God Knots

Blessed as I am, I'm not gonna lie.  It's been a bit of a struggle to look forward to the holidays, this year.

Due to all of our crazy schedules, we voted for an early Thanksgiving.  At the last minute, I invited my Cooper brothers (and their precious Cooper spouses) to crash our Haney Happy Thanksgiving Dinner. You wanna know why?  All you have to do is ask Wise King Solomon.  He knows almost everything.

In Ecclesiastes, he talks of a cord that is not easily broken.  You know the verse.  You've heard it quoted many times at weddings in reference to the relationship between husband and wife in unity with God.  Though I absolutely love the symbolism and have staked my own marriage on the message... in truth, ol' Solomon's words have been taken out of context.  Instead of matrimony, he was con-templating the futility of "meaningless things", such as having no one to share life's blessings and toils.  He specifically wrote of a man who was all alone, who had no children or brothers.  Solomon tells us that although "two are better than one", it's the cord of three strands that is the strongest.

I agree with Solomon.  God doesn't mean for any of us to do life alone. From the cradle to the grave - all along the way - He has gifted us with family and friends and co-workers and support groups.  He brings us together and ties us into unbreakable knots.

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Yesterday, my house was filled with many cords in my Heavenly Knot.  But it was the presence of my brothers that gave me strength.  No one else has shared the sounds of my Mother's heartbeat from the inside.  No one else knows exactly how much I miss her, feels the bipolar juxtaposition of being both blessed and heartbroken in this world without her and our Daddy.

Nobody else knew why my baby brother's eyes got a little shiny when he saw the celery stuffed with pimento cheese (Mom's fav) or noticed that my big brother and I ate most of the pecan pie (sugar gets us through the tough times, man).  

But at the end of the meal, when our waistbands had been stretched beyond all reasonable bounds and our ears were ringing with laughter, seriously... what chum could possibly stay glum?  Certainly not me nor my chums.

Mandie Lee got the wishbone (surprise!) and won the break against her G-Dude (surprise!).  She didn't tell me what she wished for, but I'll tell you mine...

I wish for everyone to have a Happy Thanksgiving and be grateful for their heavenly chords and God-tied knots.  I wish that if your Knots have come untied, that you will let God re-tie them and be thankful.  And if you're not in a Knot, get your butt out there and find one... and be blessed.  

GOD IS...

I was tired.  Soggy from the rain.  Hangry for lunch, which had eluded me hours ago.    

Praying for patience, I knocked on my patient's door.  

She was a ninety-four year old woman who had recently relocated from her lifelong home into the tiny bedroom of an assisted living facility.

She greeted me with a smile as bright as sunshine.  My gloomy mood dissolved in the twinkling of her crinkled eyes.  

It was love at first sight.

“I heard you're having some knee pain...?”

“Only if I move!” she chuckled. “But I need to get in shape! I've got a birthday in a few weeks and I'll be doing lots of dancin'!” 

“Are you planning a big celebration?”

“You bet I am! You can't believe how many friends I have! And they ALL come out and bring LOTS of food and we play music and just have the BEST TIME - every year! And after the party is over, I always go home and cry.  Isn't that silly? I can't help it. I think about how much everybody loves me and I can't hold back the tears!” 

“I don't think you're silly.  I think you're a mighty lucky lady." 

“Psssh!  Ain't no such thing as luck, sweetie. Blessed is what I am!  God has blessed me more than I could ever imagine and you know what?!  He just keeps on doing it!  Haha!!” She declared with unbridled joy. 

Blessed?

She's bald.
She's legally blind.
Her hearing is almost gone.
Her hands are deformed with arthritis.
Her every step brings excruciating pain.
She is a widow who has outlived her children.

Her doctor wants her to stop walking.  Become wheelchair-bound.

Yet, there she was... overflowing with gratitude for her blessings and asking me to get her dancing again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took me a long time to finish my evaluation. I dragged it out as long as I could. I wanted nothing more than to sit at her feet and let the glory of her goodness flow over me for days. 

As I reached to hug her goodbye, I thanked her for brightening my day and told her we would have her dancing like Ginger Rogers before her birthday. 

She replied, “Oh honey, I'm no Ginger. I haven't worn heels in years!” 

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Y'all, I'm not gonna lie... there aren't enough tricks in my therapy bag to get that sweet, broken lady dancing again. I'm just not that good.

But God is.  

God. Is.  

And He makes my job so much easier.  All I have to do is teach her some quad sets, throw in a few adductor squeezes, fit her with a couple of knee braces, cover her in prayer...

And this.  This is the scripture I am claiming for my dubious dancer...

(Also, I want to grow up to be just like her, mmmkay, God?)

Fire Ants and Floods

Even though I am hundreds of miles removed from the floods, Hurricane Harvey has me completely swamped. 

I can't quit checking up on my people. I stay glued to the TV and internet, crying with each waterlogged rescue and cheering on every story of human kindness. The beneficence of our Lone Star Heroes is uniquely inspirational.

My every prayer is for God to stop the deluge. I pray for the ones who have been impacted by the torrential storm as well as those who are bracing for the next onslaught. I pray that God will hold them safely in His arms and that He will unify the rest of us in love and desire to help our brothers and sisters.   

While checking Facebook today, I noticed that much of the vitriolic and divisive dialogue had been replaced with post after post offering help and support to the flood victims and links to donation sites.  And prayers.  Lots of prayers.

Then, right there in the midst of it all, I found an ironically fascinating story of the Floating Fire Ants. 

https://www.houstoniamag.com/articles/2017/8/27/yes-floating-fire-ant-nests-are-a-real-thing

As the article explains, fire ants have the ability to come together during a flood and hold onto each other to make a living raft. By joining together, they become strong enough to form a watertight bond which enables them to stay afloat for ridiculously long periods of time. 

It reminded me of the philosophy of Plato.  You remember Plato, don't you? He was the ancient philosopher who warned society about being so self-focused as to become void of the glue that holds it together. (Or was that the Beatles?) 

Regardless, I'm betting those fire ants don't care if their floating buddies are lighter or darker in color, or if they share the same political beliefs, or even who pays the most taxes. I'm pretty sure their egos melted away with the first drop of rain. Instead, what could have been an Ant Apocalypse somehow morphs into an organized community of cooperation and respect that manages to remain united under very stressful conditions. 

We can learn a lot from the little critters. 

These are scary and challenging times, y'all.  I think we should raft-up and hold each other tight. Because they need us and we need them and I need you and you need me... 

And we all need Jesus. 

Together, we'll ride out every storm.  

(John 16:33)

Untethered Cord / Sustaining Roots

Everybody knows what a wonderful job my Mama did in teaching us how to let her go.  Fabulous job.  Stellar.

She only forgot one small lesson:  She forgot to teach me how to live without her.

Right now, I'm like Sandra Bullock in the movie, "Gravity". Remember that terrifying part when she suddenly becomes untethered from the space station and begins to float around in space like a freaking asteroid? That's how I feel without my Mama: untethered... floating aimlessly... wondering when in the heck George Clooney is gonna show up and save me.

Only it's never gonna happen because George is in Italy with Amal, gestating twins at the Villa.  Screw you, Clooney!  And while we're at it, screw Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her Five Stages of Grief. Who is she to tell me my grief should have stages as orderly and predictably as a droid??

There's nothing orderly or predictable about my grief stages, cause I'm making 'em up as I go:

STAGE 1:  Sleepy

STAGE 2:  Bitchy

STAGE 3:  Sad

STAGE 4:  Hungry

STAGE 5:  Pudgy

STAGE 6:  Bashful

STAGE 7:  Dopey

It's not like I am a rookie at this grieving gig.  I really thought I knew what to expect.  I was prepared to endure those sneaky waves that try to drag me under.  But it's different every time, isn't it?  Grief is as individual and unique as our love for the ones we lose.  Each and every one.

It's a heck of a lot of work, grief is.  It's like a job.  A lonely, snotty job.  And some days are better than others.

When anybody asks how I am doing I usually say, "I'm okay, I think?"  Then, I'll give them a big smiley smile just to prove it. Maybe throw in a hug for extra measure.

But then there is That Person. The nosy and meddling one. The one who can never simply ask how I am doing, but has to ask, "How Is Your Heart?"  

Most days I can honestly answer, "I'm okay, I think?"  But some days... some days I can't even answer.  Some days the words get stuck in my throat and pour out of my eyes in soundless reply.  Some days I pull up the covers and sink into the sadness.  But on Most Days... I work through the grief like a boss.  

This Sunday is not Most Days.  

Sunday is Mother's Day.  Wednesday is her birthday. 

Though I don't imagine that I will miss her any more on Sunday or her birthday than I miss her today, than I miss her right now in this tetherless, motherless void...  it's shaping up to be a sh*tty week, y'all.

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There is a big ol' gorgeous cottonwood tree in my backyard.  It's literally the reason I wanted to live in this house.  Trees are a precious commodity in this part of Texas - especially pretty ones - and I never take her for granted.  On breezy days of spring and sunny days of summer, I love to sit under My Tree, close my eyes, and enjoy the peaceful song of her leaves.  Every October I am besotted by the spectacle of her vibrant colors.

But without fail - every single winter - I agonize whether or not My Tree has died and am crushed by fear that she might never come to life again.

Yet, she always returns.

Yesterday, I was outside reading  and stumbled upon an excerpt from a book entitled, "Motherless Daughters:  The Legacy of Loss" by Hope Edelman.  It was a moment of sweet symmetry, sitting beneath My Tree, reading about Motherless Daughters... and trees. (Not a coincidence. Coincidences are nothing more than God's way of staying anonymous.)

Here's my favorite part, where the author writes about nature's amazing metaphors for life:

“In the redwood ecosystem, buds for future trees are contained in pods called burls, tough brown knobs that cling to the bark of the mother tree. When the mother tree is logged, blown over, or destroyed by fire – when, in other words, she dies – the trauma stimulates the burls growth hormones. The seeds release and trees sprout around her, creating the circle of daughters. The daughter trees grow by absorbing the sunlight their mother cedes to them when she dies. And they get the moisture and nutrients they need from their mother's root system, which remains intact underground, even after her leaves die.  Although the daughters exist independently of their mother above ground, they continue to draw sustenance from her underneath."

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Before she left, Mom gave us our marching orders.  She told my big brother to "Stay Strong".  To my baby brother, she said, "Don't Worry", and to me... "Don't Cry".  I complained that she gave me the hardest one and told her that I didn't have to mind her if she wasn't here.

And I haven't.  I haven't minded her at all and I don't even care. She's not the boss of me anymore.

I'm the boss of me, now.  And just to prove it, I'm planning an entire day of disobedience this Mother's Day.  I shall cry ALL the tears I want to cry while snot runs down my face until I wipe it away on my sleeve.  I'm gonna buy a 2 pound bag of peanut M&Ms and a package of Oreo's and I'm gonna eat them with my elbows on the table and talk with ALL the food in my mouth.  And then I'm gonna find my sharpest scissors and go running in and out with them, slamming the screen a million times.  In the cold.  With my hair wet.  No jacket.

Disobedience loves company. Therefore I cordially invite my Sisterhood of Motherless Daughters to join me.  Whether it is your first or your 21st Mother's Day without her... I welcome you to join me in crying ALL the tears because our beautiful angels are worth every salty drip.  And also we will eat ALL the chocolate, just because we can.

After our eyes are sufficiently swollen and our noses are shiny and red, we will dry our tears and take a couple of deep, shuddering breaths.  We will message each other (no calls) and ask, "How Is Your Heart... ?"

We will remember the legacy of our angels.  We will be grateful for the deep, deep roots of love that sustain us.  We will reply to each other, "I think I'm okay."

And then... we will smile.

Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child...

But not all the time. At least, not yet. Right now, I feel as though I am cocooned in denial and brain fog. I know that my Mom is no longer with me, but my heart likes to pretend that she is just down the hall in her room watching TV and eating Cheetoes.

Seven days.

It's been seven days since my Mama breathed her last breath.

Even though we had been losing her in bits and pieces for months, when the end finally came, she left us much too quickly.

I really don't blame her. She had reached a point where it was hard for us to imagine how she could continue on. Yet, we could never really imagine saying Goodbye...

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My oldest son and his family had gone back to Mexico after the holidays, knowing when they left they probably wouldn't be seeing their MiMi / GranMiMi again.

The night before leaving, my 10 year old G-girl crawled up in my lap and laid her head upon my shoulder. “I don't want GranMiMi to die.” she said, sadly.

“Neither do I, sweet girl. But her little body is just worn out. And just think... when she gets to heaven she'll be able to walk again! She'll be with her Mama again! And I know she can hardly wait to dance with my Daddy. So even though we will miss her... we have to love her enough to let her go.”

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Early Friday morning I heard Mom calling out to my Dad. “Paul...? Paul...? Why don't you get me?” I sat quiet as a mouse in my chair, hoping not to disturb the rarified air.

About an hour later, she called out again. This time with more agitation: “Mother...? Mother...?” I leaned over her and tried to comfort her. “Do you see Flodie, Mama? Are you talking to her...?”

She turned her head toward my voice, cracked one eye open, saw my face and said...

“Crap. I'm not in heaven, yet.”

The sassy look in her eyes was a gift. She had been in and out of consciousness for the past few days. But this morning – her last morning – God had opened a little window with my Mama. She was present and accounted for. And more than just a little hacked off.

“What am I doing wrong?” she asked in frustration.

“You're not doing anything wrong, Mom. God is taking His sweet time. I'm okay with that... I don't mind keeping you with me a little longer.”

“Do you think that maybe I'm not dying? Maybe I just have a really bad case of pneumonia?”

“I don't think so, Mom,”

“Well, this is just crazy. I need to either stay here or go there. Why doesn't Paul come and get me??”

“Because this is God's show, Mom. Even Daddy has to wait on God.”

“Well, they need to hurry. This is crazy.”

“Are you hurting? Is anything bothering you?”

“No. This is just crazy. Y'all are gonna be really psyched when I finally die.”

My youngest son, Jacob, heard us talking and came into the room.

“Hey, MiMi... do you need anything?”

“I need to die!” she said.

“Don't worry, MiMi, God's got this. What will make you feel better? You want a cigarette?”

“Yes!” she replied.

“Uh, she's on 4 liters of oxygen”, I replied. “So, there's that...”

“See how bossy she is?!” Mom groused to her grandson.

A few moments later, she heard Jacob's voice in the hall as he was leaving.

“Luke?” she said. “Is that Luke?”

“No, Mom. Luke went back to Mexico, remember? Do you want him to come back?”

“Of course not! I just saw him a few weeks ago.”

“Well, why don't we call him and tell him?” I suggested. “He's having a hard time deciding what to do.”

I called Luke and told him his MiMi wanted to talk to him. I put the phone up to her ear, expecting her to convince him not to return.

“Luke! They won't let me die! You gotta come here and sit on my face!”

“Uh, Mom... that's not exactly what we were gonna tell him," I cringed.

As Luke laughed into the phone, Mom said, “Luke, I don't want you to come back for my funeral. I don't plan on being there, either.

They spoke a few minutes more, then the Dickman entered her room.

“You know what I'm gonna do, Mrs. Cooper? I'm gonna steal some of your chocolate.”

“Go ahead. Eat all you want. But you're not allowed to have a bowel movement until I am allowed to die.”

He looked at me and I just shrugged my shoulders. “She's a little pissy because she didn't wake up in heaven. And Dad is in big trouble.”

Mom began to grow more restless and I gave her medicine to calm her.

As I held a straw up to her lips for a sip of water, she stopped mid-drink and said, “Who's that?”

“Nobody. It's just you and me, Mom.”

“There's somebody in that corner...” she said, gazing intently across the room.

“Who does it look like?” I asked.

“Paul...?” she said uncertainly.

“Mom... do you see Daddy?”

“Maybe...”

Her eyes began to dart around the room with a bemused expression on her face.

“Who are all these people?” She asked.

“Mom... I think you must be seeing angels.”

She never replied, but kept looking around the room with the most beautiful expression on her face, until she closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

A few hours later, my Mama followed her angels to heaven.

The hospice nurses had just finished bathing her before she passed. Even our angel nurse was surprised by the rapid change. She declared Mom's time of death as 2:09 PM, then went out to her car and returned with a single red silk rose to lay on my sweet Mama's chest.

It swamps my heart to know there are nurses who carry roses in their car for patients who never get better, at least not on this side of heaven.

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My son, Luke, called me shortly after Mom passed.

“What a gift she gave me, Mom! What a wonderful gift to talk and laugh with Mimi, just hours before she passed!"

"Oh, and Mom, Mandie has a message for you... she wanted me to tell you this:  sometimes you have to love enough to let them go.”