Lament and Celebration

Pour out your heart like water.

The phrase brings tears even now, four years later. Can it really be four years? Yes. This is my fifth Independence Day weekend without my husband. The loss is still heavy. I've grown stronger through the years. I've grown weaker these past four months.

At sunset last night I went for a drive to QT to buy snacks---a weakness. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I found myself, car windows open, singing God Bless America, a patriotic song I'd been taught in elementary school... then stopping my voice abruptly when a couple of neighbors out on the sidewalk raised their heads to glance at me.

I rolled up my window, looked straight ahead, and kept driving.

Along the way my comfortable, established, middle-class-to-affluent neighbors celebrated our independence---the American Revolution and our growing freedom from COVID-19 (or at least an easing of its restrictions).

The sky over our neighborhood lit up with exploding fireworks; the night echoed with rhythmic, spontaneous bursts of pop-pop-pop; and the air beneath the streetlights clouded with fog-like smoke.

I wept... for the battles, for the victories, for the people.

Rw

Arise, cry out in the night

as the watches of the night begin;

pour our your heart like water

in the presence of the Lord.

Lamentations 2:19

Photo by Chris Nemeth on Unsplash

only God

I live in the city of #michaelbrown

I live in a world of white privilege

weeping

hopelessness

fear

we seek control

and cling to false safety

a woman near me asks, Why the violent protest?

my mind answers one way

my heart another

because words have failed us

because we cannot listen

because we will not see

because the tomorrow will come

and

we will put this behind us

our lives will move on unchanged

we will choose not to change

except for 

those among us 

who choose differently

… hearts broken in the violence

… yearning for justice

mired in legalities

silenced by inefficacy

weary but still standing

a woman near me asks, What can I do?

anything

nothing

whatever God asks of you

… of me

I live in a city where lives do not matter

only God can calm the winds of chaos

only God can heal this brokenness

weeping

hopelessness

prayer

The Rumble

Just another ordinary Tuesday... my workday begins around 7:00 a.m., editing a column for my friend, Tim. Then, the extraordinary happens. As I read his words on the page my head begins swimming, a memory leaves the quiet of its resting place and floats toward my consciousness.

In the late '90s as the internet became a new and efficient connector for so many, a woman reached out to my husband, accusing him of violence toward her... years earlier... decades, actually. I cannot know how long my husband endured the weight of her accusation before sharing the burden with me. I hope it was minutes or hours, not weeks or months. 

I never asked. I cannot now know.

When the words he desired to say were spoken and silence filled the room, my first thought was: that is not possible... that is not the man you are. In the days that followed, the woman's sister contacted my husband, providing insight, giving details not of what her sibling believed had happened, but what was happening now.

I remember standing in the dining room, looking into my husband's eyes as he reached out by phone to someone he trusted, an attorney. The advice? Do not voluntarily submit to her request, ever. Too much risk. Too much uncertainty. Too much chaos over which there is no control. Do not, under any circumstances, participate in a paternity test.

Again, the timeline is lost in the passing of years. Eventually, though, the rumble of this is not possible made conforming our hearts to the attorney's advice untenable.

We made the decision to open a conversation with the sister and discuss what was happening now, and that discussion led us to another, and another, and then one day we drove north to meet a 20-something woman who'd been told my husband was her father. 

She wanted an accurate medical history, not for herself, but for her children, the ones she and her husband were raising.

On a sunny and otherwise unremarkable day, we sat in a booth in a Subway restaurant alongside the highway that connected her city with ours. I watched as my husband opened the envelope, read and signed the consent form, then scraped the inside of his cheek before handing the swab to the young woman.

I remember thinking how intelligent and engaging this young woman was... how brave. I was not fearful of the outcomes. My heart and mind were on her, contemplating the similarities in age and attitude she shared with our children. My mind drifted into the weirdness of an unknown future.

If the swabs affirmed no connection, would she suffer or rejoice? If the swabs revealed paternity, would she be blended into our family? Or, simply walk away a stranger with the medical history she risked so much for?

We sipped our sodas and made small talk for a time... a very short time... before leaving the restaurant.

Weeks passed.

We waited.

Then, one day, the information came.

My husband was not her father; he was not the shadowed figure of her mother's nightmares.

I wept.

I wept for the young woman... for the story of horror that surrounded her birth... for the pain in her life... her courage and the journey ahead of her.

Life grew quiet, contemplative, for my husband and for me... our hearts drawn closer together in this earthy life.

R

... 
Get wisdom.
Though it cost all you have, 

get understanding.
Cherish her, 

and she will exalt you;
embrace her, 

and she will honor you.
She will give you a garland 

to grace your head
and present you 

with a glorious crown.

-- Proverbs 4:8-9

My Happy Place

Castle by Milaney

In the past couple of weeks a handful of women began meeting... women I consider mentors and friends. Our purpose is to discuss the emotions we are experiencing in this time of COVID-19. Grief is what brings us together.

We began by introducing ourselves, answering the question: Who are you?

This simple question is difficult to answer.

Often in American culture we are asked at introduction: What do you do?

Which seems to mean: What do you do for money?

Very few people want to begin by hearing about volunteerism, missions, passions, triumphs, dreams and struggles. Perhaps as the conversation progresses we might get to some of that, but mostly we are seeking a simple box of containment: What do you do for money?

My heart wants to go deeper. Perhaps that is why the question is: Who are you?

My answer on that first day of our new group: Despite the fact that my book earned $6 in royalties this past year, I am a writer.

I am a writer.

I am an editor.

I am pretty good at real estate transaction coordination... the paperwork.

If the question is: What do you do? then my ranking is reversed because we are speaking about what we do to earn money.

I am a real estate transaction coordinator.

I am an editor.

I am a writer.

I am also a grandmother, a mother, a mother-in-law, a fifty-something caucasian woman with a partial college education, a friend, a companion, a roommate, a leader, a follower, a sister, a daughter, a niece, an aunt, a widow and oddly a wife... still wearing his ring.

The follow up question now seems to be: Where is your happy place?

In being a grandmother, in seeing my husband's legacy live, love, learn and grow. 

The castle has lots of rooms.

R

Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going. -- Jesus, in John 14:1-4 [more]

Autonomy

At sunrise on the Saturday before Easter, I drove a few miles south to leave on the front porch a birthday surprise for my daughter-in-law and granddaughter (the one who just turned two). In the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic and safer-at-home guidelines, being present to witness the blowing out of the birthday candles is not worth the risk of me bringing the virus into their home. My heart finds joy in photos shared on social media and rests in the assurance that this season of isolation will pass...  On Easter Sunday my daughter and I spoke via Zoom, a new-to-me audio/video conferencing platform. She sent me the invitation entitled Digital Coffee. I clicked on the link and we chatted: me from the corner of the kitchen in Missouri, she from the newly synthesized at-home-office in the corner of an extra bedroom in Wisconsin.

My daughter and daughter-in-law, along with my son and son-in-law are strong, intelligent adults who cared for me in the early years of my widowhood, when to stop breathing was my daily prayer. In this, the fourth year of the widow-journey, my mental and emotional health are stabilizing. I am embracing life and finding joy again. Yet, in this pandemic and with the recent lowering of the at-risk age to those of us over 50, I am mentally addressing life's inevitable end. 

The conversations are difficult. No human wants to imagine the end of life for someone we love. Yet, the protocols for the end of my life are in place. My son is the executor of my will. My daughter is person designated in my healthcare power of attorney. 

On Saturday morning, during our Digital Coffee, God opened a moment for saying the difficult words, reminding my daughter that if I become deathly ill I want no extraordinary measures to prolong my life. 

I am not being an alarmist. I am doing my homework. Early studies are showing that loved ones who are diagnosed with COVID-19 and decline to the point where we are put on ventilators will not likely leave the hospital.

"It's very concerning to see how many patients who require ventilation do not make it out of the hospital," says Dr. Tiffany Osborn, a critical care specialist at Washington University in St. Louis who has been caring for coronavirus patients at Barnes-Jewish Hospital. [more]

One of the tenets of my faith that held me steady at the death of my husband is that life itself is in the hands of our Lord, that the days of our lives are numbered, perhaps from the moment of creation itself.

I am inspired by the lyrics of Light Shine Bright:

I wanna magnify Your light 

I wanna reflect the sun
Cut like precious diamonds
With the colors by the millions
This is the only world we know
And for now this rental's our home
If we gonna be a reflection
Gotta make this third rock glow

This is earth is our rental. Eternal life is on the other side.

Jesus promises: "My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am." John 14:2-3

My daughter once observed that autonomy is something I highly value. Faith is essential too.

Holding onto His promises.

R

resource: talking about death and dying

photo: me. a brunett in the '70s.

HOPE

 

1962. The year this photograph was taken. 

1962. The year I was born.

John F. Kennedy, at the age of 43, was the youngest person elected U.S. President. 

Only Teddy Roosevelt was younger (42) when he assumed the presidency following the assassination of President McKinley. Bill Clinton and Ulysses S. Grant were 46; Barrack Obama was 47.

The photograph above transports me back in time to when the adult women -- my mother's friends -- spoke well of the First Lady, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy. She was iconic. Girls my age were encouraged to be like her, to be inspired by her intelligence and graciousness. Years later, my mother shared with me "Jacqueline Kennedy: The White House Years" at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The world I knew only in black and white, came alive in full color.

In a conversation with my daughter this past weekend, I bemoaned the lack of youthfulness in the candidates. I am old (58) and consider these guys -- wealthy white males President Trump, Joe Biden, Bernie Sanders -- age-appropriate to date my mother, were she to be in the market, so to speak.

My daughter -- a woman now old enough to be president -- reminded me that family folklore reveals my own passion for politics: a political psychology class at University of Wisconsin-Madison unleashed within me a desire to be a political campaign manager.

Inspired by the candidacy of Hillary Rodham Clinton, my Honda Accord once sported an H08 sticker.

All this to say, that I am perplexed by the choices allotted me and my fellow citizens in this coming election. This morning it is clear to me that I've sat on the sidelines of politics far too long and I need to get back in the game.

I am returning to the idealism of my youth and looking to support candidates who inspire me. 

HOPE 2024.

R

Movie worth watching: Natalie Portman as Jacqueline Kennedy

Gotta love Wiki U.S. Presidents listed by age

Photo credit

Waiting

I wake at 6:15am ... it is Saturday, amid a pandemic. There is no work today, no place to go. Sleeping in is an attractive option, but I am awake. I walk softly to the kitchen, heat up yesterday's coffee (brewing a fresh pot feels too noisy) and open the blinds on the kitchen window to welcome the day.

I am waiting for the sun to rise.

Rain is expected. The two-story brick buildings and heavy gray clouds obscure the glory of a classic sunrise. Instead the deep shadows of the night slowly dissipate. The exterior trim framing the windows moves from murky gray to radiant white. The harsh illumination of the security light on the blossoming tree gives way to the softer, natural daylight. The gentle interplay of green leaves, brown stems, and delicate clusters of flowers calmly unfolds.

I open my devotional: "Look at the birds in the air. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, but your heavenly Father feeds them. And you know that you are worth much more than the birds."

The words remind me that God is good and faithful and calms the storm.

I pray, asking to trust God in the waiting, to be more like the birds.

R

Matthew 6:26

A Matter of Place

I look at the black and white 8x10 photo of my grandson welcoming his first sibling. He is a toddler – so young – yet he is quiet in the moment, looking at her with such tenderness and love it takes my breath away. 

Wisdom whispers, reminding me that tender moments are rare and precious. Babies and toddlers are not always quiet. I am thankful for the Grands and the photograph.

Stetsonville – Medford – Cornell – Menomonie – Chippewa Falls

Cornell – Holcombe – Chippewa Falls – Eau Claire

Sun Prairie – Ankeny – Eden Prairie – Marshalltown – West Bend

Bloomer – Eau Claire – Oakville – Mehlville – Affton

The photograph has traveled with me to five of the nineteen places called home. The geography of my life spans four states – with return engagements – in the Mississippi River basin.

Wisconsin – Iowa – Minnesota – Missouri

The Mississippi is constant, faithful and changing. The levees and bridges, locks and dams, envisioned by human minds and constructed by human hands imperfectly withstand the forces of nature. Some age gracefully. Others experience catastrophic failure. All require maintenance and repair. Creeks and streams and smaller rivers flow into the Mississippi, and the mighty river flows boldly south toward New Orleans and the inevitable mingling with the sea.

My grandson, born in Minnesota, welcomed his first sister in Wisconsin, his second sister in Missouri, and just days ago a third sister amid pandemic of COVID-19. He holds the baby and smiles for the camera – a moment of tenderness and pride, flanked by femininity, a sister on each side. The generous over-stuffed rocker is filled to capacity. Behind the rocker is a patio door. Sunlight pours in and my eyes are drawn upward from the Grands to the backyard edged by untamed growth. An aging railroad bridge crosses over the Meramec, the water below eagerly flowing toward the Mississippi, flowing toward the sea.

My soul grows quiet, contemplative, prayerful.

In a letter to the exiles the prophet Jeremiah writes: “‘I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

Yes, Lord. Yes.

R

Jeremiah 29:11

Restless

The afternoon light fades into evening, then is overcome by the darkness of night. The social distancing implemented to flatten the curve of the pandemic leaves me restless. I stare at the ceiling fan in my bedroom. My introvert longs for human interaction. I cannot imagine the torment this must be for the extroverts. I am thankful for my daily conversations with my roommate and one brief exchange with the Fed Ex guy who delivered a package on Monday. On Saturday I take time out and listen to an author-friend explore Elijah's story. She describes her own journey adhering to the Safer at Home guidelines and invites us to do the same... to sit in our emotions, our sense of isolation, disruption and loss. My mind wanders backward in time: The Great Recession, Ebola, 9/11, Y2K, Cold War, Space Shuttle Challenger, AIDS Epidemic, Jonestown Massacre, and assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and President John F. Kennedy ... poverty, wealth, faith, doubt, divorce, marriage, widowhood, pregnancy, childbirth, growth, strength, love. Using a black pen I write ill-equipped, lost, scared, distracted, loved, blessed, befriended, scattered, faithful, concerned, adrift, self-doubt and assured on the line-less white paper in front of me. The virus is contagious. Panic is contagious too. The author encourages us to journal our thoughts on COVID-19's impact and our experience. I draw a horizontal line across my page and make a timeline in response to her question: How will we use these days? Be calm. Be kind. Be patient. God is bigger than whatever evil threatens to emotionally crush me today. 

R

I leave you peace; my peace I give you. I do not give it to you as the world does. So don’t let your hearts be troubled or afraid. -- Jesus, in John 14:27 NCV

The Dream

This morning, waking just before 3 a.m., I realize I had been dreaming---vividly.

I am in a large stubbled field at night. Though there is a partial moon, most of the light is coming from the headlights of my car---a mahogany red VW Rabbit I drove 25 years ago. I am walking behind and away from the car. I am walking with purpose to the edge of the field where the area is wooded primarily with deciduous trees. As I move toward the woods I see two wolves and hear a third.

In the dream, I stop, then slowly reverse my motion, walking backward in the direction of my car.

The alpha male is in an alert resting position, his abdomen to the ground, his front legs positioned to rise quickly. He doesn't stand nor threaten me.

From the moment I see him, he never lets go of my gaze.

I am aware that I feel fear.

I reach the car without incident and open the passenger side front door.

When I am safely inside the car and the door is closed I look down to see a black lab on the floor, sitting upright. There is ample room for him and my legs. My first impression is that this dog is a familiar pet, one once belonging our family, specifically to me or my son---Lady, Midnight, Dozer or Dee Dee. After I wake I realize that several years ago during Theophostic prayer sessions God appeared often as a black lab: steady, protective, comforting, familiar, love. Unconditional love.

In the dream I effortlessly move left into the driver's seat, put the car in gear, then do a u-turn, screaming at the wolves, driving fast, tires kicking up dirt as my u-turn takes me close to them before driving away.

The wolves do not retreat. The alpha remains at rest; he does not stand nor startle.

As I experience the u-turn in the dream, the directions I feel are not as we as a society agreed or established here on earth---North South East West. The wolves are north of the field and in the dream east and west are reversed.

The lay of the land feels very Iowa---the harvested field being table-top flat. The dirt, though, is not the rich black top soil Iowa is blessed with but the less fertile brown of a parched Wisconsin field in autumn, or even the crusty clay-infused topsoil of surburban eastern Missouri.

Returning to sleep, then waking a couple of hours later, I realize that the fear I feel in the dream is within me. I am concerned about the fragility of my human body. And, it is the God-infused strength in my soul that empowers me to meet the gaze of the wolf---to stare back courageously into the eyes of the predator.

R

Jesus called his twelve disciples to him and gave them authority to drive out impure spirits and to heal every disease and sickness… “I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves… do not worry about what to say or how to say it… you will be given what to say, for it will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” Matthew 10:1,16,19-20 NIV