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