, the gels I forgot, the racer along side me, the killer hill over the bridge.  He would have been there. 

Others were there.  A dear friend.  A blessing daughter.  ...He wasn't there.  For some reason I looked for him, on the rope, through the crowd, beside the snack table, at the finish line.  He wasn't there.

But he would have been there.  

 

Small

 

When does small feel small?

 When small is caught in a current of people exiting a stadium.

When small wears heels just to see the preacher from half way back.

When small step-stools to retrieve anything above the plates. 

When small crawls between the gallery's legs to watch the drive.

When small peeks through the fence instead of over it.

When small slides the seat all the way forward to reach the pedal.

When small looks like a bump, not a mound, under the covers. 

When small bikes around the neighborhood on a 16-incher. 

When small runs a path through the Redwoods whose tops cannot be seen.

This is when small feels small.

But he never made small feel small.  He snatched her hand. wrapped her shoulder, looked her straight in the eye, offered her the best view, bent his knees for the picture, and added tall to small.  Small didn't even notice.

He never made small feel small. 

Insurance

"My husband died; I'm a widow," says the sweet-talking woman who is obviously not grieving or just pretending.  After all it's a commercial.  And we don't want to send the radio audience to the bereavement gutter.  

Well, this radio audience can hardly audience.    

"But I'm grateful we were prepared.  It was fast, affordable and a hundred percent online.  Apply in minutes and get same-day coverage.  I don't know what we would have done without it."  

Not... "I don't know what we'll do without him."

Not... "Insurance can never replace my husband, his love, his presence."

Not... "There is no coverage that can cover a loss of a husband." 

Which, perhaps, are not appropriate life insurance adds.  But is a woman's voice, however thankful but devoid of sorrow, and rather a little-too-I'm-OK, appropriate?

If the audience is like this audience, it turns the radio down.  Or off.  It can't bear to feel the unbearable.  

Life insurance is without saying, a blessing.  Something to purchase.  Something to keep a life from splintering into shards.  Not something to highlight at the expense of an insured-but-no-longer-here husband.  Not for this radio audience. 

Politics

 

Let's talk politics.

Not many want to talk politics.  Or baseball.  Or grief.  We'll talk baseball and grief later. 

Let's talk politics. 

Though I don't know how to talk politics since I've never been the politics-talker.  I've only been the politics-listener.  Sort of.  But now I'm on a mission to stay informed and talk when I need to.  Caught to.   I've asked friends and politics-talkers and the Internet about how to get balanced, makes-sense news.  How do I form views?  Who do I trust?  What is important?

So I practice politics talking with our son.  He listens to me acronym my way to a federal department issue.  He listens to me whatshisname to a debate debrief.  He listens to me Prop 50 or 86 or pick-a-number to new legislation.  I muddle, fumble, jumble my way through a politic talk.

He pauses, searches for words and gently replies, "What?" 

Though I may be in over-my-head mode, I'm also in try-with-dread mode.  To talk politics -- with an understanding son.  And to make proud the former politics-talker. 

 

Tissues

 

Widows need tissues for their issues.

Not the spring grass or common cold or ear plug issues.  Widows need tissues for the wish-yous.

And Squish-yous.

And Kiss-yous.

Many times throughout the day, widows wish for her man's company, for his listening ear, for his perspective, for his... love.  They reach for tissues when the wish-yous aren't reachable.

Many times throughout a week or a month, widows feel squished into expectations, or roles, or emotions, or bravery.  They grab for a tissue when the squish-yous keep grabbing. 

So so many new, bewildering, unyielding, ever-adapting issues confront widows.  We forgive the issues.  They never planned to issue this life.  They never planned to create wishes and cause squishes.  But they do.  And so...

Widows need tissues.

Many times throughout a year, widows receive kiss-yous from family, from cards, from scripture, from memories.  They welcome kiss-yous when they need company or perspective.  They sense kiss-yous when they're affirmed or supported.  They capture kiss-yous, intended and unintended, that say, you are important, even so.  They collect kiss-yous that somehow lighten the issues.  And then quick -- they need tissues again.  

Cribbage

  

 

He wasn't particularly good at games.  Especially new games or thinking games... especially as he got older. 

Early on he could backgammon, hearts, pinochle anyone at the table.  He could poker his face and shoot the moon. 

But later he would only Mexican Train, Bunco, Uno and only in slooooow motion. 

Except for Cribbage.

Run and hide if he proposed a game of cribbage. Or play it for fun, not for competition. Think of it as an exercise, quality time together, a TV alternative.  But do not plan to win.  Just munch the popcorn, choose your cards and prepare to die. 

So today, when she played a friendly game of Cribbage with her Cribbage friend, and won, she did a little victory dance. A dance she made up because it was the first time she'd danced a Cribbage dance or experienced a Cribbage victory. 

And she thought of him, of course, dancing with her.  He's proud, since he taught her.  She did it. She found the 15s, claimed the nobs, reached the finish line first.   She won a Cribbage game.    She won!   

Message

Dear God,

I have a message if you please.  A message for and with whom You tinker in a workshop, eat Mexican food, and play golf these days.  A message for Bill, the one You took to be with You because You love him.

Tell him, I've made a few friends.  Not the raise-a-family-together kind, but the talk-about-Jesus kind.  He will be so happy to know that. 

Tell him my days are full.  Not the scramble-here-to-there kind, but the what-natters-most kind.  He will want to know that. 

Tell him I miss him everyday.  Not the stifling-can't-function kind, but the wish-you-could-experience kind.  He will feel relieved to know that. 

Tell him I'm trying new things.  Not the I've-moved-on-without-you kind, but the refreshing-tickle-my-fancy kind.  He will smile to know that.

Tell him I'm sleeping, moving, and continuing well.  Not the I'm-independent kind, but the I-want-to-honor-you kind.  He will be pleased to know that. 

Dear God, 

I have a message for my husband if you please.  Tell him these things are true because he prepared me for such a time as this.  

Amusementpark

 

Amusement parks turn parents into playful kids, grammas into goofy kids, and kids into kiddie kids.

Amusement parks walk the energy into tired, ramp the noise into screams, forge the vitamins into sugars.

Amusement parks shake the bills from the wallet (or pile them on the card), convince the resolve to weaken, fill backpacks with trinkets.

Amusement parks welcome a gramma to the party, surround a gramma with family, honor a gramma with pictures. 

Amusement parks make memories for grammas who need to make new memories.  Goofy grammas who need kids and laughing and fun and... life!

 

 

Billville

 

There are a few places that should have been named Billville. 

Because Bill either grew up there, went to school there, worked there, or claimed any of those there's.  He left his make-a-difference, his make-a-mark, his make-a-name.  And anyone who visits or passes through Billville thinks of Bill. 

Because he knew the locals’ hangs, the back roads, the family lore.  He knew the best burger, the trusted mechanic, the 6th grade teacher.  He should be the driver so the driver knows the best route.  He should be the decider so the decider knows the best choice.  In Billville, all things naturally defer to Bill. 

Because Bill loved his places, his people, his food.  He loved his streets, his sails, his songs.  Bill lit up Billville and it lit up him. 

Bill’s wife remembers Billvilles and finds them still full of Bill.

Because he’s still in the orchards, the levees, the surf.  He’s still in front of the doughnut case, the ammo counter, the lumber stash.  He still knows him and them and it. 

She can’t seem to arrive in Billville, stay in Billville, leave Billville without thinking and talking and thinking and talking about Bill.  Because Billville is still full of Bill.  And she is still full of Bill. 

Money

I've talked about it before.   Money.   I try not to talk about it or think about it.   But money just wants to talk.  So ok.

Money likes to taunt me at every cash register,  sale email,  online cart,  and every end-of-the-monther.   It whispers, you can't ignore me.  You have to watch numbers.  You must care about me.  

Well rats.  I don't want to watch, balance, earn, stretch, save, give, pay, budget money.   I don't want to talk about it.

It quiets up a bit over weekly grocery totals and spring utility bills.  It's actually completely silent during littlebear ice cream outings. 

But projects!  It nearly shouts.  And gets me all muddled.  It says, "Whateryadoing?"  And then, "Doit!"  And then, "WhatwouldJesusdo?"  And then, "WhatwouldBilldo?"  And then, "Wait."  And then, "Whateryouwaitingfor?"

Just be quiet.  Just go away.  Just stop it.

La la la la la

But money just wants to talk.  

Rats.  

Usual

 

What will you have?

The usual please.

The usual grilled chicken, no onion.  The usual t-shirt, no jewelry.  The usual back road, no freeway.  The usual coffee, no tea.

The usual row and seat on the right.  The usual parking space, toward the back.  The usual radio program, at 10.  The usual family petition in the rocker.  

The usual Monday, the usual people, the usual tasks.  No turns, or unexpecteds, or try-this's.  

I'll have the usual please.  With a side of joy.   Don't overcook the meat.  I had to chew tough meat last time.   I prefer the usuals.  The usuals sound good and go down good...

Usually. 

Restoration

Tim Keller:  "... the resurrection means not just that you get some kind of spiritual consolation for the life that you've lost, but you get the restoration of the life you've lost.  In fact, you get the restoration of the life you never even had but wanted. "

"There's a kind of death in the midst of life that you experience more and more as time goes on, and that is when you lose something in this life, it seems irretrievably lost.  ... and as the years go by, it just crushes you.  

"But listen, not if the resurrection is true.  The resurrection means not just a consolation, but the restoration. 

"If the resurrection of Jesus Christ is true, and you believe in Him, you're not going to miss out on anything.  Because the future is unimaginably wonderful."

"And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love."

Romans 5:5 

Tears.  

Bill, we still have a retirement, and grandchildren and adventures ahead of us.   Not missing it.  Because Jesus restores all things. 

Stuff

 

Stuff.  Collect it.  Pretend to need it.  Hoard it.  

All the while not notice it.  

Because stuff hides in cabinets, closets, attics, garages. 

And then stuff becomes stuffy.  

Stuff steals space from end tables, bathroom drawers and basement floors. 

Husband stuff... moves in and takes over.   Wives know that husbands need their man stuff... gadgets and gizmos in kitchen cabinets. Tinctures and powders in medicine cabinets.  Pens and more pens and more pens in office cabinets.  Hammers and cables and whatchamacallits in garage cabinets.

When husbands clear out, his stuff stays put.   Stuff that wives didn't collect, don't need and didn't hoard.  Or board.  Or stored.  

Since the husband has been gone for awhile, she begins to ponder his stuff, his man stuff, and wonders if she can move in and take over.  Will he mind?   Will he still love me?  Will he be sad?  

The wife isn't sure so she strikes a bargain.  How about if I toss the expired stuff,  store the maybe stuff, and consolidates the main-man-stuff.   How about that?

The wife starts with one single narrow drawer.  She pauses.  Then she sorts through another.  That's all for today.  Eventually, with bolstered courage, she tackles the garage stuff.  Move over she says in her heart.  Then out loud.  Then with gusto.  Move over.  

And now wife stuff has moved in.  Taken over.  She hopes that's OK.  

 

 

Good

 

He's been through bone marrow transplant.  The day is good if he can walk some circles on his back patio.

She's had 2 knee replacements.  The day is good if she can forgo the pain meds til bedtime.  

Her husband left her and their son.  The day is good if she can get dinner, fold the laundry and read him a story .

Their mom unexpectedly passed.  The day is good if two young adult daughters can make a smart decision.

Their kids won't talk to them.  The day is good if they get a two-word text. 

His wife is depressed.   The day is good when she can lift her head and smile. 

 

Her husband died and left her lonely.  But when she thinks of others, every day is very good.  

 

Spring

It's spring, and here's how I know.

The dog prefers bare floor.  The sourdough over proofed.  The fan is on high.  The grass is long.  The pilot light is out.  The throws are shelved.  The butter is soft.  Shorts for morning runs.  Cool water for after showers.  Salads for lunch.  Cold brews for treats.

It's spring, and here's how I know.

Bright morning is coming.  The day has a plan.  A friends wants to walk.  A song resonates.  The gospel of John is speaking.  Goals are on track.  Hearts are at peace.  I'm looking forward... to spring.

I haven't known the last couple springs.  They came.  They went, I think.  I didn't know.

But

It's spring outside.  And it's spring inside.  Me.  I know. 

 

Hole

 

"GrandmaKath... you fill a hole inside my heart."

Oh, littlebear.  You have it backwards!  You fill a hole inside MY heart!  A cavernous hole!  A real gap!  A lonely pit.  And you, your letter today, your hugs on other days, your texts and calls on still other days, cushions the hole in my heart.

You don't even know yet, about a hole, about how a heart gets ripped into a bottomless hole.  Your few young years expose you to words, and the occurrence, and a little of the sad.  But thankfully not the tear.  Thankfully not the hole itself.   

On the other hand, even littlebears experience heart-holes.  When a best friend moves away, when a mommy or daddy say unkind words, when a grandpa... dies.  These things muddle littlebears. Their hearts feel quivered, bruised, gloomed.  They can't really talk about it.  They don't know how to talk about it.  But a littlebear heart-hole is real too. 

So, if I can fill a hole in your heart, oh... let me fill it!  Let me smile up, happy up, laughter up your heart.  Because that fills mine too.

Someday you will know the fill you were and will always be to the hole in my heart.  Someday you'll know that this grandma was in great need, and you were what she needed.  You filled a hole.   

Tip

To tip, or not to tip, that is the question.  It never used to be the question.  For me.  

Because I didn't hire the roofer, the plumber, the installer.  I didn't pay the restaurant bill.  I didn't gift the service worker.   I didn't think about tips. 

But now I think about tips.  And who to tip, and what to tip and how to tip.  Every screen, every receipt, every we-do-accept-tips notice asks me to tip.  It's a big, confusing question.  For me.  

A couple of times, my ashamed face gave me away when our son asked if I tipped.   Uh... no.  Whoops.

A couple of more recent times, my proud face gave me away when he asked if I tipped.  Of course!

Tipping is the question.  I go to bed thinking about tips.  How much is 10%?  How much is %20?  How much is the right %?   Do I tip a cup of black coffee?  Isn't he paid for that?  Do I tip a bid that came in on target?  Didn't we agree on that?  Do I tip so no one sees me select "skip" on the screen?  Do they care about that?

Should it be a matter of quality service?  Should it be a matter of extended effort?  Should it be a matter of expectation?  Should it be a matter of budget?  Should it be a matter of generosity?  Should it be a matter of prayer?

I need my tipper.  But here I am trying to answer the question about...  tipping.  

Crusoe

 

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe

I learned to look more upon the bright side of my condition, and less upon the dark side, and to consider what I enjoyed rather than what I wanted; and this gave me sometimes such secret comforts, that I cannot express them; and which I take notice of here, to put those discontented people in mind of it, who cannot enjoy comfortably what God has given them, because they see and covet something that He has not given them.  All our discontents about what we want appeared to me to spring from the want of thankfulness for what we have. 

Defoe's expose' strikes me completely still.   Don't-blink, don't-breathe, don't-flutter still.  

When I can finally move, I'll start by saying, Robinson Crusoe, thank you for your words.

God, thank you for what I have. 

Computer

Computers are machines.  Cold, hard metal with teensy parts, various ports, slick surfaces, keys and buttons.  If they're old, they're like the dusty jacket, tucked behind all the others, that hasn't been worn in years and probably never will be again.  Newer jackets, the ones in front, are more modern.  They're made of breathable fabric with grommets for chargers and sleeve pockets.  Plus they're faster -- to put on. 

The old, desk-top jacket has got to go.  It's taking up space.  It's just getting... older. 

But who can do it?  Who can box up the jacket that the whole family has used at one time or another?  That a guest has used for a quick location or order or check-in.  Whose deep pockets are stuffed with notes and photos and files and personal data?  Whose very hang-from-the-hanger form reminds you of its owner?  Does anyone have the heart? 

No one slips it on anymore.  No one needs it anymore.  No one wants it anymore.  It has to go. 

Today I erased Bill's old desk-top computer.  The cold, hard metal, warm, familiar Bill-jacket.  Today tears spilled on its lining.  Today I mused over the folders and excel sheets and... photos.  Today I bowed my head in its folds.  Soaked up its whispers.  Savored its scent.  And then I clicked the erase, zipped up the front, and said goodby.  Another goodby.

Computers are metal and warm and oh so many memories. 

Home

 

Lord, through all the generations you have been our home!  ... For you, a thousand years are as a passing day, as brief as a few night hours.  You sweep people away like dreams that disappear.  Psalm 90: 1 & 5

A near 20 dwellings have called themselves home to me.   Including the current, not-quite-home-yet home.  They call themselves home.  Do I call them home?  

Most heard many footsteps, saw shoe prints, found scattered dirt clods.  Most baked cookies, fed kids and dogs, displayed handprints.  Most washed towels, cars, dishes, patios.  Home. 

Yet for God, a few houses, in a few cities, in a couple states are as a passing day in the life of "home."  He sweeps dwellings away like dreams that disappear.  A favorite chair, a sunny window, a full bookshelf, a pillow, a willow tree, a porch swing.  A husband.  Are here today, but not one day.  

Because 

God is our home.  He is like the puppy's wagging tail, like the family photo on the wall, like the pot roast spread on the faded tablecloth.   

Homes and people are swept away.  And that is why... 

I call God home.  

Purpose

 

Widows ask, What is my purpose?  They want to know.  Everyone feels a little lost without someone to serve, a place to contribute, recognition, significance.  Everyone feels a little lost without a purpose. Widows are everyones.

Well, yes, widows take soup to a neighbor, care for littlebears, listen to problems.  They make an extra call, they pray for extra help, they share an extra... dollar, stamp, blanket.  But, they need a purpose.

Widows volunteer for a committee.  They step in for a caregiver.  They take over in an emergency.  They fill a need.  But they want to know.  

Widows say yes.  They say yes again.  They say yeses all day.  Every day.  But, what is their purpose?

They used to be a wife.  Some have had children.  Some have had a career.  -- Purpose.  They didn't need to know then.  

But now widows host a get-together.  Now they scoop littlebears from school.  Now they sign up for cleanup.  Now they expand a turn-out.  Usually by themselves.  They need purpose.  They want to know.   

They this they that.  

They here they there.

They make they take.

But, what is my pur...

...pose... I think I know.  

Selfie

 

OK.  Steady.  Hold on. 

Whoops... turn the camera around.  Wait, I can't reach the button.  Can you reach it?  Are you smiling?  OK. 

Click

But just one click because even one was every ounce of wobbly effort from a stretchy stretch.  Just to get one. 

Never mind smiles, tinged with strain.  Never mind an unintentional center on a nose while faces fall off the frame.  Please don't notice the fuzzy focus or the woman's behind in the background.  Try not to raise your eyebrow.  Avert those tell-all eyes.  This is the best I can do.

I'm terrible, horrible, no good, very bad at selfies.  It's not my fault actually.  Every part of me is on the short side -- my arms and especially my hands, supposedly designed for this purpose before time began.  This is why others happily take the phone from my wrenched grip and turn out something professional.  Of course.

Selfying is another of the many not-my-job, now-my job, jobs.  When it comes to selfies, Bill was the arm, the steady, the fun behind them.  Centered, posed, captured -- Click.  Easy.  

When a post includes a selfie, know that it represents sweat, turmoil, and a gumby stretch for your complete pleasure.  Go ahead and hee haw.  I do.

I lost my selfier.  He was good at it.  I'm not so good at it, but still selfying.