vacation

Some times the best way to come up for air is to get out of town.  Last Sunday we drove across North Carolina to one of our favorite places on earth - The Outer Banks.

The place where we are staying has this picture hanging in the living room.  It is a light house on a rock in the ocean with a man standing in front of it.   Huge waves are breaking all around, with only a thin sliver of light house protecting him.

That's how the last little bit of life has felt. It's been so busy with end of school activities, travel and chores.  My job has just been reduced -in pay and benefits but not yet in hours.  I feel untethered.  Nothing is for sure.  We may move, the future may look very different than we planned.  The tiny sliver of light house may crumble and the waves may get us yet.  That is how it feels anyway.

But this week is vacation.  Sunshine and freedom.   Our vacation rental has a huge, fake stuffed marlin on the mantle.  The chairs are covered in green and orange starfish print.  Paintings on the walls are of colorful crabs.  This house is fun.  It doesn't take itself too seriously.  My bathroom is wallpapered in raspberry and aqua lacy coral patterns.  So not me, but here I love it.  Maybe because I look at it while soaking in a giant bathtub while the sun sets over the marshes.

I have a stack of books.  The best kind of vacation indulgence.  The Longest Ride by Nicholas Sparks for my book club.  Gretchen Rubin's Happier At Home, and Graeme Simsion's The Rosie Project.  But I can't put down The Nesting Place, by Myquillyn Smith that my mom lent me.  The tag line is "It doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful." It becomes my mantra this week.

The boys and I wander in a little shop in downtown Manteo and find a local artist selling large wooden fish.  We buy one for father's day, to bring a little whimsy and beach back to Asheville with us.  It reminds me that a good vacation lasts long after you get home.

My parents and I stop by a farmer's market road stand.  We buy a bucket of juicy peaches and a flat of strawberries.  A bag of corn and fresh tomatoes.  Steve fries up some of the fish he and the boys caught this morning.  We crowd around our round table for the best feast of the week.  My parents and Steve's parents laughing together.  My boys getting blonder and browner by the moment.  Beach sand still clinging to my flip flops.   I realize that I am filled with joy and contentment.  The lighthouse may be stronger than it looks.  The waves haven't gotten us yet.

mother's days

When I was a little girl I would look in the mirror with my hands on my stomach and pretend I was pregnant.  I played with my dolls and couldn't wait to have a real baby to hold and dress up.   I had no idea of the all-encompassing love, constant amazement and utter exhaustion those little babies would bring.   Today I am celebrating the two boys who made me a mother!

Jake was born a day early, popping into the world at 10:10 am.  He had blue eyes and blond fuzz on his head.  My first thought was that he looked just like Steve and also like the Sunshine family doll baby I played with throughout my childhood.   It fit because Jake is sunshine.  Happy and smiling, he would lay in his crib chirping in the mornings until we came to get him. We'd bring him back to our bed and stare at him in amazement.  How had we made such a darling child and how we could love him so intensely?  He had a little singsong voice that continually engaged us in questions and comments. translating for his quiet brother and observing the world around him.

Today Jake is 14, an artist with a warm, friendly spirit.  When the boys were little, Josh would say "When I grow up I want to be popleear like Jake."  Jake is easy to talk to.  He is creative, making movies, drawing pictures so full of details, you can stare at them for hours.  He is organized, he makes plans.  He is thoughtful, leaving notes and phone messages.  He is a runner with agility and speed.  He loves holidays and traditions.  He likes to get lost in a good book.  He is a morning person who wakes up with hope and joy. And I get to be his mom!

20 months after my first "Mother's day",  Josh was born a week overdue.  He arrived at 10:50 pm, mad and overcooked.  He was all red with dark curly hair and a deep scowl.  My first thought with him was  "ok, little man, I guess I am your mom."  He frowned back at me.  If Jake was sunshine, Josh was thunder that day.  A little prize fighter.

Little did we know how much he'd need that fighter spirit.  Three weeks later we were back in the hospital with a now malnourished, bald, sick baby for surgery to fix pyloric stenosis.  For the next six months I slept with Josh, nose to nose, his little hands holding my t-shirt, so I could make sure he was breathing through the night.  Eighteen months after that we were back for brain surgery to remove a tennis ball sized tumor on his motor strip.  Then back to the hospital every few months for follow up MRI's. Through all of this Josh was sweet, stoic and tough about IV's and testing.  We watched our little brave boy in amazement, hoping our ferocious love would pull him through.

Today Josh is 12, an athlete with a gentle, self-sufficient spirit.  He has a never-ending capacity to play, with his brother or friends, bouncing a ball, creating buildings on mine craft, or catch with his dog.  Josh is a lover of nature.  When he was younger he spent hours pouring over animal books, the undisputed expert in our family on mammals, reptiles and weather.  He will point out to me "look how beautiful the sky is today" or bring me a flower he picked.  Josh is a cuddler, wedging between us on the couch or snuggling up beside me to watch House Hunters or the Today Show.  He is our night owl always needing a few more minutes to stay up watching Basketball. And I get to be his mom!

My momma cup is full and overflowing.  I'd love to peek in on little Erin with her dolls and tell her "It's going to be more than you could ever imagine.  Way beyond your wildest dreams!!"

thunder

After a night of crazy, violent electric storms and crashing thunder, our alarms went off at 3:00 am.  Jake was heading to Puerto Rico on his class/mission trip.  We pulled his sweat shirt out of the dryer.  Packed a travel breakfast in a plastic bag.  Rechecked the packing list.  Loaded the car.  Hugged again. And headed to the school in steady rain.  At 4:00 am  Jake boarded a bus of excited, pumped-up 8th graders and still-waking-up sponsors.   And I made myself get back in my car, willed myself not to cry, reminded myself that he is a big boy, and big boys go on trips with their friends and are fine.

Half way home, Steve called.  "Are you alright?"  
"Yes, just a little weepy."
"Oh yeah.  But also, I just heard a huge bang and wanted to make sure it wasn't you."
Suddenly I heard an explosion.  And saw a quick bright light.
"There is is again." Steve said.  "Wow.  That is near our house."

I came around the corner and saw a tree that had been shattered by lightening and fallen across power lines.  Maybe hit an electrical box too.  For a moment it was very quiet.  And dark.  All electricity was off in our neighborhood.  By the time I pulled into our driveway, sirens were screaming and headed our way.

Steve brought a flashlight out and I made my way back to bed.  I laid there trying to figure out how our morning routine would be altered without power.  Listening to the sirens and ceaseless rain.  (How miserable to be out there working in this.)  And missing Jake.  Then I fell asleep.

Two hours later I woke up to the whirring of our ceiling fan and a glow of light from the kitchen.  Power was back.  Talented people working in the dark and rain had sawed up the tree, put the lines back up and fixed the box.  Our morning was back on track.

 I read somewhere that sleeping is an act of spiritual trust.  Psalms 3:5 says I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me.  This morning, with our power back on, I thought about how God is up all night. Listening, caring, seeing, moving, calming.  And like our utility team, working to restore everlasting power and light.  

Have courage for the great sorrows in life, and patience for the small ones. And when you have laboriously accomplished your daily tasks, go to sleep in peace. God is awake. -Victor Hugo

pajamas

This weekend is our annual alumni pilgrimage to Maryland.  Last night we dressed up and drove into D.C. to meet old friends at a new restaurant.  Heels and lipstick, city lights and fancy food.  It was a wonderful break from hospice visits and packed lunches eaten in my car.  Best of all was catching up with forever friends.  We bragged on our kids, talked about our jobs, our vacation plans.  We laughed and teased and hugged.  It was one of those evenings you feel lucky to have.
 I needed it.

This morning we straggled from the guest room to the kitchen in our pajamas.   Bare faces.  Dark allergy circles under the eyes, hair sticking up, sweatshirts and socks to fight the cool of the house.  We perched on bar stools and passed coffee mugs around.  The kids were still sleeping.  The house was quiet.   And the conversation was real.   We know each other's families and challenges.  Faith, frustrations, plans and hopes. The kind of conversations you have when the make-up is off and the friendships are deep.  It was one of those mornings that goes beyond lucky.  And I needed it more.

When I was a kid sleep-overs were a regular occurrence.  If my parents had to be gone, they would grab our sleeping bags and tooth brushes and drop us off at our friend's house.  We would fight sleep and wake up early to get back to play.  I remember summer weeks with my cousins, talking late into every night.  As a teenager I would plan Saturday nights with my girl friends, making caramel corn and watching movies before falling asleep on their couches.

As an grown up, I never plan sleep-overs with my friends.  I like my own bed.  I'm too busy.  And way too tired to stay up late or get up early to talk.  But sometimes they just happen.   And with them comes the intimacy of pajama conversations.

We've had them on blue couches in California, heightened by jet lag and interrupted with trips to the back yard for fresh grapefruit. We've had them in Georgia while yummy vegan pancakes were cooking on the stove.  We've had them in hotel rooms perched on all corners of the bed.  At the lake.  At the beach.  Each time, unplanned.  Unexpected.  But so rich, rewarding, and friendship building.

Earlier this week my friend Jennifer called to talk.  Between hungry children (hers) and nursing home visits (mine) we squeezed a few minutes of conversation in.  "We need to really talk."  Jennifer said.  "This waving to each other across the church once a week is not cutting it."

What we need is a pajama morning.

hot sandwiches

I knocked on a big, red front door.  At a house I'd never been to before.  The knock was answered by a little, stooped, bald 90 year-old man.  His wife had been admitted to hospice three days before and he was overwhelmed by the stream of new people visiting -nurse, doctor, nurse assistant, social worker and now me.  He brought me into the living room where his wife was sitting.  I introduced myself to her, sat beside her and turned to include him.  But he was headed out of the room, calling over his shoulder "I'm not going to stay.  I don't believe in women chaplains."

I don't believe....  As in the Loch Ness Monster? Unicorns? The Easter Bunny?  Because I drove all the way out here and I'm standing in your living room.  So believe it buddy.  I'm here.

Rejection is something chaplains deal with regularly.  People have lots of preconceived opinions.  Evangelist here to convert you to their beliefs.  Preacher here to lock down your eternity.  Meddlesome woman trying to do a man's job.  Actually I don't know what they are thinking.  These are just my guesses.  Because all I'm told is "we don't want a chaplain."

When I started working as a hospital chaplain being rejected crushed me.  I would leave the room wondering what I had done wrong.  How could they decide they didn't like me after only 30 seconds.  I'd worry that I was letting the department down.  That I'd blown it.  

But we had lots of training on this.  We were told that rejection was about the patient and family, not about us.  We were taught to be curious about the reasons that would prompt a family to react negatively to chaplains.  We were reminded what a gift we were giving people -empowering them to decide who visited them.  Giving them a choice.  And after a year of practice, and watching my awesome co-chaplains get rejected occasionally too, it stopped stinging.

My wise counselor added to the conversation.  Something along the lines of "Pay attention when you are feeling rejected. What is really going on?  Not everyone has to like you.  The more you like yourself, the less it will matter if a random person doesn't choose to like you."  So these are all things I pull out and review when a door gets slammed.  Or when a 90 year-old man leaves the room.

And under all this maturity, a thought sprouts like a stubborn, green shoot.  "I am going to win you over little man.  You are no match for my friendliness and cheerfulness.  So watch out!"

He answered the door again on my second visit.  He left the room again, but I could see him standing in the hall listening.

On the third visit he stopped me as I was leaving.  "I made something for your trip home."  He pressed a tinfoiled circle in my hand.  Inside was a warm sesame bun with a burger and cheese.

Today I visited again.  When I finished praying with his wife, he was standing in the room.  "I made you something for your trip home." He said again.  This time the tinfoil held an Italian burger with mozzarella and marinara sauce.  He smiled shyly as I exclaimed over his cooking skills and thoughtfulness.

I'm going back in two weeks.  Can't wait.  I will never tell him that I'm a gluten free vegetarian.  Or that my husband is the one who thinks his sandwiches are delicious.  Because his warm, tinfoil packages represent progress.  A thawing.  A shift of opinion. And believe it or not, I think we might become friends....

easter snow

When I was in sixth grade I checked out a book from the library that is still a favorite today. Betsy and the Great World.  This book is set in 1914 and tells of Minnesota-born Betsy Ray's adventures while spending a year traveling through Europe in place of attending college.  We are talking steamer trunks, cobblestone city streets and overnight train travel through Germany, Switzerland, Italy, France and England.  The travel bug bit my twelve-year-old heart hard. 

One adventure really caught my attention.  Betsy spends a few days in Oberammergau, Germany, meets the main actors of the Passion Play and learns their story.  

In the 1600's a vow was made by the inhabitants of the village that if God spared them from the effects of the bubonic plague then sweeping the region they would perform a passion play every ten years.  The Oberammergau Passion Play was first performed in 1634 and continues today.   Every ten years over 2,000 villagers bring the story of Jesus and Easter weekend to life for the audiences that pour in from all around the world.  Someday I would love to be there.

Yesterday I met a real life Betsy.  Her name is Jean and she too wanted to travel the world.
In 1950, socially minded and full of patriotism, Jean left the mid-west for a boat ride to Europe to teach elementary school and give Germans a different perspective on Americans.  In her free time, she learned the language, toured castles and ate kuchen and strudel.

I had to ask her.  "Did you ever go to Oberammergau?"  
"Yes!"  She replied triumphantly.  "I was there for the last day of the Passion Play."

Then she told me about arriving at the Bavarian village on a cold, April day.  She checked into her pension, bundled up and made her way past the colorful building walls to the open air stage.  There, she watched transfixed as the last few days of Jesus' life were enacted before her eyes.

What she remembers the most is that it started snowing as Jesus was hanging on the cross. Big snowy flakes coming down on Jesus' head and arms.  They covered Jean too.

"I'd always pictured Jesus on a cross, in the Israeli desert, far away." She said.  "But watching Jesus in Germany being covered with the same snow that was falling on me...well, it suddenly became incredibly real that He died for me."

Eugene Peterson writes this.  “It is not easy to convey a sense of wonder, let alone resurrection wonder, to another.  It’s the very nature of wonder to catch us off guard, to circumvent expectations and assumptions. Wonder can’t be packaged, and it can’t be worked up. It requires some sense of being there and some sense of engagement.” 

In Jean's room, I realized my hope for this Easter.  That it, again, becomes more than someone else's story.  More than a far-away legend.  That I am caught off guard, overwhelmed with the wonder of it all.  That I keep having my own Easter story to tell.

it will come

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear:  seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come. Shakespeare

It felt a little like a party.  Twelve people sitting in a circle in a cozy living room.  The host and his girlfriend laughing about their cooking competitions.  She makes a to-die-for cornbread, as several in the room could attest to.  He said his Hawaiian pie was irresistible, and heads nodded for this too.

This was one of the light moments of the afternoon.  The host, George is 89.  He had just returned home from yet another hospital stay.  But this time his doctor had shared that there was nothing more that could be done.  "You have weeks to months" was the prognosis.  George signed onto hospice and had invited our team over to meet with his family -two children and five grandchildren, and get everyone on the same page.

"I've had a wonderful life." George told his family.  "60 years with grandma.  You all know how much I've missed her.  And then Anna here came into my life to keep me company.  And now I'm winding down.  I feel fine today, but it's coming.  And we are going to talk about it."

George turned it over to our nurse.  She spoke about his illness in laymen's terms and laid out the different scenarios for the last days.  Our social worker talked about options for full time care and I talked about the funeral plans that had been made.

The family asked questions.  They were wonderful - affirming George, teasing George, supporting him.  They were one of those families you immediately fall in love with and want to hang out with and protect at the same time.

Anna, however.  Anna sat with her eyes down and her lips pursed together.  "Anna, are you doing ok with this?" our nurse asked.  "No",  snapped Anna.  "This is not appropriate to talk about."

George picked up her hand.  "Honey, this is happening.  Like it or not.  And I don't want secrets in this room.  I want us to be able to talk about everything."  Tears ran down Anna's cheeks as she squeezed his hand, but she still couldn't talk about it.

I felt for Anna.  It is rare that a family wants that much openness and candor.  On the way home I wondered how I would do if it was my loved one.  Would I hide in denial?  Or would I find strength in laying it all out?

Henri Nouwen wrote "First, I must discover what it means to befriend my own death.  Second, I must discover how I can help others befriend theirs."  I've been thinking about that all week.  How do I befriend my own death?  Especially when I really don't want to die.

It's spring in the mountains.  There is a beach vacation in my near future.  I have a handsome husband who is so fun to hang out with.  And two darling boys that keep surprising us with their thoughts and personalities.  The list goes on. I don't want to die.

This morning our hospice team talked about the idea of befriending our death.  And we came up with two things.
     1.  Being present.  Being aware of deep breaths and unfettered steps, of beauty around us and companionship. Living in the moment, instead of worrying about the end.
     2.  Being grateful.  Appreciating all that we enjoy in the present. Counting our blessings. Recognizing our joys.  Knowing how full our cups are instead of measuring what we don't have.
We realized that the best way to befriend our death is to fully live our lives.

George understands that.  Without discussing it or being taught it or reading quotes about it.  He just lives it.  And inspires us all.