glorious mess

One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don't clean it up too quickly. ~Andy Rooney

I feel like I really did Christmas this year.  I started early, right after Thanksgiving, pondered presents, then bought and wrapped and shipped them.  Christmas music played in the car and in the house every day. We decorated with our traditional Christmas decorations - the boy's advent calendar and stockings,  our nativity figures, my little Mexican Santa candle, red and green mugs for hot chocolate, sparkling stars tucked in the poinsettia plant and icicle lights on the eves outside.  Our family Christmas ornaments bedecked the tree.

In the last few weeks our home has been filled with dear friends and precious family, parties and food, laughter and conversation.  It has been an incredibly rich holiday season.

The morning after Christmas, my son said he felt sad to have it all over.  The anticipation, the surprises, the plans -done.  Long, eventless and cold, January looms.  He has post Christmas blues. 

I am just the opposite.  I wake up on December 26 with a feeling of euphoria.  Like I just crossed the finish line of a half marathon.  I did it!  I succeeded!   I survived!  If I had my way, I would put Christmas away the night of the 25th.  Ornaments wrapped, pine needles swept up, boxes and wrapping hauled to the dumpster.  Everything back in the containers, then back to the crawl space for another year.  My family makes me wait until New Years.  So the mess stays for a few more days.

In chaplain training we talked a lot about becoming comfortable with the mess.  An untimely passing, an hysterical family member, a demanding staff member, frequent grief.  More importantly, we practiced being comfortable with our own mess.  Our shadows, baggage and flaws.  The parts of ourselves that we want to hide.  But those very parts are what remind us of our need for a Savior and of God's continuous grace. 

In Romans 3:23-26, Paul wrote a new perspective on the Christmas story.  "Since we’ve ...proved that we are utterly incapable of living the glorious lives God wills for us, God did it for us. Out of sheer generosity he put us in right standing with himself.  A pure gift. He got us out of the mess we’re in and restored us to where he always wanted us to be. And he did it by means of Jesus Christ."  The Message Bible

I think that is why Andy Rooney's quote caught my attention this year.  It reminded me that I am a glorious mess.  A glorious mess redeemed in a manger, in a stable on Christmas day.  Don't clean it up too quickly!  Long after the tree is down I want that pure gift of Christmas to stay with me, unpacked and celebrated all year long.

cool

Dr. Phil says everybody has a personal truth.  A personal truth is what you believe about yourself when nobody's listening and nobody is watching.

I can't remember the first time I knew I wasn't cool.  Maybe when I was around 7 and the cute little neighbor boy said he wanted to play with anyone but me.  Maybe when I was in high school and most of the cool girls were on the basketball team and got to ride the sports bus with the boys.  I couldn't dribble a ball to save my life.  Maybe it sunk in during college when the cool kids went dancing all hours of the night in D.C. clubs.  During the week they would laugh at first timers who had no rhythm. I shuddered to think what they would say if they saw me try to dance.  And then as an adult while my friends would share stories of operating room adventures or elementary teaching trials, no one understood my excitement over planning a creative communion service or how I loved hunting for grace in the Old Testament.  I have always had the most wonderful, super coolest friends.  Beautiful, talented, interesting people I wanted to be more like in so many ways.  But my personal truth of my uncoolness was reinforced all too regularly.

Then in the least cool move possible, at the end of my thirties, I exploded my life.  Total destruction.  I spent the next couple years swimming up from the abyss through miles of shame and regret.  I spent the next couple years in a counselor's office and in Clinical Pastor Education, (chaplain training) which is basically therapy on speed.  Where I was constantly asked questions like "What are your personal truths?"  And "How is that working for you?"

That is where I realized, among other things, that I had lived the last 40 plus years with the belief that I was not cool.   I had never realized it out loud before.  But it made sense.  I shared my epiphany with Steve, who had the nicest answer.  He said "It's hard for me to believe that is one of your core issues, since you are one of the coolest people I know."  I told him that was a sweet thing to say.  And then blew him off.  Because it's so obvious that I have never been thin enough, fashiony enough, techy enough, or arty enough to be cool no matter how much I wanted to be.

You know how people will say "so and so looks like an artist" because of their colorful hair or funky outfits?  I'm pretty sure I look exactly like a hospice chaplain with a closet full of comfortable shoes and black sweaters.  I download sermons to listen to for fun.  I love washing my car.  The most exciting thing I can imagine is to crawl into a hot bath with a new magazine.  So it's hopeless.

Over the last five years I have learned so much about myself.  I've made hundreds of amends, trained in a new path of ministry, learned to be curious and kind with the dark spots on my soul, made new friends, learned new ways of thinking and seeing myself and the world.  And often am still quite a dork....

Last week I was making fun of myself for doing something dumb.  Steve laughed with me and then said again what he had said three years ago.  "You are one of the coolest people I know."  Except this time I heard it.  I heard it from a guy whose tastes and opinions I value so highly.  This time I believed him.  His simple phrase delighted me.  And for a split second I saw myself through his eyes.

A girl who hammered nails in an orphanage wall in the jungles of Honduras, hiked through castle ruins in Scotland and swam in the dead sea in Israel.

A girl who is equally happy with Barclay's commentary on Luke, and US Weekly celebrity edition.

A girl with crazy amounts of courage and compassion.

A girl who completed every obstacle in the Tough Mudder but can't program the radio in her car.

A girl who cracks herself up with her own silly jokes, closes her eyes during scary movies and reads the ends of books first.

A girl who loves her family and friends ferociously.  A girl who is learning and growing and trying....

In that split second I wondered "who says she isn't cool?" and "why I have I been so mean to her for the last 44 years?"  And just like that a life time quest for coolness, and a negative personal truth evaporated.  POOF.  Gone. It just didn't seem to carry any importance or weight to me any more.

Shauna Niequest, in her book Bread and Wine writes "sometimes God helps us work out our crazy through struggle and loss, and sometimes he helps us work it out through truth telling and vulnerability - and sometimes he just uses comedy."

Today I turn 45.  Almost 50.  Half of 90. Ouch....  Maybe the comedy is that it took me to the age of reading glasses and earlier bed times to finally stop measuring and judging and wishing.  And finally be content to just be me - whatever temperature that might be.

tupelo

One of my favorite restaurants in Asheville is Tupelo Honey.  It's southern comfort food with a fresh twist.  We are talking pillowy biscuits with plenty of blackberry jam, goat cheese grits and fried green tomatoes, sweet potato pancakes, big as a plate with granola pieces and homemade maple syrup.  And my personal favorite -a gluten free cheddar and havarti grilled cheese sandwich with a cup of thick tomato soup. Are you hungry yet?

Comfort food is defined as food which often provides a nostalgic or sentimental feeling to the person eating it.  It reminds us of a time when we were nourished and nurtured.  When work gets crazy, finals loom, Christmas shopping is hectic, or we get lonely, we crave comfort food that takes us back to a safe, happy time.

One of the discomforting things in my life and work is people coming and leaving. I might have a patient and family for one week or for two years.  But every week someone I've invested in is passing on.  My specific job is to help them make this transition peacefully.  I'm so thankful for coworkers who share the experiences and the losses with me and understand this painful honor.

In Spartanburg I had Nathan and Vicki, my co-chaplain residents.  Together we learned every square inch of a giant hospital.  We watched our first autopsy together, starting horrified in the doorway, but by the end right up at the table peering in to parts of the human body we had never seen before.  We become veteran trauma responders, commiserated on sleepless nights on call,  learned to be calm in emergencies and to enter into the darkness with our patients.  We spent hours in our shared office, spinning our chairs around to talk/cry/laugh/agonize.  And that year we all became chaplains.  At the end of 12 months Nathan moved to Alaska to work as a bereavement chaplain.  Vicki moved to Arizona to pastor a church there.  And I joined the Four Seasons Hospice team in Asheville.  I miss them!

Hospice work was very different than my hospital experience. I was so grateful to work with two seasoned and amazing social workers, Beth and Amanda.   They took me under their wings and I was always glad when we did joint visits. Together we learned every square mile of Buncombe county.  We knocked on doors of mansions and hovels.  We hiked up dirt roads or snow roads we couldn't drive up.  We held hands with hurting people and blinked back tears.  We listened and hugged and prayed and helped our people. For three years we were a team.  Then this summer a pregnant Amanda left for a more baby-friendly schedule.  And Beth left to be a full time hospice daughter for her Atlanta father who passed away this fall.  I miss them!

There is a people equivalent to comfort food.  Old friends and fellow travelers.  Safe, familiar, nourishing, interesting, comfortable people.  I need this in my life.  I need to be reminded that while lots of people come and go, my comfort people that are still here.

Last week I got an email from Nathan.  Really do miss you guys. I still have a picture of us residents from the Spartanburg days, on my desk. I look at it all the time and speak small prayers for you gals. I still can't say how much I learned and grew that year. So glad to know you both.  Then he said he would be in Asheville for a few days for Christmas.  Could we meet for breakfast?  Could we?!!!  

At the same time Beth and Amanda and I set a date for lunch after weeks of crazy scheduling issues.  Monday we met for lunch at Tupelo Honey.  I held Amanda's tiny baby boy and we caught up on family, work, healing, and plans for the holiday.  Over toasty grilled cheese and chunky tomato soup, we made plans to meet again in January and not wait so long to make it happen.

Wednesday morning I was back at Tupelo Honey waving to Alaskan Nathan as he walked up the sidewalk.  I had an omelet and goat cheese grits as I listened to his and Heather's adventures and shared my family stories.  It felt so good to be caught up on his life and work.  We took a selfie outside the restaurant and sent it to Vicki titled Incomplete Reunion.

To cap off my comfort people binge, on Sunday morning I pick up my parents from the airport.  My ultimate comfort people.  They are the human equivalent to mac and cheese, mashed potatoes and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies all put together.  And though it is a little obsessive to go to the same restaurant three times in two weeks, guess where I am taking them to eat?

the whole picture

definition: Holusion - a trademark for an apparently meaningless pattern that holds a three-dimensional image inside if you know how to look for it.

Do you remember about 20 years ago, when these 3D pictures were the big thing?  I do.  Vividly.  Because I could not see the secret picture.  For a while I thought the whole thing was a joke - like cow tipping or snipe hunting.  I waited to be let in on the secret laugh.

directions: with the art almost touching your nose, just stare as if you were trying to look right through the page. Slowly pull back a little bit. When the art is at comfortable view distance, the image should come into focus.  If it doesn't don't worry.  It may take several attempts before you see it.

But, I was promised, there is something there.  So I kept reading the directions.  And using the transparent sheet.  And slowly pulling the picture back from my nose.  Then one day I saw it!  I went from picture to picture practicing until I could go immediately see the 3D image in each frame.

I thought about Holusion art this week.  I spend lots of time in nursing home rooms talking to very elderly, wizened, gummy-smiled people in wheel chairs and railed beds.  But the longer I spend with them, the more I realize that they weren't always frail and bent.  On their walls are pictures of them as young soldiers, beautiful brides, strong fathers, resourceful mothers, beloved parents and adored friends.  This week I talked to a career logger, a published writer, a man who hiked the entire Appalachian trail and a woman who raised eight children.  I  learned about selling Corvettes in the 1950's and how to bake to-die-for biscuits in a wood burning oven.  

As I hear their stories all the parts of them become visible, filling in their wrinkles, straightening their backs.  Beyond oxygen tubes and paper thin skin I am learning to see the vibrant, integral people they have been, the souls of great value they are.  I am learning to recognize the twinkle in an eye or  a clever retort that helps me quickly glimpse the 3D person.  The whole, beautiful, illustrious picture.

note:  Don't be in too much of a hurry.  Some people are unable to see the art because the moment they start to see part of the image, they rivet their attention on the obvious pattern.  Remember, stay relaxed and keep looking through the page until the whole picture appears.

from Holusion Art, NVision Grafix, Inc

christmas

It's Christmas time in the mountains.  I know this because every radio station is playing Christmas carols.  I know this because it gets dark so early and many houses on my drive home are decked out in festive lights.  I know it's Christmas time because of the insane traffic around the mall and the long line of cars heading into the Biltmore House.

The Biltmore House is a wonderful place to get into the Christmas spirit.  When I am independently wealthy I am going to go to the Biltmore House every December for a day or two.  I will wander from room to room soaking up each decorated tree and downtown abby detail.  Years ago, I was given a year long pass to the Estate.  I decided to take my two little boys (still at a free age!) for a morning at Biltmore and began filling their minds with tales of the Christmas trees, gingerbread houses and the hot chocolate we would drink afterwards. 

Unfortunately the boys were at a "seen one tree, you've seen them all" phase in their little boyness.  By the third room they began a campaign to head to the super cool Starbucks we had passed right outside the Lodge Gate.  We saw the house at break neck speed and soon were burning our tongues on rich, hot chocolate.  Which is when the boys declared this to be a great morning out.

Part of my Biltmore nostalgia stems from the fact that those two little boys are growing up so fast!  But also because I am halfway through a book about the history and people of this grand estate.  I'm fascinated with the world traveling woman who fell in love with Asheville and the mountains and moved into Biltmore to make it a home.

"Edith Stuyvesant Dresser was a woman of strength and supreme self-confidence.  She was tall - nearly six feet -with prominent features, brown hair , and dark hazel eyes.  Edith was twenty-five, clearly independent and living in Paris with an older sister when she married George Vanderbilt, who was then thirty-five.  Though Edith was raise in New York and Newport with no knowledge of the southern Appalachian, she came to share her husband's appreciation of the North Carolina mountains and the people who lived there." Lady on the Hill, page 40

And just when I feel like my Christmas is getting too hectic and I can't drag myself into another store, Edith inspires again.

"Edith was friendly and approachable.  Every worker on the estate and members of their families saw her at least once a year at the traditional Christmas party when her husband distributed presents from under the Biltmore tree.  Preparations began in October, with Edith circulating among the farm families to update the names and ages of children so that each would have a gift.  Some years she personally selected more than fifteen hundred presents for employees, former employees, and their families; saw that they were wrapped; and stashed them safely in one of the tower rooms until Christmas Day." - Lady on the Hill, page 41

I love picturing the joy on those children's faces!  I don't have Edith's budget but I can hang on to her thoughtfulness, personalization and giving spirit as I head into this holiday season.

And in that spirit, here is a beautiful December prayer -

Christ of the Christmas Morning
Hope is one of your best gifts to us
So teach us to give it to others
---An Adapted Celtic Prayer

chaos, crickets and cheesy macaroni

Steve bought Josh an African Bull Frog for his birthday.  This was not my idea of a good time.  I felt that the last thing we needed was another mess-making creature in the house.  But Josh loves all things nature.  So Steve arranged a terrarium with bark and moss and water and turned the light on. And twice that evening Josh led me by the hand into his room saying "look how beautiful it is mom."  So my hard heart was melted.

For a while.  Frogs have to eat and recently it's been too cold for Josh to find crickets outside.  So last week I begrudgingly stopped at a pet store and bought 20 wiggling crickets.  And yes I was muttering the whole time.  Only to get home and find out that Steve had also brought home 20 crickets.  We put the 40 crickets in the cricket cage next to the frog home.

The next morning right before school I heard a crash.  We ran upstairs to find that our puppy had chased our cat upstairs.  And our cat had gotten enthralled with the jumping crickets and knocked their cage down to get a closer look.  And now, 20 minutes before school started, there were almost 40 crickets, a cat and a dog on the loose.

This is my life.  More often than I'd like to admit.  Chaos.  Everyone catching crickets. Leaves tramped in all over the floors.  Laundry piles.  A kitchen that looks like a hurricane hit.   I am a person who craves order and structure and peace.  I long for a cricket free life. Too bad for me....

I read in Real Simple this summer that you should make your bed first thing because it increases your energy level and establishes control from the core of your house.  I have made my bed every morning since.  Though my room looks nice, I'm still waiting to achieve core control.

I recently found this quote -"You've got to embrace the chaos.  That way, life just astonishes you." (is this wisdom really from Hot Tub Time Machine?)  So as I chase crickets, I am practicing flexibility and embracing chaos.

On Sunday night Jake's mattress was still downstairs from our family Friday night sleep over.  He was too tired to haul it upstairs so he grabbed his blankets and headed to the guest room.  Josh woke up 30 minutes later complaining that the crickets were chirping from their cage.  So he came downstairs and fell asleep on Jake's mattress in my room.  I took my computer to the living room while Steve fell asleep in the man cave watching football.   11 pm on Sunday night, the crickets were causing problems again and no one was in their right beds.  A little chaos and I am just ready to be astonished.

But the best lesson in flexibility came Monday morning.  My nephew Gabe turned 7.  As he typically does, he requested macaroni and cheese when asked what he wanted to eat.  And as usual his mother reminded him that macaroni and cheese is not a breakfast food.  My mom was there and whispered that Jenny should shock him and fix it for his birthday breakfast.  So Monday morning, the birthday boy walked into his kitchen to discover the most out of order, unstructured, delicious mac and cheese breakfast of all times.  He was astonished.  And thrilled.

Hearing about it melted my cricket chasing heart again.

by name

I'm spending all my Monday nights this fall at Gardner Webb University.  That's me on the second floor of  the School of Divinity in a class called The Life and Work of a Minister.  

Our teacher is the wonderful, practical, creative Lisa Allen.  But on the first night of class, Dr. Allen told us we had to learn each other's names. She talked about how taking the time to learn a name is an act of caring.  At least I think that's what she was saying.  I was too busy looking around at the 26 strangers sitting in the room and panicking to listen to her.  Then I realized that she couldn't be talking to me.  I am bad at remembering names.  And while these students have many classes together, eat in the cafeteria together, play in the gym together, I just drive 3 hours one time a week and rush in and out.  So whew.  I was off the hook. I sat back and enjoyed the introductions as they went in one ear and out the other.

Until week three of class.  When Dr. Allen asked us to take out a piece of paper and list every one's name.  She was serious about this?  Oh dear.  I knew two names.  And one I wasn't sure about.

Tianna, Faith

I guess I wasn't the only one fumbling.  Because we went around the room again.  Reintroducing ourselves, sharing our church affiliation, current employment and nick names.  As we went, I frantically made a seating chart with names and identifying reminders in case people moved.  And I started practicing during class when people spoke up.

Toni, Kevin, Horace, Tony, 

Week four I walked into class and two people greeted me by name.  It struck me how comforting the sound of my name was in an unfamiliar place.  We broke into small groups and talked about family scripts and myers briggs testing.  "Erin, are you an introvert or extrovert?" a group member asked.  Another person asked how long my drive from Asheville took.  I stopped feeling invisible and starting feeling like I belonged here.

Jefferson, Tyler, Sherin, Jo, Rachel, Sherri, 

Last week I mentally went around the classroom practicing names.  I realized that Hugh was missing.  Then remembered that he was having surgery today.  I wondered how he was doing and said a prayer for him.  I admired how much detail Travis put into his presentation.  I noticed how Rachel takes the time to respond to each of our comments on blackboard.  And I thought about this quote I love from Scott Peck.  "The principal form that the work of love takes is attention.  When we love another person we give him or her our attention; we attend to that person's growth."

Kimberlee, Keith, Elizabeth, Chelsea, Onika, Hugh, George,

Tonight we celebrated All Saints day.  We shared stories about a person who impacted us and has passed on.  Then Dr. Allen asked us to raise up our hands as she prayed for us and the ones who have inspired us.  Twenty six fellow students, learning to minister better, healthier.  Twenty seven of us standing together, hands raised, heads bowed in prayer.  Coming from twenty seven different places to this room.  And for these three hours growing more connected, more intertwined.

Gerald, Anthony, Jeremy, Keno, Travis, and Terry.  Just to name a few of my friends....

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine." Isaiah 43:1

sanctuaries

I'm sitting in the middle of a big king sized bed, in front of a huge sliding glass door.  

From that door I watched my 3 guys kayak out on a fishing trip early this morning.  I watched the sun rise over the water and marshes a little while later.  Around me on the bed are books, magazines, my lap top.  But for now I'm just staring out the window, holding as still as I can, breathing, being, feeling myself fill back up.

This week is our family vacation at one of my favorite places on earth.  Manteo, Outer Banks.  I love it for so many reasons.  The beautiful beaches and sand dunes are surprisingly remote and uncrowded.  My boys have an endless stream of activities - swimming in the pool, riding bikes, fishing, kayaking, body surfing the waves, etc.  The area is packed with history, from the Wright Brothers, to the Colonists and Indians, to Pirates.  Manteo is the cutest, little town.  Steve and I wander the streets some evenings exploring piers and trying new restaurants.  I made the boys drive into town with me one morning to try an old fashioned coffee shop.  We sat on the porch drinking mocha lattes and Josh said "If I had known this is what pastries tasted like we would have come a lot sooner." Nights often include a giant Monopoly game that only Papa and Grandma Sandy have the patience to play with the boys.  A perfect week of happy togetherness.

And then there is the quiet. The peaceful quiet of the house when every one is out playing.  The deafening quiet of the beach where all I can hear is the crashing waves.  The quiet kitchen where I have plenty of time to create sustenance for the never still boys. The quiet boardwalks through the marshes where I exercise.  And the quiet window in our bedroom where I sit and think.

I'm my best self here.  I'm relaxed and creative.  I'm adventurous and flexible.  I wish I was always like this.  Some of my quiet time here has been pondering the leaks in my life that drain me of this feeling of peace.

There are some leaks that are unavoidable - I love my job, but it's tough.  A regular influx of more money would plug some big cracks.  As would never having to worry about the health and well being of the people I love.  There are always going to be leaks.

But as I look back over the summer, I realize that some leaks are my fault.  I still say yes to too many things.  I let fear in.  I let my margins get too small.  My priorities get screwy.  And I wait for vacations to find sanctuary.

I'm planning more sanctuary time - in big ways and little ones. On my list -
Declutter my bedroom and pull my chair back in front of the window 
          -so it's more like my beach room.
Plan healthy meals ahead of time when it's fun instead of in last minute stress
Say "Let me think about it" and "no" instead of "yes"
More girl movies 
Realize all my mini sanctuaries - a walk along the French Broad, drives on the parkway, hot baths...
Turn off the radio, the TV, the computer
Practice gratitude every day.

I love this quote from Eugene Peterson in Leap Over A Wall.
Wonderful things happen in sanctuaries.  On the run we stop at a holy place and find that there's more to life than our circumstances and feelings indicate at that moment.  We perceive God in and around and beneath us.  New life surges up within us.  We discover a piece of our lives we had thought long gone restored to us, remember an early call of God, a place of prayer, a piece of evidence that God saves.  We leave restored, revived, redeemed. 

To the beach and beyond!

moonshine

I learned a lot about alcohol this week.  Maybe it's the weather.  Or the lack of big news.  Or the need to numb a hospice diagnosis.  But this week my people had booze on the brain, and I heard some fun stories.

Larry told me about growing up with a still in the woods behind his house.  Sure, it was illegal, but it seemed that every one of his father's friends had one too.  Larry knew of men who  brewed huge batches of the "white lightening" and modified their cars to smuggle it on the back country mountain roads between Asheville and Knoxville or Atlanta.  These shine runners would tell stories of alluding and outrunning police.  They would brag about who had the faster car.  Larry told me this is how stock car racing began, and how many nascar legends started out as shine runners.  

But their family still was a small one.  Just big enough for a few batches of moonshine for special occasions.  Larry got that far away look on his face just thinking about it.  "Good, strong stuff my dad made.  Would bring tears to a grown man's eyes trying to swallow it."

William told me about his first assignment in the Navy. He rode the train from Arkansas to New Jersey.  Then got assigned to what would be affectionately called "the booze boat."  His war time task was to sail around Florida, through the Panama Canal, past California, and then to the Hawaiian Islands delivering cases of beer to the soldiers stationed in various ports.  "I really lucked out." William reminisced.  "Other boys were shooting guns and getting parts blown off.  I was passing out boxes of booze and being treated like a hero. The only problem was the last delivery was minus a few cases".  He says with a smirk.

Hambone (no joke, that's what he likes to be called) worked as a logger in Washington state for years.  Then he ended up in North Carolina building houses.  Before he knew it, he was in his sixties, and wasn't bouncing back from hard manual labor like he once had.  For almost a decade he dreamed about retirement, about time off and freedom.  Two months after Hambone turned 71, he quit his job.  Cold turkey.  Just walked up to the foreman on a Friday afternoon and announced that he was done.  He stopped by a liquor store on the way home and bought a fifth of whiskey and a bottle of rum.  That evening he sat in front of his TV doing shots until he passed out.  Sunday afternoon Hambone woke up feeling awful.  He said to himself "I don't like being retired one bit."  Monday morning he headed to an Asheville nephew's business and offered his woodworking skills. Which he did six days a week for ten years, until he joined hospice.

I sat with Josephina and Albert in a small nursing home room.  Josephina spends hours every day here offering Albert sips of water, trying to keep him from getting out of his wheelchair or falling out of bed.  She talks about better days when Albert's mind was sharp and he could still say her name.  Their eight children visit often, but their dad rarely recognizes them anymore.  Bert Jr. comes every Thursday night at 6 pm.  He decided he would make it a habit whether his dad knew he was there or not.  Every Thursday at 6 he shows up with two beers and takes his dad to the porch to sit in adjoining rocking chairs while they drink together.  This morning, Wednesday morning, right before I visited, Albert turned to Josephina and said the first intelligible thing he'd said in three months.  "Is today Thursday?  I need to see Bert."

What a crazy job I have.  To walk into people's homes and rooms and memories.  To hear what is on their hearts. To learn and laugh and groan and encourage them to keep talking.  Keep telling their stories.  Because we couldn't make these stories up if we tried.  But I sure do enjoy hearing them.

lunch

I'm making sandwiches again.  With two hungry boys in the house it never ends.  At least four times a day I am trying to come up with something fast, easy and basic to meet their preferences, moods and hunger levels.  Or directing them to help themselves to cereal or left overs.  Or revising my shopping list. And I'm often frazzled by it.  Frustrated.  Then I heard this story....

Pete was a teenager in Asheville in the 1940's.  His dad worked long hours on the railroad.  His mother worked long hours washing clothes for her eight children and keeping them from starvation.  They lived a basic, pleasant, solid life with no frills.

The best way Pete could help was to get a job.  He only had to put out the word that he was available, and a couple days later a young man stopped by the house to speak to him.  Mr. Swain ran his family's farm four miles away and was struggling to keep up with the work now that his brother had left home.  He had two uncles that helped, but he needed a strong, young worker.  Pete was hired.

Pete would leave home early in the morning.  His mom would hand him a biscuit filled with a slice of meat to eat on his four mile walk to work.  Pete arrived at the Swain farm ready to work hard. He would do some basic chores and then hitch up the horses and start ploughing the surrounding fields. For the next five hours, Pete followed the team of horses readying the fields.  The sun beat down.  The ground was tough.  By lunch time Pete was sweaty and worn out.  And then the dinner bell would ring.  It became Pete's favorite sound in the world.

Mrs. Swain was a young farm wife.  She was a hard worker, and an enthusiastic cook.   She took the responsibility of feeding all the farm hands lunch and responded with passion and skill.  Her large, sturdy dining table comfortably sat six - She and Mr. Swain, the two uncles, a hired neighbor and Pete.  There was usually a vase of flowers on the table, pitchers of cool water and milk.  And platters of food.  Every day so much delicious food.  A couple of vegetables, fresh from the garden or canned, seasoned perfectly.  Potatoes in many different forms.  A crock of flavorful beans.  There was always a main dish of meat, warm and hearty.  There was a bread dish covered with a cloth that held homemade bread, or cornbread, or biscuits or rolls.  There was freshly churned butter.    And dessert.  Always a dessert.  Cookies maybe.  Or apple pie.  Or berry cobbler.  Or chocolate cake.  Pete spent the mornings behind the horses wondering what might be on that lunch table that day when he pulled his chair up.

There was always plenty of food.  Seconds.  Thirds even.  Always good conversation in that sunny, cheerful kitchen.  Plus a few minutes to rest before the men headed back out to the fields for the afternoon.  And then Pete would walk the four miles home.

Seventy years later, Pete's farm lunch memories still bring a smile to his face.  They make me want to plan better and try harder to give my little farm hands more happy times around a nurturing, creative table.

first impressions

"You never get a second chance to make a good first impression."  - Will Rogers

I've been thinking about first impressions lately.  Mostly because I don't always trust mine.  When Kelly Ripa announced that Michael Strahan was her new cohost I was so disappointed.  My first impression was that he was goofy, lite and so unRegisy.  A few months later, after seeing numerous snippets of the show while charting or in patient's rooms, my feelings have totally changed.  Michael is funny and warm and solid.  A great partner for Kelly, and I love to watch them together.  I had the same change of heart with Willie Giest on the Today Show, and Kerry Washington from Scandal.  From skeptical to a raving fan.  So I wonder about first impressions.

I also think about first impressions because it is regularly my job to make good ones.  At work I've got a phone call and a visit to convince a family that they would benefit having a chaplain.  Even if they already have an involved pastor or the only religious people they know scream about hell and want their money.  Just a few minutes of impression time to low key/big sell my way into the end of their lives.

I do it with my hobby career too.  A local wedding venue gives my name to couples getting married who don't have an officiant to do the wedding.  We "blind date" meet at a local coffee shop and I have just a few minutes to make them comfortable while convincing them that I know more about making their wedding fantastic than anyone else they could find.  I only have one shot to make a favorable impression.

And then there is this little brown puppy - 

Last October we were still grieving over the loss of our 9 year old white french bull dog.  I was in no hurry to replace her, when my mother-in-law Sandy called about a great deal on bull dog puppies in her area.  This was too good a deal to pass up.  I made a phone call and learned there was one girl puppy left, a brown one.  And she could go any minute.  Steve was out of town, so I just had to go for it.  It was too soon.  She wasn't the color I wanted.  But she was available and affordable.   I sent a down payment and made plans to drive the 2 hours to check her out that weekend.

I made the trip with Sandy and my son Josh.  The whole trip was full of speeches from me.  We weren't going to rush into this.  We were going to spend some time with this puppy and see if she was a fit for our family.  This was going to be Dad's dog and we didn't even have to get her today.  If we had any questions we would get part of our deposit back and wait for the right dog.  I needed both of them to be very critical and observant and to give me their honest feedback.  We needed to remember that all puppies are cute and not to be swayed by that.  We were probably not going to even get her today....

Finally we arrived at the kennel.  Somehow I was a few steps ahead of Sandy and Josh as we reached the front door.  The woman I had talked to opened the door.  As I was stepping in, a tiny ball of brown french bulldog tore across the room and jumped paws first up on my leg.  I looked down into her big brown eyes.

And that was it for me.  I turned around to Sandy and Josh, still walking up the path.  "We are taking her." I called.  "She is perfect."  (Sandy is still laughing at me about this.)

Aggie just turned one.   We haven't regretted our choice for a second.  She is the sweetest, most cuddly and precious dog imaginable.   She'd have to be to so throughly win over my non-animal loving heart. 

Talk about a great first impression!

twenty

As our twentieth wedding anniversary approached, I dug into storage to get a few pictures for Facebook.  That was the plan anyway.  Steve found me on the floor in the guest room an hour later, surrounded by old photo albums and a box of wedding remains, in full reminiscing mode.  As I looked at bridal shower pictures and thank you note lists, I was amazed at the unpracticality that I saw -

Lacy camisoles, a silver wine bucket and flower vases, battenburg aprons, floral cloth napkins.  I obviously watched too much I Love Lucy and Lady Diana coverage in my early twenties.

Twenty years of marriage and two sons later find me much more practical than fanciful.  I don't have time to polish silver when my teenage boys want six meals a day.  Rolls of paper towels often take the place of both cloth napkins and lace aprons.  And though that big, beautiful white gown was my total dream dress, if I got married again today, I'd be barefoot on a beach.

These days romance is more about having the dishwasher loaded by my sweet husband or getting the bathroom to myself.  Beyond Victoria Secret or a bouquets of red roses, twenty years of marriage is about compromise, division of chores and repeat conversations.  It's about learning to be less selfish and more thoughtful.  It's about getting better at asking for what I need.  Nicely.  It's about two opposites finding a middle rhythm.  And it's about being humbly grateful to have made it to twenty.

We've had a special celebration every 5th year. A prebaby trip to a B&B in Highlands for 5.  Two nights in Charleston's Two Meeting Street Inn for 10.  And a weekend in New Bern for 15.  The plan for 20 was Ireland.  Years ago we were sure that by our mid 40's we'd be financially set and ready for a week overseas.  Well ready or not, this year was not a financial highlight.  We still aren't rich. On top of near poverty, we got hit with a tax bill and an MRI bill.  Our old car died twice, but that was nothing compared to putting in a brand new air condition unit in our house.  Ireland went from not practical to not possible pretty quickly.

But we made it to twenty years on August 1, 2013.  And to celebrate that monumental feat we went for something just a little unpractical.  We booked a room in Biltmore Park, our favorite date night location seven miles from our house.  A hotel that we have looked up at so many times over the years and said "wouldn't it be fun to stay there?"  We met there on a Wednesday afternoon after work.  From our balcony we could see our restaurants, our movie theatre, and our mountains.  We ate at a new place.  We walked around the town, soaking up the summer evening.  We called our boys, laughing at how much we missed them.  And we again remembered how important it is for the two of us to have moments of fun impracticality in the midst of bills and schedules and survival.  I may even dig out those bejeweled napkin rings...

...or some poetry.  I love this Shakespeare sonnet.  From our twenty year mark it sure rings true.

“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken."

(Sonnet 116)” ― William Shakespeare, Shakespeare's Sonnets

attained

Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that?  We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves.  We must believe that we are gifted for something and that this thing must be attained.  - Marie Curie

In 1890 a family of eight moved to Asheville.  They were looking for a fresh start, for opportunity and a break from poverty and struggle.  Dad found a job right away as a craftsman on the Biltmore House.  The older four children were enrolled in school and that's where the meager income stopped.  There was not enough money to buy books and shoes for the two youngest - Six year old twin boys named Jude and John.  

But where there is a will, there is a way.  And soon a plan was hatched.  Dad got little Jude a job as water boy at the Biltmore House construction site.   Jude rode to work with Dad and spent the next 9 hours filling buckets with water from the wells and carrying them to the hundreds of workers spread across the property.  The money Jude earned at work was enough to buy shoes for both Jude and John.  And books for school. 

So Mom enrolled little John at the school down the street.  That night John shared every detail of his day with Jude.  Where his desk was, what he had learned, what the teacher was like. And Jude shared every detail of his day with John.  He drew of map of where the wells were and told when the men expected water to arrive.   But here is the interesting part. The next day the two boys switched places.  Jude went to school under the name of John.  And John went to work under the name Jude.  That night they again shared the details of their day.  And the next day they switched back.

No one knew they were twins.  No one suspected that every other day the boys would switch places so they could both get an education and both help earn money.

Jude's 92 year old daughter told me this story, in her living room in Asheville, the week before she passed away.  She spoke with pride about her father's hard work to get an education, even though the diploma he helped earn had John's name on it.  John went on to high school and then moved away for college.  Jude got promoted during the five years it took to finish the Biltmore house -from water boy to garden worker, then later to maintenance assistant.  He eventually became the grounds foreman and spent his life and career working at the house he loved and had helped to build.

carrot cake

My husband loves carrot cake.  We had a delicious carrot cake for our wedding.  I've made and bought numerous carrot cakes and they were all good.  But then my mom discovered and made Southern Living's Best Carrot Cake Ever.  And it was.  It is a moist cake loaded with pineapple, coconut, nuts and of course, carrots.  Then a buttermilk glaze.  Then a homemade cream cheese frosting.  Oh my. But the list of ingredients and multiple steps daunted me and the recipe got filed.

Until this July 8 - Steve's Birthday.  Somehow I felt all baker-y and tackled the (not so hard) cake.  I followed directions and decorated with a flourish.  And somehow I made the Best Carrot Cake EVER!  Steve almost cried with pure joy at each bite.  I was beside myself with pride at my tasty creation.

For the last couple months I have been visiting James, a sweet 97 year old man.  He and his wife moved to Asheville twenty years ago and never found a church they clicked with.  On my first visit they upgraded me from hospice chaplain to their pastor and were happy to finally have one.  They told me all about the businesses they had run, their children and grandchildren, and places they had seen.  And I found out that James loved carrot cake.

So as I was mixing up Steve's cake, I was scheming to take a big piece to James.  Steve was gracious enough to sacrifice a portion of his precious cake to share.  I slid a chunk of that gooey cake into a container, popped it in an ice chest and put James on my visit schedule for the next day.

When I got to the nursing home I couldn't believe how much James had declined.  He opened his eyes and smiled when I showed him the cake.  His wife promised to make sure he got it when he was more awake.  Over the next few days James couldn't eat anything.  Except carrot cake.  Nothing else sounded good to him.  The nurses gave him bites of cake with his medicine.  His wife fed him bites for breakfast and for dinner.  James passed away on Friday night.  His wife ate the last two bites of cake in his honor.  She made me cry when she told me how my cake eased him out of this world.

So here's to the Best Carrot Cake Ever.  And the two men who enjoyed it so much...

oceans

(So I wrote this in January and am just publishing it now....)

It has been raining steadily for 5 days. There is a pond in the middle of our yard.  Our porch is growing green fuzz.  Our cars are covered with a spray of salt from the last snow and our shoes are caked in mud. It's wet.  It's cold.  It's grey.

To combat the mold threatening my soul, I daydream about the beach.  My Coastal Living magazines fill the basket beside my bathtub.   Mykonos or Kauai?  Bathing suits are chosen and ideas fill my beach bags.  I'm rereading A Trip To The Beach, the story of the Blanchard family relocating to Anguilla to open a beachfront restaurant.  I'm so engrossed in their humid, sandy, tropical existence that even their descriptions of lobster rolls and rum punch are starting to make my mouth water.

"If only I could go to the beach and thaw out....then I would be happy...."

It's a sentence like that that makes me remember John the Revelator's strange picture of Heaven.  I read this passage to my patients all the time so it sticks with me.
21:1 Then I saw “a new heaven and a new earth,” for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea.

No sea?  It always jolts me.  Especially in the winter when my view of pure heaven is one beach vacation after another.

And then I picture John.  Sitting on that Patmos rock.  With miles and miles of water separating him from the people he loves.  His family, his church, his community.  Unreachable.  And he rebels at the ocean in front of him by saying "Never again..."

I get that today in a new way.  It's still cold.  It's still raining.  After a meeting at work, I drove to my brother's house.  I changed into yoga pants and a sweatshirt and started scrubbing the floorboards.  Movers were carting the last pieces of furniture out to the huge moving van that blocked the driveway.  Damp, foggy chill settled as I cleaned in the already cleaned-out house.

I remember the day we found this house.  Matt was already working here.  Jenn had flown out for a house hunt and after ten not-right houses, they decided to rent an apartment, until she moved here and could take her time looking.  She flew back to California.  And then the realtor called. There was a house that had come on the market today.  It had the red door and huge back yard Jenn wanted.

Matt and I drove across town and turned into a picturesque neighborhood.  Six houses on one side of a treelined lane.  They all shared a giant back yard/field that ended in a creek.  Jenn's dream of Kennedy family style football games on Thanksgiving were easily pictured here.  Matt called Jenn and after talking her through the house he handed the phone to me.  "So is this a 'we could make this work' house or 'you will really love this' house?" Jenn asked.  "I think you will really love it." I said.

They bought it.  And thirty days later, to my great relief, she loved it!  So did we, as we sat on the back porch and watched our boys and my nieces playing together in the back yard.  That same back yard became our traditional 4th of July party spot - We potlucked festive picnic food and watched fireworks with a growing group of their neighbors and friends.  The white dining room was painted a dark red.  That's where we gathered around the table for Thanksgiving dinners.  One evening in late October we had a pumpkin carving contest on their screened in porch.  Many Sunday mornings after a long run we hung out in their kitchen to finish talking and rehydrate at the round white table by the window.

Six years flew by.  We had totally settled into the "take it for granted that we are neighbors" rhythm  when a dream job was offered.   A For Sale sign was hammered into the grass outside of the red door.  Jenn flew to California to start work.  And I came over, that last rainy day to help Matt close up the house.  My mood was as dark as the weather.  I was tired of the stupid rain.  Tired of the stupid middle of the country that makes North Carolina so far from California.  Tired of goodbyes.  Tears in my eyes, I remembered John on Patmos.  I understood in a new way why he railed at the ocean that separated him from his family and how he longed for Heaven.

I still believe there will be lots of oceans in Heaven.  Long stretches of warm, soft sand.  Gentle waves lapping on the beach.  Bright sunshine streaming down.  And my family and friends in adjoining seaside mansions.  No more goodbyes or months between visits.  No more separation. Never again.

romance

Today was their 72 wedding anniversary.  He was sleeping soundly on the bed when I arrived.  But she curled up on the little couch with me and indulged my romantic questionings.  

They met as teenagers, his desk just behind hers in English class.  They planned to go to college and get "all educated" before things got serious.  But then World War II started.  So she bought a pretty blue and white floral dress and they drove with her sister and his cousin to the Justice of the Peace.

Six weeks later he left for training.  Then England, France and Germany.  She didn't see him for four years.  She did what so many other newly married women did at that time -moved back into her parent's house and finished school.  And then he came home!

They bought a house.  They had three children.  They started a business that became a great success.  They traveled and golfed.  They prayed and argued and danced.  They each coped with illness and watched all four parents, one child and many friends pass away.  They became grandparents and great grandparents.  

Now they live in one small room in an Assisted Living Facility.  He tells me how terrible the food is.  She is knitting a yellow scarf.  They hold hands as they talk about trying to find purpose in your life when your life is slipping away.  Their eyes twinkle as they reminisce about life together.

Tonight I thought about them again as I read this beautiful paragraph.  It integrates my chaplain heart with my romance loving soul.  They merge with these words -

Episcopal priest Robert Farrar Capon has said that the Biblical story starts with a breakup and ends with a wedding, and so the history in between is most truly a romance.  Yes, the romance is filled with tragedy and comedy, but it always and at every moment remains at heart a love story, and every moment is a proposal.  The gift of every moment is the Holy Spirit's holy seduction, the tender proposal of God.  "I love you.  Do you love me? Will you join me in at-one-ment, unity, reconciliation, reunion, belonging, membership, love?  Will you accept my proposal and enter into the vital communion of theosis-union with God?" Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!  (Naked Spirituality, Brian McLaren)

*stock picture from google images, but looks like them!