recharging

I hit the wall at approximately 8:37 pm last night.  Yep.  This is the whining part of the post.  July was a crazy month.  Winding down one job while ramping up the other.  Hospice by day and principal by night.  Visiting families for both. Reading for both. Schedules and paperwork for both.

Hospice ended on Wednesday.  On Thursday I packed clothes and food for the boys for their Maryland trip, tidied the house, and then left for a long weekend of teacher's meetings in Gatlinburg.  The meetings were good.  Good speakers, nice people, fun conversations with my new team.  I learned a lot.

Monday and Tuesday were long school days getting ready for registration.  We cleaned, dusted, mopped, scrubbed.  Then we organized, set up and discussed what needed to be included in the Principal's talk.  I came in early to run the track and then weed the school's front garden before rushing home to shower.  I stayed out late shopping for a new, principally pant suit.  Everyone was pitching in.  Everyone was working hard.

Which culminated in three hours of a loud and boisterous registration.  Students happy to be reunited with their friends.  Parents harried to get forms signed and bills paid.  Teachers touring and explaining and greeting. I smiled and shook hands and talked and listened.  And just before the end, I realized that my tank was empty.  I'd hit the wall.  I gritted through the last few minutes and limped to the car.

In 18 hours I had to board a plane to California. But right now I was too tired to drive 7 minutes home. I was too drained to cry.  I was even to spent to call my mom and get some comfort.  But I could hear her voice in my head.  "Go home, take a bath, crawl in bed Annie, you will make it."  I did.  

Mid cozy warm bubble bath I realized that I had 18 free hours to replenish in any way I chose.  To do anything I wanted to fill up.  Who gets that?  How lucky am I? And then I got to get on a plane and jet through the night to see my family.  To celebrate and chatter and catch up.  I was so excited to plan my renewing day that I wondered if I would be able to sleep.  I wondered that for 3.6 seconds after my head hit the pillow. zzzzzzzzz.

So what would you do with 18 hours?  Here are my ingredients -
1. Sleep - 8 hours of quiet peace.  A dark room and a cozy bed. I could have stayed there half the day, but I love watching the first 30 minutes of the Today.  It was lovely to become awake on the couch while Matt, Savannah, Al and Natalie shared the news with happy camaraderie.

2.  Quiet - Silence is healing to me.  After the news, the TV went off for the rest of the day.  I didn't turn on the radio in the car.  I didn't take headphones on my walk.  I listened for the whir of the fan, the purring of my cat, the gurgling of the water and birds singing to each other.

3.  Exercise - The last thing I felt like was pushing myself.  But I knew that a long airport to airport day would be much better if I got my blood pumping.  I headed to the park along the river before it got too hot.  The fresh air and elevated heart rate were healing and relaxing.

4.  Food - And then I was starved.  I had emptied the fridge since no one would be home for over a week.  So I checked out Biscuit Head, a tempting West Asheville bakery and bought a gluten-free egg and cheese biscuit. And a few doors down, Urban Burrito, where I grabbed a big salad to eat later.

5.  Tasks - Then home.  To leisurely pack. To clean the kitchen and finish the laundry.  To read a couple chapters of my current book. To choose which magazines should go in my carry on.

And then it was time to head to the airport.  I was relaxed and excited, packed and tidied.  Ready to nap on the plane.  Even more ready to see my parents and brothers.  So thankful for a replenishing morning.

last day

My last day at hospice was Wednesday.  The Friday before was a wonderful going-away party.  Perfect for many reasons.  It was for both me and our beloved boss Craig so not too much spotlight on me.  We ate Mellow Mushroom pizza and home-made peach blueberry crisp with vanilla ice cream.  There was lots of laughter and fun to off set the sweet words and goodbyes.

I planned to be done with visits by Friday.  To have the last three days of this week for paper work, last minute conversations and turning everything in.  But of course things didn't go as planned.  My last day I had three scheduled visits.

They couldn't have been more different.  A Hungarian couple, he in a nursing home bed sleeping.  She by his side every day, hungry for company.  Their priest had been by that morning to give communion.  But she wanted someone to hold her hand and listen to stories of the war, and how they'd met.  In the last 6 months, I have so enjoyed her stories. 

My second visit was to a tiny Asian Buddhist woman who lives alone in a log cabin in the woods forty-five minutes out of town.  She wanted to talk about how faith carries a person through sickness into death.  And how to know if you picked the right faith when it comes down to the end.  Rich discussions interspersed with "where to get great chinese food" when she wanted a break from the seriousness.  I could have visited her for many months to come and looked forward to each visit.

Last was my favorite.  Larry, a North Carolinian Baptist.  I started visiting him three years ago in his home.  Now he lives in an assisted living center.  Each week we talk about his wife, who passed away five years ago.  We talk about Heaven and what he is longing for there.  We talk about Nascar and Duck Dynasty, hamburgers and the beach. As it was my last Hospice day, I asked Larry's permission to visit occasionally as a friend.  I know, it's my issue.  I want to finish the journey I started with him.  Larry's response was classic Larry.  "You better."

As I drove home, I thought about how much I have loved the last 5 years of chaplaining.  I love my team.  I love a lot of my patients.  I love exploring the county in my little blue car and designing my own schedule.  I love all the prayers and spiritual conversations I get to be a part of.  I felt a wave of fear and regret to be leaving all this.

Then I remembered what my supervisor Robin told us as we left chaplain school.  "Each time you make a change, the adjustment gets easier.  You take with you every single thing you've learned and apply it to the next job, the next team, the next patients."

T.S. Elliot had a different spin on it. “If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?” 

So here I come school.  Ready for a new team of teachers, and a case load of vibrant, healthy students.   Willing to embrace all the changes and challenges ahead.  Ready to share all the wisdom I've learned in five years of chaplaining.  And so ready to face all that I don't have a clue about.

runner

This July is full of surprises.  I was offered a new job.  New as in totally unexpected.  Principal to elementary school children instead of chaplain to hospice patients.  This month I will be finishing my old job while I start my new one.  A new identity as well as exciting challenges and timely solutions.  I'm blown away!

But as I'm reeling with the changes, my twelve year old turned thirteen. We picked up five boys, fed them all the pizza and rootbeer floats they could handle and let them play basketball at the gym until they were totally worn out.  Josh was in his glory.

Three day's later it was Steve's birthday. I wanted something a little less little-caesars and a little more grown-up-celebration.  I made my mom's to-die-for eggplant patties with arrabbiata sauce, fresh green beans and corn, salad and bread.  And of course, Steve's must-have Southern Living's Best Carrot Cake Ever.    

An hour before our friends arrived for the birthday dinner, I did finishing touches on the house and set the table.  All week I had planned to use a beautiful woven runner for the table that went with my flowers and plates.  I had planned the decorations around it, but our table is a mess, and no matter what way I turned the runner, I couldn't get it right.  So I found a blue table cloth and a red flowered napkin that did the trick.

The next day I got a call from a patient's wife.  She said Larry was rallying today and was wondering if the baptism we had talked about for so long could actually happen today.  I told her I was on my way over.  I looked around my house for what I could take to make this chair bound, spontaneous baptism feel holy and eternal.  I got my Bible and a little glass pitcher.  And on the way out, I grabbed the folded woven runner.

Larry and Gail are  sweet people with a simple, tenacious faith.  Illness has tested it over and over, but they have kept their warm, grateful spirits.  They inspire me every time I visit.  

Come Thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy praise.

Today we read Matthew 3 together.  How John was a voice calling in the wilderness  "Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him." We talked about how we want to remove any stumbling blocks from our hearts and clear the way for God to have unobstructed access.  We talked about the symbol of baptism and what it means to hear God's voice saying "This is my beloved child."  We prayed together.  Then I wrapped the woven runner around Larry's neck.  With the pitcher of water I baptized him in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for sounds of loudest praise.

As I dried Larry's head with the ends of the runner, I thought about how an ordinary table cloth had become sacramental stole. Ordained fabric.  I thought about how often I make plans.  Even lovely plans.  But sometimes they just aren't high enough.  

Here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.   

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.