A PLACE FOR HIS MOM

“I am so nervous I don't even know what I'm doing... what am I supposed to pack? I'm coming back home, you know. I have to come back. I have a hair appointment next week and I have to come back.”

I chose my words carefully, struggling to reassure her without lying or upsetting her even more.

“After you get to feeling better, we will bring you back to see your friends. This will always be your home.”

This will always be your home.

Those were the words that seemed to calm her.

We were halfway through packing when Dickie arrived. He walked through the door while I was taking some of his mother's favorite pictures off the wall. His eyes lingered on a photo of his family dressed in matching vests... the Leader of the Band with his living legacies.

We briefly made eye contact, then he went to find her.

“Mom, I need you to sign this paper for the post office so they can forward your mail to us while you're away.”

“I'm not going to be gone very long, you know.” She informed her son. “I need to come back home. I can't miss my hair appointment. Pam is giving me a perm.”

“We've already talked about this, Mom. Everything will be okay, I promise. Just please, sign the paper for me.”

It took four tries and a great deal of patience for Dora to correctly sign her name. She couldn't see the signature line. She readjusted her glasses. Her hand was shaking. Dickie gently took her hand in his and set the pen down on the paper. With his guidance, she began to scrawl her signature right on the line.  But the moment he took his hand away, she lost direction and ended up writing sideways on the form.

Which was pretty much a metaphor for what we had been dealing with the past year. My mother-in-law's ability to manage her life was slowly losing direction, requiring the assistance of more and more helping hands to function correctly.  It was taking a village.  Literally.

If Dora had not lived in a small town where people still looked out for each other, this day would have undoubtedly come sooner. She had been enabled to stay in her home largely due to the care and attention she received from neighbors, life-long friends, church family and the wonderful Aunt Mattie and Crickett.  

But there could be no denying... at 88 years of age, Dickie & Jackie's Mama could no longer be left at home alone. Her memory and decision-making skills were declining as rapidly as her eyesight. She had become a constant source of concern for her family.

*                                                                                                  *

As we continued to pack, I wondered what was going through Dickie's mind. I couldn't stand to think about how close his heart must be to breaking. Outwardly (and as far as his mother knew) he seemed to be okay. But then, he and his brother had spent a lifetime convincing their Mama they were okay, so as never to cause her any worry.

Though left with few choices, I knew he was overwhelmed with guilt at the thought of moving her out of her home. His home. His brother's home.  This was the home of their childhood memories... the basement where their Mom had spent hours on the stairs listening to their music. That old table in the kitchen where they had scarfed down a bazillion pounds of Dora Burgers. And upstairs, where a 10-year old Dickie had watched his Dad shave --- for the very last time.

But the heart of this home had always been their Mom. And this was the home of her heart.

*                                                                                                  *

She cried most the way to Amarillo. He tried his best to comfort her with words of encouragement about living closer to us, spending more time with family, looking forward to a better quality of life. He even managed to make her laugh a few times, though her laughter was almost as hard to take as the tears. It hurt to catch those fading glimpses of his Mom being her old self, they made him miss her even more. 

Crazy how you can miss someone who is sitting right beside you in sturdy black shoes, living and breathing... someone in older skin who resembles your Mom.

Pure irony that we discover in adulthood there will always be a part of us that never stops being their child. That never stops craving the comforting touch of our mother's hand across our fevered brow.  That never outgrows the need for their unconditional love.

So while we understand intellectually that roles have reversed, there will never be a way to emotionally accept the role reversal between us and our parents. Our imperfect efforts to parent our parents often lead to sleepless nights and anxious days. Though we love them and try to give them our best, it is impossible to escape the feeling that our best is not good enough for the ones who gave us life.

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We unpacked her boxes, hung her clothes in the closet, scattered memories around the room in pretty frames and settled Dora into her new home. We had chosen a private elder care home ran by a retired nurse who could provide the constant supervision and care that was needed.

Planting an overly bright smile on my face, I hugged my mother-in-law goodbye with promises of talking to her in the morning. Dickie quickly kissed her wrinkled cheek, then headed straight for the door.

*                                                                                                  *

I caught up with him outside, turned him around and wrapped him in my arms. Through our mingled tears I whispered...

“You did good. You are a good son. I want you to know, it's important that you know...

“You are ENOUGH."

We, the Awkward Missionaries

I had spent the greater part of ten minutes trying to convince my three year old G-boy that he had to stay on the Quilt of Safety. That the minute he stepped off the quilt, he was in danger of being bit by the alligators.

“But, I don't see any alligators, MiMi...”

“I know! They are sneaky green alligators who know how to hide in the grass.”

I knew any attempts to keep this tiny tornado in check would be short-lived. We had only been at the Citychurch Jesus Loves You Celebration less than 30 minutes and I was already exhausted by trying to keep from losing this whirling dervish in a sea of strangers.

Not everybody in the crowd was a stranger. I knew the church staff, recognized most of the red-shirted volunteers and had even slept with the drummer of the band. The band was the main reason I had come... to hear my husband, son and nephew play their hearts out for a wonderful cause.

The cause being Acceptance. Love. Salvation.

Every summer, Citychurch ropes off a couple of blocks downtown to provide a night of food, music, devotion and prayer to the families of the inner-city children they have served throughout the year. The reality of this benevolent night of outreach is manifested in throngs of disenfranchised families interspersed with a large number of homeless men and women. All of them showing up to enjoy a free meal, then hanging around for the music and devotionals in hopes of winning one of the door prizes given away at the end of the evening.

Youth groups from various states schedule their summer mission trip to Amarillo to experience the challenges and rewards of an inner city ministry, culminating in the Jesus Loves You Celebration. (Actually, the entire name is: God Hasn't Forgotten You, Jesus Loves You Celebration.)

I would love to tell of all the wonderful ways I am involved in this worthy church and her ministry to the inner city youth of Amarillo, but in truth, there isn't much to tell. I have helped peripherally upon occasion and am always happy to donate to the cause. But mostly...? I show up on Sunday morning to cuddle with my G-babes and enjoy my husband and son in the worship band.

It's not that I don't get my worship on. Because I do. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jesus is a big fan of Citychurch, too. But in all honesty, I can worship anywhere. In fact, I usually do my best worshiping outside of a church building. And as much as I respect the time, love and effort that is expended in buildings of worship... sometimes all that stuff just gets in my way.

Which brings me back to the magic Quilt of Safety.

It didn't take my G-boy long to figure out that absolutely no alligators were hidden in the sparse Texas grass. Even less time to ascertain that he would not be engulfed in flames if he ventured even farther onto the sidewalk.

So I pulled him aside and said, “Hey, dude. You can't be running off everywhere. Some of these people are strangers.”

“Who are the strangers, MiMi?”

“Well, the people we don't know are strangers. And if we don't know them, we can't go anywhere with them. We have to stay here on this quilt, with each other.”

 

“Why? Will the strangers hurt me?” He asked, with eyes growing round.

Crap. I quickly searched my brain for the right words to give this beautiful innocent boy. Words that would instill caution without creating fear.

“No. Nobody here wants to hurt you – we wouldn't let anybody hurt you.  But you have to stay close to me. Because... because, uh... you are Spiderman. Right?"

“NO!" He screwed up his face and stuck his nose into mine. “I am NOT Spiderman. I am Luke the Skywalker.”

Just then, four young girls with backpacks plopped down alongside our Quilt of Safety. They introduced themselves to me, I told them my name and introduced them to Luke the Skywalker.

“Are you from here?” They asked.

“Yes.” I answered.

“Do you have a church home?” They asked.

“We go to Citychurch.” I pointed to the stage. “My husband is the gray-haired drummer and my son is the handsome guy in the black shirt.”

“Oh...” they breathed with a sigh of relief.

And then I understood. They were obviously members of one of the youth groups who had come to help with the event. And tonight, they had come to 'witness' to me.

Out of a widely diverse and multi-colored crowd of not-so-well dressed people they had chosen me... a somewhat well-dressed, middle-aged white woman, sitting with an adorable little blond haired boy on the Quilt of Safety.

I didn't judge them. I had been on a few neighborhood outreaches in my not-so-cynical, idealistic youth. I hadn't liked the 'witnessing' part, either. I always felt I should just be able to hand over the brightly wrapped Christmas presents or sacks of groceries to the appreciative hands without any awkward religious strings attached. I hated the part where I had to sing three verses of some lame hymn and was always apologetic in handing over the mind-numbing devotional tracts from our church. I never mastered the art of proselytizing to perfect strangers. Strangers who might very well have a greater spiritual depth than myself.

I always wondered why just being there wasn't enough.

Because sometimes it is, you know.

I wanted these young missionaries who had taken a week out of their summer to serve the people of our city to know how much I appreciated their hearts and their efforts.

I asked if they would like to join us on the Quilt of Safety.

They gratefully climbed aboard.

For the next few hours we sang, laughed and listened to the devotionals... bonded by our efforts to contain Luke the Skywalker on a 6 x 6 quilt.

And as I smiled into the moonlit faces of the strangers around us, I knew it was enough.  Sharing the same stars underneath the beautiful Texas sky, voices blending in songs of praise to Jesus, for me and my little group of awkward missionaries...

Just being there was enough.

The "U" in Jesus

I worked with a new stroke patient today.  A strong, independent man who can walk,  hug his wife,  and pet his puppies... but to his complete frustration, cannot figure out how to talk again.  He comprehends language, but is unable to express himself in speech or writing.  The only word he can say appropriately is "Yep."  And he says it.  Often.

 

I gave him a test.  I told him he would be graded at the end of the test and if he scored 100%, we would sing a song together. 

His test was to fill in the following blanks:

 

1) _____________ had a little lamb.

2) _____________ and Jill went up the hill.

3) _____________ loves me, this I know.

He managed to scribble 'M' on the first blank, gave up in total frustration on the second one, and started smiling happily when he got to the third.  He looked up at me, tapped his pencil on the third blank and kept saying, "Yep. Yep, Yep, Yep."  I started humming the song and he began writing:

J...

E...

S...

 

Obviously stuck,  he stopped writing. 

"You're doing good!"  I said, urging him on.  "You can do this!  You know the next letter... it's the most important letter in His name. YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU know the next letter." 

He ducked his head and started writing again: 

U...

S... 

He looked up at me with a big ol' grin.

"Ta-Da!"  I squealed.  "YOUUUUUUUUUUU are a winner!" 

He pointed to the first two blanks, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. 

"Pffffffft", I told him.  "Mary and her silly lambs? Jack and that goofy Jill?? They aren't even worth remembering.  You remembered the One that really matters."

He started smiling again and said, "Yep.  Yep, Yep, Yep."

As he walked me out to the car, we began singing  'Jesus Loves Me'.  Joyfully, loudly and completely  off-key. 

He and his sweet wife were still singing as I drove over the hill.   

YOU IS KIND... YOU IS IMPORTANT

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“To affirm a person is to see the good in them that they cannot see in themselves and to repeat it in spite of appearances to the contrary."

~ Brennan Manning ~ 

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I believe strongly in affirmations. They are the foundation of my upbringing.  Even before I knew such  a word existed, my family was affirming me through every stage of life with their abundant love.

And now that I am a MiMi, it is inherent in my duties to convince my grandchildren that they are freaking awesome.  My highest calling is to encourage the crap out of those little nuggets of goodness.  To convince them that God loves them beyond anything they could imagine.

Every chance I get, I pull one of them into my arms for a sweaty hug and whisper in their ear: “Do you know how much I love you? You are a such a gift.  You can do amazing things.”

So far, I think it's working. At least with my two-year old grandson, who seems convinced that his poop does not stink...

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I stood in the doorway as the tow-headed tornado ran towards me with arms outstretched, big blue eyes shooting sparks of excitement.

“I am wearing Big Boy Underwears, Mimi!!  Do you wanna see them?? And you know what else??  If I tee-tee in YOUR potty my Mommy will give me a STICKER!!”.

"Oh, Michael... I am SO proud of you! I can't wait for you to tee-tee in my potty! You can even poop in my potty!  Do you get TWO stickers for pooping??”

“Yeeesssss!! I get TWO stickers for pooping!!! But I don't need to poop anymore.” And he ran past me into the house.

“He's right,"  his Mom agreed.  "He definitely does not need to poop.  Just before we got in the car, he pooped in the driveway. In our driveway. In front of God and the neighbors.”

“Oooooh  I see.” I said, trying my very best not to bust out laughing.

In his favor, Michael did seem to be a bit remorseful.  He shrugged his little shoulders and said, "You don't get ANY stickers if you poop in the driveway, MiMi.”

===========================================

 

I will concede that potty training may be the one area in which stickers are more powerful than affirmations. 

 

But as a general rule, children soak up affirmations like a sponge.     And here is why: Children have no preconceived notions about themselves.  They are simply little humans... being.  Not only do they believe in superheroes, they ARE superheroes. 

 

My hope is that the positive thoughts I whisper to them will become embedded somewhere deep inside their soul. And someday, when the world swoops into their young lives threatening to crush their spirit and steal their joy, I pray those affirmations will become the armor they need to protect and reinforce their value and worth.

It saddens me to know that not every child is so lucky. Not every child is overvalued. 

Some children are born into battlefields and pummeled by shrapnel from broken adults.  They never hear words of love and affirmation and they grow up with a damaged self-esteem and their precious souls wounded.

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I stood outside in the wind, secretly hoping my hesitant knock would not be answered. The door opened slowly and a wrinkled face peeked through the crack.  The disabled woman looked me up and down, then maneuvered her wheelchair out of the way and waved me into her tiny home.

 

“Well. I guess we'll try this again...” I said with a fake smile. 

“Ha!  They made me promise to cooperate with you.” she replied, with no small amount of animosity.

 

My last visit to her home had ended in an unsuccessful attempt to evaluate her for physical therapy. Her needs were obvious. Her demeanor had been nothing short of rude.

“I don't need nobody coming here and messing with me. I'm just fine the way I am!” She had informed me, loudly.  “I haven't walked in years and I sure as heck ain't gonna start trying now.”

I politely acknowledged her right to refuse therapy and had quickly left without further ado. 
 

A few days later, I received a call informing me the patient's family had "convinced" her to participate in therapy.  I was, shall we say... vocal about my reluctance to see her again. “Why should we waste our time and resources on someone who has no desire to be helped? Besides, she's just mean. And her dog kept trying to sniff my crotch.”

In spite of my whining, the Powers That Be "convinced" me to give the grumpy old woman another chance. I had absolutely no expectations for a positive outcome. In fact, I was secretly looking forward to saying, "I told you so!" when she proved to be a pain in the butt.

So there I sat -- once again -- across a cluttered dining table from Little Miss Sunshine.  I silently gathered my self-righteous judgement around me like a cloak, while expending minimal effort to connect with her on a personal level.

And then...

She began to tell me Her Story... how she had gotten married in her teens and had given birth to 7 children in 10 years. “I got married to escape the cotton fields.” She explained. “And to escape my stepdaddy.”

“He was mean when he drank. One day he came home and took after me with a chain. He beat my legs into bloody pulps, then sent me out to the cotton fields for work. I had to have surgery on my legs and they just never healed back right. That's why I didn't want you messing with me. Every time someone messes with me, it hurts.”

I literally couldn't swallow. I ducked my head and pretended to focus on my paperwork, all the while blinking away tears before they spilled from my eyes. I suspected the very last thing she wanted from me was sympathy.

By the end of the evaluation, this wounded woman had unwittedly gained possession of my sappy, bleeding heart. As I got up to leave, she reached out to shake my hand. I held on tight and knelt down before her, surrounded by the tattered shreds of my righteousness and judgement that had fallen to the floor.

“It is my honor to  know you. I truly believe God brought us together for a purpose.  My purpose is to help you get stronger, without causing you any more pain. Your purpose was to inspire me to be braver and kinder than I ever thought I could be. I am so sorry for your suffering and abuse. But I want you to know this: You are a blessing. You bless me.”

Her face lit up with a snaggle-toothed smile that I will carry forever in my heart.

I cringe when I think of how close I came to missing a second chance with this remarkable person of courage.  What if I had missed the opportunity to offer healing words of love, to be humbled by her story? 

I pray my words provided just a bit of balm to the wounds that had been inflicted on her soul.  I pray I will never again hesitate outside the door while someone waits inside for my affirmation.

 

Folks, we are brought together for a purpose:  to build one other up.  

May we ever be bold and generous in our encouragement of  God's children... both the old and the young. 

May we be quick to remind those around us just how important and special they are.
 

That they are loved and valued.  Overvalued.

Even when they don't deserve a sticker.

Easter... A Beautiful Mess

Have you ever stopped to realize the inherent schizophrenia that surrounds the holiday weekend we call Easter?

 

Think about it: what originally began as a pagan fertility festival has morphed into a celebration of spring that slams smack into the death and resurrection of Jesus. The cross and crucifixion all tangled up with chocolate bunnies and painted eggs. Ham dinners baking to the tune of "Up From the Grave He Arose!”.

 

Easter has become a holy holiday that is not wholly holy. Egg-laying bunnies and cellophane grass juxtaposed with a crown of thorns and nail-scarred hands.

 

It's no wonder people get bent out of shape trying to make sense of it all. Those of us who enjoy our pretty pastel frocks and our calorie-laden Easter baskets are frowned upon by those who shun the commercialism of what is arguably the most religious of all religious holidays.

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I have nothing but wonderful memories of Easter as a child. I particularly remember the Easter Mom bought me my first 'big girl' dress. It was a pretty plaid dress with a full skirt and a fluffy petticoat that crinkled when I sat down and a tiny bells that jingled when I bounced. [Because nothing says 'Christ is Risen' like a jingling petticoat.] I remember how proudly I wore my white patent-leather shoes, even though they were hard to buckle and pinched my toes. I felt new and oh-so-shiny.

 

As the Mama of two boys, I  missed out on the fun of playing Easter Dress-Up with a daughter.  Still, I spared no preciousness in dressing my boys in matching outfits, while they were still too young and clueless to protest.

 

[To be honest, I live in fear that they will retaliate by dressing me in ugly polka dot moo-moos in the nursing home, when I am too old and clueless to protest.]

 

But now... now I have The Grand-Girl. The One Who Loves To Go Shopping.

 

This six-going-on-thirty-year-old describes her style as “not fancy like you, MiMi, but sporty... kinda like my Mama but more girly and not as matchy as my Nana.”

 

We went shopping for her Easter dress yesterday.

 

Four stores and several dollars later, I had managed to talk her into the cutest little spring blouse and matching skirt—but only if I agreed to buy the matching bike shorts, which I strongly suspected she would favor over the skirt.

 

And then she saw the shoes. Beautiful, glittery, shiny purple sandals.

“Oh MiMi... look at these shoes! They are EXACTLY the same color as the flowers on my shirt!  I really, really want them... I NEED them!!!

 

Did she? Did this six year old fashionista really need a pair of purple sandals?

 

Hardly.

 

Nor had she done anything to deserve them.  No more or than I had done anything to deserve my jingling petticoat or pretty patent leathers.

But then... do any of us really deserve Easter?

Absolutely not.

 

And therein lies the source of the schizophrenia.

You see, while Christmas is all about being jolly and singing carols and giving gifts, Easter has an ugly side. There is nothing pretty about a crucifixion. A man on a cross, humiliated and condemned, beaten and bloody.

 

It is hard to think about that innocent man hanging limply on the cross. Difficult to feel worthy of such a Gift of Love. While we crave the salvation He offers, we cringe at the sacrifice He made.

My heart breaks with every remembrance of the shredded flesh, the suffering sighs. The cross is so painful that I am in a hurry to rush through the torture and fast-forward to the resurrection.

 

I am swamped by the cross, undeserving of the Gift of Grace. And I thank God the story did not end on Golgotha.

Because, as much as I need a Savior who would die for a silly little girl in a crinkly petticoat... I need the resurrection more. I need to believe in an empty tomb and a risen Savior. I need the hope of a second chance. I need the glorious promise of Easter.

The plastic eggs and shiny shoes do not distract me from the message. To those who criticize the secularized aspects of this holy holiday, I would offer that your energy is wasted in judgement.

Easter is not about who worships Jesus the best. It is about remembering God's promise of hope and celebrating  joy that comes in the morning.

There is a song by Amy Grant that I love... “Better than a Hallelujah”. My favorite verses are:

 

We pour out our miseries

 

God just hears a melody.

 

Beautiful the mess we are

 

The honest cries of breaking hearts.

 

Better than a hallelujah, sometimes.

 

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This year, I will celebrate Easter in every high and holy way, as well as with all the Cadbury Eggs that Weight Watchers will allow.

I will celebrate the melody that God makes of my miseries.

I will celebrate the blessed hope of the resurrection.

This Easter and every other day of my life, I will celebrate Jesus who lives in me and in the heart of my favorite little girl with the new purple sandals.

The Psalm of Homeostasis

Just as flowers turn their faces to the sunshine, I believe that our senses are sharpened to those things our souls long to seek.

 

Musicians seek harmony. Religionists seek righteousness. Spiritualists seek enlightenment. 

 

My sons are musicians, from their toes to their souls. As with all God-given gifts, their musicality was manifested early in life. In utero, in fact, for Lucas;  he used to hiccup in rhythm to the radio. And Jacob...I remember taking him to the doctor when he was in grade school. As we sat quietly in the waiting room, he began humming in perfect unison to the almost indiscernible sound of the central air unit. He looked over at me, smiled and said “Key of E”.

As a young boy, my husband's grieving soul was in desperate need of an anchor. After burying his father, he found himself adrift and alone, trying to come to terms with his grief, afraid to close his eyes and sleep. One night, in exhausted desperation, he begged God to give him a sign that his Dad was okay.  Dickie's grief turned to amazement as the lamp on his nightstand flickered off and on. Coincidence?  Nah. Power surge? Absolutely...from the very source of all power. On that loneliest of  nights, in the flickering light, a soul to soul connection was made. A young boy learned to trust Jesus--literally and lastingly--and became a man whose life is focused on strengthening that sustaining connection. 

Me? I can't remember a time when my imagination was not filled with the wonder of Glory. I've always felt as strongly connected to the spiritual world as I do to Terra firma. In fact, my  worldly tethers  are so tenuous that I often find my head perched precariously in the clouds...a lofty position that might not be appealing to everybody, but one that works very well for me.

In all kinds of strangely wonderful, divine and substantial ways, my soul always finds what it is seeking.

Words. They come to me out of the blue.  Sometimes as half-formed concepts or phrases, sometimes as a single unit of thought. It usually happens to me right before I wake up.  Seemingly random thoughts bump about the edges of my consciousness like brightly colored balloons skipping across the Panhandle sky. Other times, they come to me when I'm alone in the car.  Not like, just sitting by myself, parked in the garage--though that would be more convenient.  [Why is  it that the best ideas or the most profound thoughts only come when you are busy doing other things...like trying to sleep, or singing a symphony in the shower, or attempting to steer through wind gusts of 60 mph?]

I have occasionally tried to ignore them. But inevitably, there are one or two that refuse to float away, demanding that I grab hold and pay attention. These are the thoughts and/or words that make their way onto yellow sticky notes or the back of a grocery receipt. Nebulous thoughts hastily jotted down and shuffled around until sense can be made, understanding can be found.

So...you think I'm crazy? You may be right.

 

 

But before those nice young men in their clean white coats come to take me away, consider this:  it just may be a lunatic you're looking for.  

 

Wacky though it may seem, experience has taught me to pay attention. To give weight to these subconscious utterings. To patiently seek understanding. To connect the dots and determine just what life is trying to teach me. And by 'life', I mean God.

The word of the week?  HOMEOSTASIS

 

[ho·me·o·sta·sis (h m - -st s s). n. 

 

1. The maintenance of metabolic equilibrium within an animal by a tendency to compensate for disrupting changes. 

2.  The maintenance of equilibrium within a social group, person, etc.]

 

Along with being an airhead, I also happen to be a bit of a science nerd. [Bipolar, I know.]  I have studied homeostasis and have an in-depth understanding of the word in a biological sense. When a body (organism) is in homeostasis, all systems and functions are in balance. Temperature is 98.6, blood pressure is normal, toes are polished, etc.

“So...” (I asked myself), “What does this mean on a spiritual level? Where do I need to attain homeostasis within my life?”

For the past few years, I have been on a quest for peace. Just like that sunshine-seeking flower, my soul seeks peace. I believe the most profound way I can demonstrate faith and honor God is to not merely accept His perfect gift of peace, but to believe in it. To live it. To close my eyes at night, wake up to a rumpled reflection in the morning mirror and know that---indeed---it is well with my soul.

Peace...it is a formidable soul goal.

Yet, even in a world that delights in bombarding us with negativity and strife, a world where friends are hurting, loved ones are dying, fools are plentiful and judgment is swift, God not only offers me peace...He leads me to it.

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I anticipated waking up all crabby this morning, deprived of an hour of sleep from the 'spring forward' time change. Instead I woke up feeling...peaceful.

 

Just after awakening, I remembered dreaming of a small girl's hands resting inside the aged, wrinkled hands of her Grandmother's. It was an image I had seen recently on Facebook...a beautiful photograph that had tugged at my heartstrings and found its way into my dreams.

 

 

As I sat my cup of hot tea on the table, a bit of it sloshed onto my yellow sticky note--the note on which I had scrawled 'Homeostasis' a few days ago... 

 

And just like that, the dots were connected. His meaning became clear.

The years rolled away and I remembered holding hands with my sweet grandmother Flodie, repeating the prayer she had taught me as a little girl.  The favorite prayer of a faithful Flodie which epitomizes the Gift of Peace...

 

 

The Lord is my shepherd,

I shall not want;

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside still waters;

He restores my soul.

He leads me in paths of righteousness

for His name's sake.

Even though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death,

I fear no evil;

for You are with me.

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life;

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord.

Forever.

Psalms 23
 

Homeostasis restored. 

LOST IN TRANSLATION

DISCLAIMER: This story contains incorrectly named male and female body parts and a trip to the gynecologist. 

 

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I am a trained health care professional. Okay, I'm a physical therapist...but hey, it counts.

It is safe to say that I have seen all kinds of internal and external body parts in various stages of distress and/or disease, previously unimaginable to me. Throughout all my wound care training, I never fully appreciated just where the treatment of say...a pilonidal abscess...might take me. (Yeah, Google that one. Enlarge the photo.)

Suffice it to say, after all my latex-gloved hands and I have been through, it takes a lot to shock or embarrass me.

Yet, when it comes to talking about genitalia and whatnot, I have somehow managed to hang on to all the unsophisticated silliness of an eleven-year old schoolgirl.

Oh, I can put on a good show and fake the correct use of medical terminology like a pro. But the twinkle in my eye, or perhaps my ginormous grin, always gives me away.

 

I blame this lack of maturity and professionalism on the shoddy level of sex education I received from my equally unsophisticated parents and the Borger Independent School system.

How many of you remember those awful 'coming of age' movies we were forced to see in 5^th grade health classes? Remember how embarrassing they were, and how we avoided eye contact with each other the entire day of The Movie? Boys weren't allowed to see ours and vice versa. In fact, the classroom windows were covered with construction paper to deter peeping Toms or Tombelinas.

After I became the mother of  sons, I continued to shun correct anatomical nomenclature. As far as they knew, my baby boys did not have penises. They had 'ding-dongs', 'tallywackers' and 'wickerbills'. These cutely benign names for their cutely benign privates worked very well for us, until the day I came in with an armload of baskets. “What are those?” my youngest male-child asked. “They are 'wicker' baskets, for my collection.” I replied. He shrieked, ran straight into the bathroom and locked the door. He refused to come out until Dickie came home, then he ran straight into his father's arms and held on for dear life. “Mom has WICKER baskets, Dad! She bought a whole bunch of 'em!! She's gonna collect our WICKERbills!!!”.

You might think I would have made an effort to improve my parenting skills after that unfortunate incident. More importantly, you might think my son would have learned to never trust me with any pertinent information regarding his junk.

But, no.

A few years later, it was his turn to be a 5^th grader and watch the awful health class video. As fate would have it, his Dad (who is even less mature than moi) was out of town on the day Jacob learned about puberty and maturation. I, however, was more than ready to stand in the gap. Just as that sweet boy came home from school, I rolled up my sleeves and got ready for The Talk.

ME: (nonchalantly) “So...did you learn anything good from The Video?” 

JACOB:  “Sorta. I'm gonna need deodorant, Mom.  I'm gonna get armpit hair.  It's gonna stink."

 

ME: “Gotcha.  Anything else? Any questions about your, uh...privates?”

 

JACOB: (with a nervous giggle) “Nah. Except...I didn't know it could, like...do different things.”

ME:  “Oh heck yeah. Guys have the fun body part. Kinda like a Swiss Army Knife: It's a knife, but it also has scissors and a toothpick and tools...multiple uses.”

 

This explanation seemed to make Jacob very happy. His Dad...? Not so much.

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I had to go in for my yearly gynecological checkup a few days ago. My gyno—although a lovely man—is my Second Least Favorite Person in the world to visit. My Number One Least Favorite Person to see is my dentist.  Ironical, as you soon will see.

It is important to keep in mind that after a woman's ovaries are on their last legs, any trip to the gyno is paved with humiliation. Beginning with the weigh-in.

 

I am pathetic.  Even before I start shucking clothes, the excuses began:

“I just got back from a cruise...might've packed on a few.”

“...but I have been working out, and my muscle weighs A LOT.”

“I have about 4 layers of polish on my nails, besides all that dead skin on my heels. Add all that together and I'm sure you can subtract at least a couple of pounds.”

After the number on those #^#% scales sent me to the depths of depression, I was given a Very Small, Very Thin, Very Short, Very Ugly gown with instructions to take off all my clothes and sit on a paper-covered examining table. Always a rebel, I refused to get completely naked. I kept my socks on.

 

[As all my sistas know, picking out clean, unholy, stirrup-appropriate socks is a very important part of pre-gyno-appointment preparation.]

There I was. My wiggly butt making crackly noises on the paper sheet, my ugly gown clasped tightly together, the last shreds of my dignity--my purple socks--covering my tightly crossed feet.

The door opened and in came the doctor, followed by his brightly smiling assistant. (Seriously, what does she have to smile about?)

They pulled out the stirrups and pushed me back on the uncomfortable table. As he prepared to get all up in my business, I heard the obnoxious voice of Joan Rivers ringing in my ear...“Dr. Gyno, at your cervix.”

“Any problems since last time?” He asked politely.

“Not really. Except...you know that little bumpy thing? It sometimes gets sore after we have wild monkey sex.” (Okay, to the best of my recollection, I didn't really say the 'wild monkey' part.)

“What 'bumpy thing' do you mean?” he asked patiently.

“You know...my uvula.” I answered.  Professional to Professional. 

 

All of a sudden, everything got reeeeeal quiet. Dr. Gyno looked at his nurse, his nurse looked back at him, then they both looked at me.

“What?” I asked, confused. “Is something wrong?”

“Er...I think you were referring to your urethra.” He said, without even cracking a grin.

 

“Oh. Ha. Haha. Yes, my urethra. Ha. A sore uvula would be a whole different issue, huh? Haha.” I said, in complete and total mortification.

 

Seriously, it is SO much easier to explain a wickerbill...