A brief history of the years before fifth grade will explain my innocence when entering fifth grade in Raleigh.
For the sake of brevity:
School history consisted of the first grade in rural Virginia in the late 1950's. Our school was a two or three room whitewashed wooden building with outhouses. The playground was dirt with all the customary play equipment. By today's standards they were death traps yet I do not remember anyone being killed or injured in any remarkable way. I could walk to the school from our house. I remember spring with the dogwood tree in our front yard and learning the story of the dogwood and the blood of Jesus. I remember winter with snow knee deep and school held as usual.
Second, third and fourth grade I was home schooled by my mother. My parents were missionaries to Ghana, West Africa. We lived
in the country outside of Kumasi, Ghana at a Baptist boarding school for local African teenagers. Our school materials were shipped to us by the Calvert Home School program out of the University of Maryland. The shipments included everything we would need including pens, pencils, paper, crayons, textbooks, teacher's manuals, etc. That program is in existence current day. We could have attended a local British school but my mother did not want us to get confused by the metric system nor to be subjected to the rigidity of the British way of doing things at that time in history. My brother started first grade and I went into the second grade. The Calvert School education was first class. I excelled in everything except math which was, coincidentally, my mother's weak subject. Our tests were sent on schedule to the United States to be graded and approved by a stateside Calvert School teacher. When we returned to the U.S. we were a grade ahead in every subject except math. The concentration on history, geography and reading put both my brother and myself ahead of the schools at home. ( Re-reading this and I decided to add a couple of things I remembered about my time in Africa while watching a documentary recently.) My reading and comprehension were excellent. I read everything I could get my hands on and I listened to adults talk. No credit to me, that I listened, in those years children did not normally join in or interrupt adult conversations. I remember when Adolf Eichmann was captured. I remember the front page of the newspaper. I knew he was a bad man and I had a feeling of relief and happiness that he had been captured. I sensed that his crimes were heinous. I remember hearing that missionaries were being murdered in neighboring African countries and that the weapon of choice was hacking them to death with a machete. I had a low level of fear and apprehension with that knowledge in my head. It has stuck with me throughout my life. Death by machete? It sounded horrible. If any of the adult missionaries were concerned about safety I did not hear it discussed. Daily life was not impacted.
It is with this background that I entered Fred A Olds elementary school in Raleigh, N.C. There were several hundred students in grades one through six, I believe. It was a two story brick building with children everywhere. I am sure my mother took us to sign up and to an orientation. My class had at least twenty students of whom. all but one other student, had ben raised in the city of Raleigh. The other student was a girl who had lived in Alaska all of her life. She and I spent a long time adapting to our new world a school. I was innocent and she was more innocent than I, if such a thing was possible. It did not take long for the boys in the class to pick upon that tidbit. One boy in particular took great pleasure in writing words in the sand that I did not understand. My confusion threw him into spasms of laughter ending with him repeating the written words out loud. My mother explained each word to me. She remembers that I was bewildered and wondered aloud why anyone would use those words. With no reference of vulgarity at that point in my life those words were simply dictionary words plain and simple. We walked to school. There were crossing guards at the intersections. I loved having crossing guards. They added another layer of mystery to my growing collection of mysteries.
I have snippets of memory from that school year. Our classroom was on the second floor. The floors were wooden, the windows were tall and wide paned. We could look out to the front of the school and onto the street in front. I remember this because soon after I arrived I noticed that one of the girls in my classroom stood apart. Not comfortably so but more as a curiosity. I thought she would have given anything to be part of the crowd. I learned that her mother was famous and left her daughter with the grandmother who lived in Raleigh. Once in awhile her mother would come to the school to pick her up during the school day. I believe her mother was the famous, at that time, singer named Anita Bryant. You know how children whisper and gossip. It must have been awful for this girl. I did not get to know her and she remained aloof. She was a bit heavy-set. I learned years later that Anita Bryant did not approve of being overweight. There have been many times when I have see Anita Bryant's daughter sitting in our classroom knowing when she left to meet her mother in the car parked along the road that she had at least twenty pairs of eyes following her every move. Everyone wanted Mrs. Bryant to get out of the car. During my year at Fred A Olds that did not happen. Indeed, if I remember correctly, her daughter was taken out of class by her mom and moved away with her mother or a nanny or something. Sad story and my first lesson in the myth of money buying happiness.
My fifth grade year was the only year we were to live in Raleigh. Writing about it brings back more memories than I knew were knocking around in my head. One of them is impacted my life until this date and time in my life. I will save it for later. Enough for now.
Raleigh - we lived in a campground, an elderly couple's home and two houses that we rented. By the beginning of the sixth grade we moved again.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Contemplative Innonence
The wisest choice I have made in many a year came on the heels of quiet contemplation innocent of manipulations or contrived efforts on my part to impact the outcome.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Snow in the Trees
I was ten the year we returned from a three year mission trip to Ghana, West Africa. It must have been in late summer. We arrived in New York City. I have a vague memory of my father toying with the idea of living in New York and going to school. I have one of those memories that are old enough to have lost their color. The memory is in black and white. We were with my mother and father looking at an apartment. The next memory I have is our drive down the country two lane road that led to my paternal grandparent's home. They were tobacco and cotton farmers. My father thought it would be fun to surprise them. We were the ones surprised. Both of my grandparents had gone to South Carolina and had their teeth pulled and been fitted with dentures. They were not home when we arrived. My father did not enjoy losing the surprise factor and my grandparents arrived back home with mouths throbbing with the intrusion of new teeth. In retrospect my father's failed surprise and my grandparent's surprise of new teeth in tender mouths plus the appearance of the five of us fresh from Africa must have made for, in the adult world, an awkward day.
My father helped my grandfather with the farm for a short while. They became tired of each other and my father decided we would move to Raleigh. No jobs, no place to live except for the kindness of at least one family that took us in for a short time. I remember doing homework in their home.
My dad bought camping equipment and we moved to Umstead Park just outside of Raleigh. I cannot say how long we camped out, went to school, did our homework by lantern light and slept in tents. I know we ended up in a small, white house for a brief period of time and moved from there to a larger brick home near the N.C. State University campus. The weather was getting cooler as fall and winter took the place of summer. There are so many memories from that period of time but the best memory of all was a winter surprise of momentous proportion.
Darkness fell one evening without a hint in my ten year old mind of what might be happening outside the back door. I remember my mother calling us to go outside. I remember she was excited. I remember stepping outside. A porch light was on and probably a streetlight was nearby. After a brief adjustment to the darkness I remember noticing that the air was filled with flakes falling one after the other to the ground. I was taken off guard. My mother was laughing in her own excitement of watching each of her children respond to her one word, "SNOW"! Snow? A thrill swept through me. I tilted my head toward the sky, stuck my tongue out and let the flakes fall onto it as amazement flooded me. The snow deepened. My mother made snow cream and let us dress for further adventures in that wondrous, silent downpour of big, fluffy snowflakes. I remember looking up into the falling snow as the streetlights and the light from the windows of our home cast patterns of shadow and light across the yard. I remember feeling happy in a deep, personal way. We were home!
My father helped my grandfather with the farm for a short while. They became tired of each other and my father decided we would move to Raleigh. No jobs, no place to live except for the kindness of at least one family that took us in for a short time. I remember doing homework in their home.
My dad bought camping equipment and we moved to Umstead Park just outside of Raleigh. I cannot say how long we camped out, went to school, did our homework by lantern light and slept in tents. I know we ended up in a small, white house for a brief period of time and moved from there to a larger brick home near the N.C. State University campus. The weather was getting cooler as fall and winter took the place of summer. There are so many memories from that period of time but the best memory of all was a winter surprise of momentous proportion.
Darkness fell one evening without a hint in my ten year old mind of what might be happening outside the back door. I remember my mother calling us to go outside. I remember she was excited. I remember stepping outside. A porch light was on and probably a streetlight was nearby. After a brief adjustment to the darkness I remember noticing that the air was filled with flakes falling one after the other to the ground. I was taken off guard. My mother was laughing in her own excitement of watching each of her children respond to her one word, "SNOW"! Snow? A thrill swept through me. I tilted my head toward the sky, stuck my tongue out and let the flakes fall onto it as amazement flooded me. The snow deepened. My mother made snow cream and let us dress for further adventures in that wondrous, silent downpour of big, fluffy snowflakes. I remember looking up into the falling snow as the streetlights and the light from the windows of our home cast patterns of shadow and light across the yard. I remember feeling happy in a deep, personal way. We were home!
Monday, August 1, 2016
A Ramble
Many times in the past couple of weeks I have sat here trying to put something in writing. Each time I lost my way. If this were paper I would have a trashcan full of crumpled pages. Tonight is a ramble night. I'm gonna ramble.
Leaving a friend's at night I often am drawn into reverie of one kind or the other. The apartment buildings, full of families going about their business, and the streetlights casting shadows on the pavement draw me towards a place of melancholy. The moon shows herself as I pull out of the parking lot. It hangs a little over the skyline. If there has been rain the sounds of hundreds of small frogs hidden in the marshy woods behind the apartments combine in a rhythmic, loud, incessant croaking. I am tempted to chunk a rock over into the nearby woods. I know the sounds will go silent the moment the rock lands. Time will pass. At some point a brave few will begin their croaking again. Within seconds of the clarion call the cacophony of croaking will return.
I once spent an entire night beside a beautiful shoreline south of St. Pete, Florida on an island of great beauty and solitude. We had no tent and had packed very little for the week-end. My daughter was two years old and sleeping in the car. The night seemed quiet and calm. Gentle waves slapped up onto the shore. As they pulled back into the bay I heard a delightful tinkling. As they came in from the bay I heard a delightful tinkling.
The evening began to lose it's charm. Where was the anticipated breeze blowing in from the bay? I was exhausted. The air was warm and humid. Mosquitoes flew in targeting my sleeping daughter. I fought a battle with them for most of the night. The tinkling sound created by small waves as they hit the shoreline began to annoy me.The predictability of wave in, wave out annoyed me. I began waiting for the waves, listening for the tinkling, obsessively marking the time between the coming in and going out. What could be tinkling with every wave for an entire night? At long last the sun came up shining on the blue water of the bay, palm trees lined the shore, the mosquitoes disappeared and a soft breeze began to blow. The gentle waves and tinkling continued. I walked towards the water, looked down and saw the source of the tinkling. There were hundreds of cochina on the sandy shoreline. They were alive, tiny, pushed up and out of the sand when the waves flowed in and covered with the sand as the waves pulled away. They tumbled over each other sending out a light tinkling sound with each wave.
Morning revealed a breathtaking world. Warm bay water, shallow for a long way out, gentle waves and a welcoming sun drew my daughter and I into the water where we remained for several hours. The torturous evening was forgotten. At that time in my life and in my daughter's life we lived in bikinis, our tans became deep, her hair faded from blonde to white. For a moment, a precious moment, life was sweet. The restless, self-destructive part of me held back allowing a reprieve before the coming storm.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!
Leaving a friend's at night I often am drawn into reverie of one kind or the other. The apartment buildings, full of families going about their business, and the streetlights casting shadows on the pavement draw me towards a place of melancholy. The moon shows herself as I pull out of the parking lot. It hangs a little over the skyline. If there has been rain the sounds of hundreds of small frogs hidden in the marshy woods behind the apartments combine in a rhythmic, loud, incessant croaking. I am tempted to chunk a rock over into the nearby woods. I know the sounds will go silent the moment the rock lands. Time will pass. At some point a brave few will begin their croaking again. Within seconds of the clarion call the cacophony of croaking will return.
I once spent an entire night beside a beautiful shoreline south of St. Pete, Florida on an island of great beauty and solitude. We had no tent and had packed very little for the week-end. My daughter was two years old and sleeping in the car. The night seemed quiet and calm. Gentle waves slapped up onto the shore. As they pulled back into the bay I heard a delightful tinkling. As they came in from the bay I heard a delightful tinkling.
The evening began to lose it's charm. Where was the anticipated breeze blowing in from the bay? I was exhausted. The air was warm and humid. Mosquitoes flew in targeting my sleeping daughter. I fought a battle with them for most of the night. The tinkling sound created by small waves as they hit the shoreline began to annoy me.The predictability of wave in, wave out annoyed me. I began waiting for the waves, listening for the tinkling, obsessively marking the time between the coming in and going out. What could be tinkling with every wave for an entire night? At long last the sun came up shining on the blue water of the bay, palm trees lined the shore, the mosquitoes disappeared and a soft breeze began to blow. The gentle waves and tinkling continued. I walked towards the water, looked down and saw the source of the tinkling. There were hundreds of cochina on the sandy shoreline. They were alive, tiny, pushed up and out of the sand when the waves flowed in and covered with the sand as the waves pulled away. They tumbled over each other sending out a light tinkling sound with each wave.
Morning revealed a breathtaking world. Warm bay water, shallow for a long way out, gentle waves and a welcoming sun drew my daughter and I into the water where we remained for several hours. The torturous evening was forgotten. At that time in my life and in my daughter's life we lived in bikinis, our tans became deep, her hair faded from blonde to white. For a moment, a precious moment, life was sweet. The restless, self-destructive part of me held back allowing a reprieve before the coming storm.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!
Sunday, July 10, 2016
And so it began...
So, a new life has begun for us. My husband's illness has been progressing for well over five years. It began with subtle symptoms, puzzling changes that could be explained by age, long hours fishing at the pier, my husband's long term and severe depression and a myriad of other reasons we all come up with when normal begins to slide slightly off kilter. His legs were tired. They did not hold him up for an entire day of fishing. He seemed a bit more forgetful as he made decisions at times that did not make sense when compared to his past decisions.
I will attest right up front that I was full of anger and resentments towards this husband of mine. I did not respond to his initial observations about his body or the touch of fear I heard in his voice at times. This was a man whose choices often brought extreme chaos into our lives. So I listened with half a heart and suggested that he rest more rather than fishing or looking for bait for hours and hours at a time. I don't blame myself. The only reason I was still around was that the God of my understanding...Jesus...was clear with me on what He wanted me to do and that was, one hundred percent of the time, "love him (my husband)" and so I stayed in the marriage. It is tempting to paint myself as a long suffering wife and take a deep, meaningful sigh as I speak of staying in the marriage. I won't dwell on it but my issues and broken places warped me into a woman who could not be married in any reasonable way so I have come to understand that my husband and I had far more in common than I dreamed at the time.
My relationship with Christ was growing, slowly and with a great deal of resistance on my part. It seemed love was the single most important part of that relationship and my marriage was God's plan for my life until death parted us. This pissed me off. I was struggling with my sense of loss, the pain of unfulfilled expectations and a strong case of entitlement to a "fair" hearing from this God of mine. But when I prayed and asked what I should do about this painful marriage I always heard the same two words, "love him". Looking back I can see how I was being changed into the woman I am today. God was doing a work in me so that His plan and His love for my husband could be fulfilled. My grand prize has been finding out that I can, without anger or resentment, "love him".
And, that brings me up to current day and our new life.
The illness Robert has is a slow, slow process of losing part of the frontal lobe of his brain. It is called "frontal lobe atrophy". In the past five years he has lost the ability to walk at times and walked poorly at other times. His mind has been clear and then confused. He has been in a rehab/nursing home twice in order to be rehabbed to improve his motor skills. Many tests have been done and we have often wondered what was next. My own health has been a problem and I have had two surgeries on my wrists related to helping Robert get up when he began falling. The progression of the atrophy has moved so slowly that we did not catch on when it sped up.
We recently ended up in the emergency room because Robert had suddenly lost the use of his legs and he was frightened. This did not last long but was enough for us to seek medical attention.
This time the doctor did not admit him. He told us that unless there were new symptoms there were no further tests to be run and no defensible reason for admitting Robert to the hospital.
We asked this doctor to give us the truth about what on earth was happening to Robert. He did. He explained that the good days would become fewer and the bad days more frequent. He explained how this illness can impact other parts of the body and for that reason far more serious medical events could occur. After a bit of conversation he told us that, based on his experience and the medical data associated with frontal lobe atrophy he believed Robert has about a year to live. Of course he stressed that his statement was not exact. Other factors could work to give Robert more years but based on his medical opinion we should act as if one year was our reality.
Boom! We were blown into a new life in a few seconds time. Shell-shocked by the news we drove home as if we had gone to the emergency room on firm, steady pavement and were returning home on an unstable and dangerous road.
A visit with the family doctor confirmed the emergency room doctor's diagnosis. Again, he stressed that no one can predict for certain but, based on his opinion, Robert should get busy living and doing what he loves while he still has the ability.
This is our new life. Our new reality. We are still coming to grips with the news. I have no idea what Robert will choose to do as regards getting on with life. Depression is a wicked mental illness. It strangles dreams and convinces us that there is no hope. This may be what will determine how Robert chooses to spend his time. We may end up watching t.v. and taking small forays from the house.
I have no idea how to negotiate the months to come or what happens next. I know one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. I am just gonna love him and participate with him each day. God's plan has won the day. I love Robert and I'm not mad about it. That one sentence sums up the love God has for me and the depth of change He has made in my heart.
So, I am burnt out from writing all of this stuff. I'm going to do a wee bit of random writing before signing off.
I dyed my hair with the huge help of a friend of mine. The grey is gone. I have a younger look. Both Robert and my grandson wanted me to dye my hair. I am glad and they were right.
It is hot outside. I will be 65 years old in September. The knowledge makes me dizzy. 65 years old. Unfreaking believable. I planned to be a wiser older woman when I got to this time in my life. I have arrived a bit worse for the wear and a wee bit wiser.
65 is just a number. I can get medicare and that ain't so bad and I can look time after time for my glasses or ipad or pocketbook or clean clothes to wear and I can find them all in the oddest places. At times I stop to wonder what crazed person is moving my stuff around. I was going to arrive at this age with long, grey hair and a slender body. Blew it! Big time!
More to come if you are sticking around....peace!
I will attest right up front that I was full of anger and resentments towards this husband of mine. I did not respond to his initial observations about his body or the touch of fear I heard in his voice at times. This was a man whose choices often brought extreme chaos into our lives. So I listened with half a heart and suggested that he rest more rather than fishing or looking for bait for hours and hours at a time. I don't blame myself. The only reason I was still around was that the God of my understanding...Jesus...was clear with me on what He wanted me to do and that was, one hundred percent of the time, "love him (my husband)" and so I stayed in the marriage. It is tempting to paint myself as a long suffering wife and take a deep, meaningful sigh as I speak of staying in the marriage. I won't dwell on it but my issues and broken places warped me into a woman who could not be married in any reasonable way so I have come to understand that my husband and I had far more in common than I dreamed at the time.
My relationship with Christ was growing, slowly and with a great deal of resistance on my part. It seemed love was the single most important part of that relationship and my marriage was God's plan for my life until death parted us. This pissed me off. I was struggling with my sense of loss, the pain of unfulfilled expectations and a strong case of entitlement to a "fair" hearing from this God of mine. But when I prayed and asked what I should do about this painful marriage I always heard the same two words, "love him". Looking back I can see how I was being changed into the woman I am today. God was doing a work in me so that His plan and His love for my husband could be fulfilled. My grand prize has been finding out that I can, without anger or resentment, "love him".
And, that brings me up to current day and our new life.
The illness Robert has is a slow, slow process of losing part of the frontal lobe of his brain. It is called "frontal lobe atrophy". In the past five years he has lost the ability to walk at times and walked poorly at other times. His mind has been clear and then confused. He has been in a rehab/nursing home twice in order to be rehabbed to improve his motor skills. Many tests have been done and we have often wondered what was next. My own health has been a problem and I have had two surgeries on my wrists related to helping Robert get up when he began falling. The progression of the atrophy has moved so slowly that we did not catch on when it sped up.
We recently ended up in the emergency room because Robert had suddenly lost the use of his legs and he was frightened. This did not last long but was enough for us to seek medical attention.
This time the doctor did not admit him. He told us that unless there were new symptoms there were no further tests to be run and no defensible reason for admitting Robert to the hospital.
We asked this doctor to give us the truth about what on earth was happening to Robert. He did. He explained that the good days would become fewer and the bad days more frequent. He explained how this illness can impact other parts of the body and for that reason far more serious medical events could occur. After a bit of conversation he told us that, based on his experience and the medical data associated with frontal lobe atrophy he believed Robert has about a year to live. Of course he stressed that his statement was not exact. Other factors could work to give Robert more years but based on his medical opinion we should act as if one year was our reality.
Boom! We were blown into a new life in a few seconds time. Shell-shocked by the news we drove home as if we had gone to the emergency room on firm, steady pavement and were returning home on an unstable and dangerous road.
A visit with the family doctor confirmed the emergency room doctor's diagnosis. Again, he stressed that no one can predict for certain but, based on his opinion, Robert should get busy living and doing what he loves while he still has the ability.
This is our new life. Our new reality. We are still coming to grips with the news. I have no idea what Robert will choose to do as regards getting on with life. Depression is a wicked mental illness. It strangles dreams and convinces us that there is no hope. This may be what will determine how Robert chooses to spend his time. We may end up watching t.v. and taking small forays from the house.
I have no idea how to negotiate the months to come or what happens next. I know one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. I am just gonna love him and participate with him each day. God's plan has won the day. I love Robert and I'm not mad about it. That one sentence sums up the love God has for me and the depth of change He has made in my heart.
So, I am burnt out from writing all of this stuff. I'm going to do a wee bit of random writing before signing off.
I dyed my hair with the huge help of a friend of mine. The grey is gone. I have a younger look. Both Robert and my grandson wanted me to dye my hair. I am glad and they were right.
It is hot outside. I will be 65 years old in September. The knowledge makes me dizzy. 65 years old. Unfreaking believable. I planned to be a wiser older woman when I got to this time in my life. I have arrived a bit worse for the wear and a wee bit wiser.
65 is just a number. I can get medicare and that ain't so bad and I can look time after time for my glasses or ipad or pocketbook or clean clothes to wear and I can find them all in the oddest places. At times I stop to wonder what crazed person is moving my stuff around. I was going to arrive at this age with long, grey hair and a slender body. Blew it! Big time!
More to come if you are sticking around....peace!
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Unraveling
The time finally came for me to unravel. Every message in my psyche is geared to surviving, standing strong, enduring the unendurable. Over the years I have managed to meet that expectation to a greater or lesser degree. There have been times when I sensed myself slipping towards an abyss. There have been times when I pulled myself along inch by inch fighting to meet the expectation programmed into me before I could fully speak.
I did not know I had options, choices or the freedom to change an unyielding legacy. I learned to adapt. I learned to hide behind one mask after the other. I was attracted to people and situations that kept my self-esteem low and my survival skills on high alert.
Years have passed. I have been sober a long time. I have been drug free for a long time. I have allowed myself to seek psychiatric help for a long time. I am not the same woman I was years ago. Yet, I have continued to experience extreme stressors in my life. I believed I was condemned to the burden of an unyielding expectation that I could bear anything no matter the harm done to myself.
This year that belief system has been challenged. My mental health and my faith have caused me to look at my behavior. Friends have pointed out my Achilles' heel of a false belief that I could do all things.
Today the first crack in my armor began when I was at the doctor's. I was exhausted, out of resources, terrified of what would become of me and how I would manage my responsibilities. I could not see my way out.
For those of you who have been in that position you know the fear that comes with loss of control. Complete and utter loss of control. I could not think of who would look after Robert were I to be hospitalized or unable to regain my composure. I was sick with a virus that would not go away and my husband was diagnosed with an incurable neurological illness that had been ever so slowly taking part of him away for over five years now.
I cried and cried. My doctor wisely shot me up with an antibiotic and a steroid and sent me to see my psychologist.
The steroids kicked in, the love of doctor's and my friends, the many prayers pouring my way began to lift me up. I sensed myself regaining a bit of strength, a ton of humility and gratitude beyond measure.
Little did I know that I would soon understand the grace of God in bringing me to my knees at the perfect time. This post will end now and I will begin a new post. A new post that is the beginning of a new reality in my husband's life and in my life. Were it not for unraveling, being humbled, resting and trusting God this new time to come would have broken me. God is good. He is wise. He is love. His mercies endure forever and I will praise His name for eternity.
I did not know I had options, choices or the freedom to change an unyielding legacy. I learned to adapt. I learned to hide behind one mask after the other. I was attracted to people and situations that kept my self-esteem low and my survival skills on high alert.
Years have passed. I have been sober a long time. I have been drug free for a long time. I have allowed myself to seek psychiatric help for a long time. I am not the same woman I was years ago. Yet, I have continued to experience extreme stressors in my life. I believed I was condemned to the burden of an unyielding expectation that I could bear anything no matter the harm done to myself.
This year that belief system has been challenged. My mental health and my faith have caused me to look at my behavior. Friends have pointed out my Achilles' heel of a false belief that I could do all things.
Today the first crack in my armor began when I was at the doctor's. I was exhausted, out of resources, terrified of what would become of me and how I would manage my responsibilities. I could not see my way out.
For those of you who have been in that position you know the fear that comes with loss of control. Complete and utter loss of control. I could not think of who would look after Robert were I to be hospitalized or unable to regain my composure. I was sick with a virus that would not go away and my husband was diagnosed with an incurable neurological illness that had been ever so slowly taking part of him away for over five years now.
I cried and cried. My doctor wisely shot me up with an antibiotic and a steroid and sent me to see my psychologist.
The steroids kicked in, the love of doctor's and my friends, the many prayers pouring my way began to lift me up. I sensed myself regaining a bit of strength, a ton of humility and gratitude beyond measure.
Little did I know that I would soon understand the grace of God in bringing me to my knees at the perfect time. This post will end now and I will begin a new post. A new post that is the beginning of a new reality in my husband's life and in my life. Were it not for unraveling, being humbled, resting and trusting God this new time to come would have broken me. God is good. He is wise. He is love. His mercies endure forever and I will praise His name for eternity.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Sleeping With Cats
Yes, it is true! I spent the last couple of nights sleeping with two to three of my four cats. I fell asleep on the sofa. I woke up with Max on my chest in a deep sleep and Zeus asleep with his head in my lap. Kitty Kitty was asleep on the back of the couch close by my head. Tigger was in another room ignoring us.
At times Tigger will come close by and schmooze with me when the others are busy. Often I turn and find him staring at me intensely through the lens of his large, orange eyes that match his equally orange coat of fur. He is skittish and yet craves to be close on his own terms and in his own time. He will drape himself over the top of the couch placing one paw delicately on my shoulder as he sleeps.
I am a dog person. It's true. All four of these cats are adopted. I love them yet I am a dog person. I want a dog. My lifestyle does not leave room for the attention a dog needs but does leave room for the felines of our home. They are independent, opinionated, quick to judge and slow to forgive. Except when they are not that way, and they set that schedule, and they become soft, cuddly, possessive, demanding lap space, neck space, head scratching time, and my complete commitment to staying in the same position until their time is done and, you guessed it...they set that schedule. I have become, without malice or forethought, a cat person. They are perfect for this time of our lives. It must have been divine intervention.
As I write this the grey cat is asleep on the table behind the laptop, the orange cat is asleep at my feet, Max, the adventurer, is outside and curled up on a step snoozing and observing the neighborhood and the Siamese, kinda sorta Siamese, is slacking in a chair near me. I am surrounded by snoozing, feline love. I need it. They offer it. For now, until tonight, when they become possessed by the spirit of ferocity, chasing one another, waiting for a chance to pounce on each other, leaping over chairs, sliding on the slick, kitchen floor, crouching around a corner with their backsides arched into the air and their tail hair flared out as the tail snaps back and forth. Their backside begins to swing in a slight side to side motion. The intensity is palpable. The pounce is quick, quiet, effective and the victim's loud meow a reward for the victor.
It is a day later and after midnight. I went outside to call Max home. Wherever he had gone it took him awhile to come running to me. The moon was and still is, I assume, full and bright. A wind had come up since I was outside earlier in the evening. The night evoked a yearning in me. I do not have a name for it. Max is a black cat. He moved towards me blending with shadows then visible on the pavement as he passed through a patch of moonlight. Branches swayed to and fro in the warm late night wind. I scooped Max up into my arms nestling his head under my chin, nuzzling his warm cat hair while murmuring my love of him into his ears. I was rewarded with a soft purring sound. As I stepped up the deck steps I glanced in through the living room window into two pair of cat eyes watching my every move, anticipating this nightly ritual of the door opening, Max sliding from my arms into the living room, the door closing as these cats of mine and I head to their food bowls. Late night feed and maybe some cuddle time on the couch or not. It is their decision. Anyone who attempts to cuddle a cat who does not welcome it gets what they deserve.
This tiny evil thought of how much a puppy would humble these arrogant creatures passes through my head. It is enough for me that I have the secret knowledge of how to gain payback should I choose that option. I pretend that knowledge evens the playing field.
At times Tigger will come close by and schmooze with me when the others are busy. Often I turn and find him staring at me intensely through the lens of his large, orange eyes that match his equally orange coat of fur. He is skittish and yet craves to be close on his own terms and in his own time. He will drape himself over the top of the couch placing one paw delicately on my shoulder as he sleeps.
I am a dog person. It's true. All four of these cats are adopted. I love them yet I am a dog person. I want a dog. My lifestyle does not leave room for the attention a dog needs but does leave room for the felines of our home. They are independent, opinionated, quick to judge and slow to forgive. Except when they are not that way, and they set that schedule, and they become soft, cuddly, possessive, demanding lap space, neck space, head scratching time, and my complete commitment to staying in the same position until their time is done and, you guessed it...they set that schedule. I have become, without malice or forethought, a cat person. They are perfect for this time of our lives. It must have been divine intervention.
As I write this the grey cat is asleep on the table behind the laptop, the orange cat is asleep at my feet, Max, the adventurer, is outside and curled up on a step snoozing and observing the neighborhood and the Siamese, kinda sorta Siamese, is slacking in a chair near me. I am surrounded by snoozing, feline love. I need it. They offer it. For now, until tonight, when they become possessed by the spirit of ferocity, chasing one another, waiting for a chance to pounce on each other, leaping over chairs, sliding on the slick, kitchen floor, crouching around a corner with their backsides arched into the air and their tail hair flared out as the tail snaps back and forth. Their backside begins to swing in a slight side to side motion. The intensity is palpable. The pounce is quick, quiet, effective and the victim's loud meow a reward for the victor.
It is a day later and after midnight. I went outside to call Max home. Wherever he had gone it took him awhile to come running to me. The moon was and still is, I assume, full and bright. A wind had come up since I was outside earlier in the evening. The night evoked a yearning in me. I do not have a name for it. Max is a black cat. He moved towards me blending with shadows then visible on the pavement as he passed through a patch of moonlight. Branches swayed to and fro in the warm late night wind. I scooped Max up into my arms nestling his head under my chin, nuzzling his warm cat hair while murmuring my love of him into his ears. I was rewarded with a soft purring sound. As I stepped up the deck steps I glanced in through the living room window into two pair of cat eyes watching my every move, anticipating this nightly ritual of the door opening, Max sliding from my arms into the living room, the door closing as these cats of mine and I head to their food bowls. Late night feed and maybe some cuddle time on the couch or not. It is their decision. Anyone who attempts to cuddle a cat who does not welcome it gets what they deserve.
This tiny evil thought of how much a puppy would humble these arrogant creatures passes through my head. It is enough for me that I have the secret knowledge of how to gain payback should I choose that option. I pretend that knowledge evens the playing field.
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