LifePundit

Time to Order Blueberry Bushes

This time last year my father was in the hospital and we didn't think he'd make it to Christmas. Mama was living in the Alzheimer's unit, still able to walk and carry on a circular conversation.

Now Mama's in the final stages of Alzheimer's, whatever that means, can't walk, has to be fed, can say a few phrases if you visit on the right day (and the phrases even make sense in the context of what's going on). My father wasn't supposed to live until last July. He's not the healthiest looking specimen you've ever seen, but he's the most determined to keep living.

He called me yesterday. "Are your horses still pooping?"

We all know the answer to that one. As a comedian I heard once said, Why is it every time you see a horse, it's pooping, but you see squirrels all the time and never see them poop? Very profound and just what you'd expect from this blog.

Anyway. My father wants our manure. It's so nice to be able to make somebody (my father) so happy with so little -- or rather, so much. He's going to send Ike or somebody out here to get a load. I'm very generous with my manure. Want some?

You see, it's time to plant blueberries. He's ordered 30 more bushes. He already has several mini-forests of blueberries -- quite spectacular and delicious long about July.

And he's very excited about the asparagus he'll finally get to harvest this spring. He wants me to buy rubber bands he can use to wrap them in bundles.

Yes, he's on oxygen 24/7. He's supposed to be in a wheelchair. He topples over once a week. He can't button his own shirt because he's lost feeling in his fingers. He's on the highest dose of Lasix they've ever seen where he's living. He takes naps several times a day. When he's not napping, he's scheming. What to do next? He's still planning on going to Panama with me. He's 95 and the doctor said he should be grateful for every day he's not in the hospital. He is, though I think he thinks the doctor is talking about somebody else.

If you're allowed to hang around to reap what you sow, he's going to live forever.

Thanksgiving

I'm thankful for my family, our health, our church, meaningful work and our friends and my readers/friends. Thanks for stopping by. I hope you spend a wonderful Thanksgiving Day with the people you love, that other people gladly and cheerfully pitch in, and that if you want to take a nap on the sofa afterwards, you are allowed to do so in peace.

I'm off to do the same.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Christmas Resolutions

I feel the dread of Christmas future. Christmas 2007. If I'm going to survive, I need to make some Christmas Resolutions.

We all know about New Year's Resolutions. We don't think about Christmas Resolutions. I think if we made Christmas Resolutions, we'd have a lot easier time come New Year's.

For one thing, we'd have fewer pounds to lose and fewer money troubles.

I realized the other night that I wish that I could just skip Christmas. It used to be my most joyous time of the year. Now I fake it for Lily's sake. I need to rediscover the joy of Christmas, because the celebration of my Savior's birth ought not to be something I dread.

This isn't going to be an essay about what's gone wrong with Christmas. There are things that can't be helped -- such as my parents' sad state of health or the pain of my mother-in-law's demands and manipulations (Boundaries, boundaries). But there are things that can be helped -- such as my attitude and my ability to say "yes" or "no."

I'm sure you have your own list of how you'd like Christmas to be different. Guess what! It can be. It's a decision you're allowed to make.

So I'm going to write down my Christmas Resolutions and carry them with me. I'm going to re-read them before I go into a store or any other stressful situation. (Yes, I find Christmas shopping stressful.) Why don't you do the same?

Here's my start:

1. Hallelujah! Jesus is born. You don't need to buy a thing.
2. Who are you trying to please? Remember that while Martha was busy cooking and fussing over the meal, Mary was sitting at Jesus' feet, enjoying the presence of her Lord. Be Mary, not Martha.
3. Food is available all year round. You can probably go to a Christmas party and have about three special things and be just as happy as if you ate the whole round of melted Brie with yummy stuff on top. Eat something healthy before you go to parties so that you won't be hungry and out of control. Find ways to celebrate other than food and drink. Like smiling and listening to carols and catching up with friends.
4. Cook everybody's favorite food for Christmas dinner. If it doesn't look like Martha Stewart's table, that's fine. Spaghetti goes fine with lobster and lobster goes fine with sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top. Honest.
5. Give what you can to the people who need it. I think I'll find an angel tree and buy some gifts for children of prisoners.
6. Don't spend more than you can, but don't be a scrooge. Have fun picking out toys for the children in your life. If you get lost and realize you're veering into buying some junky toy because you don't know what to do, get a gift certificate. Personal gifts are better but not worth going crazy over.
7. Send cards to friends you seldom see. It's a good time to stay in touch. If I see you on a semi-regular basis, don't look for a card from me.
8. Lower your expectations for yourself and everybody else.
9. Put on Christmas carols, get out the hot chocolate and have a fun time with your family decorating the house. This is not a contest. Do as much or as little as you want. Take pictures and look at old albums.
10. Go to church every Sunday. Keep focused on the reason.
11. Do something special for people who are alone or have suffered a loss in the past year.
    
12. Catch your child's cheer and spread it to your spouse.
13. If you have difficult people forced on you, welcome them but don't let them disturb your peace and joy. Deflect, set boundaries and take a walk if you need to. In fact, it is a possibility that extremely difficult people can celebrate elsewhere. If you're not going to make them happy and they contribute nothing (or worse) to the household's joy, what's the point? Remember that that is always an option. Being a Christian does not mean you are a doormat. Especially if you've been a doormat for a long, long, long time and you are still not pleasing them and they are still not contributing joy.

I'm sorry about that last one. I'm going to think and pray on that some more, and if Paul really wants to have these people, we'll have them. Playing Christmas carols really loudly ought to solve a lot of the problems. The dog may need a lot of walking, too. That really is okay. It's not up to me to make unhappy people happy. In fact, I don't have the ability. I may just leave and go to the nursing home and be with people I really can make happy. Truly, deeply happy. Just by showing up with a smile.

This list is off the top of my head. What's on your list? I'll bet you have ideas I can use.

What to Do if Your Hands Are Too Small

My father isn't doing well, so we're trying to get him transferred to skilled nursing care. I feel like I should rush right up there, but I can't really help. At least not this minute. In the meantime, I'm going to try to get some important things done here that will make a difference for us. I won't get them all done, but I'll be better off than I would be if I didn't do any of them.

Most of us have too much to do. Some of it just won't get done. Some of it will get done, but not done in the best way (though to quote FlyLady, doing a job imperfectly still blesses others), and some of it will require extra effort, extra help and even some innovation.

So, if you feel like you don't have enough hands, or your hands are too small, you might find inspiration, or more likely, just laughter, in this video. It's worth three minutes.

Wish I'd Written These

My father's still in the hospital, today I start my big push (well, small steady push) on writing my novel, and if we don't get rain soon I won't be able to breathe for the pollen.

The truth is I've recently read two truly inspiring posts and they are better than anything I can offer you today, so my gift to you today is to send you there.

Home Sanctuary has a very thought-provoking and funny (funny is very important) post that starts off with her donkey answering to the wrong name and works her way to what names we answer to. Of course I'm a sucker for donkey stories since I smellhorsey and all that, so I advise you to read about how they got Flash and his other exploits.

I've also spent a lot of time thinking about Rindy Walton's post about when it's time to dump the bad coffee, and it's made me reconsider the things that need fixing in my life and my different options for fixing them.

So, from donkey's to bad coffee, you've got some fun reading ahead. Tell them Anne at LifePundit sent you.

"Everyone Has a God-Given Talent, Whether They Find It or Not"

Pearl Fryar says, "Everyone has a God-given talent, whether they find it or not."

I haven't decided if I find this encouraging or discouraging. I'm not always good at finding things. What a shame to struggle through life and possibly never find your God-given talent or purpose. But Pearl Fryar found his. In a garbage heap.

He also says, "It doesn't matter who or where you are. You're going to have obstacles in your life, but don't let them define the path you choose to take."

I first met Pearl Fryar at a demonstration he did at The State Museum. He's a self-taught topiary artist who started his career with the half-dead plants that home and garden stores threw away. He sees possible beginnings where the rest of us see endings. He's a tremendous inspiration.

He allowed my family and me to visit his home and enjoy his garden. Please take the time to let the photos load on the web site. His art is very different. It's not like you'd expect an artist's topiary garden to be. His plants are sculpted in wild, rhythmic forms, as though the plants were speaking and reaching to heaven instead of being constrained into expected shapes.

Much has been written about him, and he's featured in a documentary called "A Man Named Pearl" that's playing in my town this week. I hope I'll get to see it. Even the review is inspiring.

Here are a few excerpts from the linked review:

While he worked days at a can factory, Fryar worked nights hand-shaping a topiary garden so vast and imaginative it ended up on CBS and PBS and in The New York Times.

The self-taught Fryar, who apparently had one horticultural lesson lasting a few minutes, inspires kids to embrace hidden talents. He started by rescuing plants a nursery threw out; the analogy to “thrown-away kids” is clear but not overstressed.

The film’s hero is charismatic: modest, thoughtful, well-spoken, pointing out he achieved remarkable things because he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to be able to do them.

The Bible is full of unlikely people doing things they shouldn't have been able to do. When you hear about somebody like Pearl Fryar, who did more than become famous for shaping plants, you realize that God may be calling you in places you didn't even think to look.

Photo by MARTY BARRICK / Washington Post

Need to Change Your Life? Try Changing the Soundtrack.

There's a reason movies can make us cry, laugh or feel better. Not only is the story important, but the music can change your mood.

Next time things aren't going too well or you just need a mood change (as opposed to a mood swing), try putting on the soundtrack to an upbeat movie, or other music that lifts the spirits. I like soundtracks because there are no words so I can work (write) with them playing. If I try writing to people singing, I can end up typing the words. The music also tends to not be overpowering because it was written to underscore a story. I've got a story. With a soundtrack, I've got music, too.

Sometimes you need more than that. After 9/11 my spirit felt assaulted -- and was. I listened to Celtic Christian music, such as Deep Still 2, and found great comfort and quiet in the music and the words. No matter how blown about we feel, God is still in charge and God will be victorious.

Music is a gift to the spirit. Play on!

Your Body is Working for You

You are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139). We don't even know how fearfully and wonderfully made we are, but we're finding out more all the time. Consider that today's news included a story about how Duke researchers believe that the appendix is a useful thing -- it keeps your gut stocked with good bacteria.

I remember hearing about a woman who had had several children and a normal life. For reasons I can't remember, surgeons (or was it during an autopsy?) opened her up to find that one of her ovaries wasn't working, so the fallopian tube that should have been paired with that ovary had migrated over to receive eggs from the working ovary. I love to think of that. Life seeking life.

Your body, no matter what size, shape or condition, is a miracle. You are as wonderfully made as the most beautiful infant or the most beautiful model (probably healthier than the latter).

Today I praise my legs that are too fat but do a great job of reaching the ground. I love my scars, because they mean I healed (scars are from nothing bad but aren't pretty). My smile lines mean I smile a lot -- in fact, I'll bet you can't see them because I'm smiling now. (I actually had a dermatologist tell me to quit smiling so much because it was ruining my face.)

I'm glad for my too-ample butt, because if anybody ever needs a spare, I've got it ready for them.

Rejoice! You are alive.

And let me tell you, old age is nothing to save yourself for. (I spent the day at the nursing home.) Wear your body out -- don't let it rust.

Sandwich generation and the Alzheimer's unit

You don't get many beautiful moments in the Alzheimer's unit, but when you do, they are full of enormous grace and beauty. We were fortunate that Mama was in a good place, but it was still an Alzheimer's unit. My mother was always glad to see us and still knew us consistently then, even if she was sure that we were there to pick her up and take her home (though she couldn't exactly say which home, as she didn't even recognize it). Lily, who was around 10, would go with me and was a good sport, though I know it was hard to have different residents think she had come to see them, etc.

One day Lily got bored while we were visiting. Well, truthfully, Lily always got bored when we were visiting. That's what it means to be a sandwicher, trying to juggle the needs of your child while helping your parents. The Alzheimer's unit had a piano, and one day Lily wandered over to it. Since nobody intervened, she slipped onto the bench and started playing softly. Now, her repertoire was pretty limited, especially without her music books. But she knew a few hymns, patriotic songs and Maryanne, whatever that song is, by heart. And the residents started to perk up and gather around. The staff suggested that Lily play louder, so she did.

A wondrous thing happened. The residents began to sing! Some had beautiful voices. And even though they might not know the names of their children, they remembered the words to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," "America the Beautiful," and a couple of hymns. They sang and sang. The room became alive. It didn't matter that Lily didn't know many songs. The Alzheimer's patients didn't care or notice how many times she played the same things over and over again. They kept singing.

The staff was smiling. The residents were clapping and laughing. One lady kept walking up to Lily and patting her on the back and asking, "How old are you?" Moments later she would return and repeat.

My mother turned to the people around her and said, "That's my granddaughter. That's my granddaughter." And she was beaming.

Lily kept looking at me in amazement, and shrugging as if to say, "What now?"

I said, "Keep playing." She started playing a song I don't know: Maryanne. But the residents knew it. Lily didn't even know that it had words, but at one part, this elderly man would boom, "Maryanne." Lily jumped the first time, then quietly giggled to herself.

Lily got tired of it all before they did, and it was time to leave. But that day had started something. Every time we went from then on, Lily brought her music. There's nothing like an appreciative audience to inspire you to practice and play.

Now that Mama is in the nursing center, Lily keeps asking, "Can we go over to the Alzheimer's unit so I can play for those people?" We spend so little time with my parents as it is that we haven't done this yet. But maybe one day.

One more thing. The staff told me that there's another thing the residents haven't forgotten. When they have Sunday services (it is a Lutheran nursing home), the residents say the scripture along with the minister.

That's not going to happen when we Boomers get to the old age home. Though some of us are excellent bible students, a great many of us (me) don't have a thing memorized. We'll be singing the theme to "Gilligan's Island" instead. Just hope somebody will think to play it on the piano for us.

Changing Churches

Paul drops off Lily at school in the morning on his way to work. This morning was yet another switch in the carpool line. It was such a mess that Paul decided in desperation that he should stop on the road so that Lily could hop out onto the sidewalk and run across the school grounds. Lily was afraid some one would honk at her, which would of course make her wither and die. I can hear her thoughts, "My dorky dad stopped on the street so somebody honked at us and EVERYBODY saw I was with him...."

So, Paul stopped. And the guy behind him honked. Not once. Not twice. But a whole bunch. Paul was about to make an obscene gesture but had the rare good sense not to.

Thank goodness! The honker was our soon-to-be former minister. He drove up beside Paul, rolled down his window, and said, "We miss you already. Lots."

We miss our soon-to-be-former church, too. I never thought we would leave there. I want to be buried in the church memorial garden wall.  Paul and I joined together, before we were married. We were married there. Lily was baptized there. They loved us and held us together through bad times. through pain and doubt and miscarriages and lay-offs. I had a difficult pregnancy, and when Lily was happily delivered alive and healthy and ready for life, one of the ministers I was very close to was at my side, smiling and filled with joy, before I was even off of the delivery table.

When I was admitted to the ER for other reasons, the minister who honked at Paul this morning was there beside me almost before the doctor. He told me words I will never forget, words that keep me going when there doesn't seem a reason to put one foot in front of the other.

We tried to give back, too. Both Paul and I served as Deacons (never the same years). We taught Sunday school, led small groups, tried to help out when we were called and led. What a joy and comfort to be a part of such a church family.

So why are we leaving?

Lily, of course. She is twelve. We have her for six more years at home. Six more years to put her in the right path. She doesn't feel connected to our soon-to-be-former church. There are many reasons and you can probably guess them. Basically, the kids her age aren't as nice as their parents. There's even the bully from school that I could write about at length, but I won't.

So, we have found a better place for her. A church where the kids are welcoming and she's made friends. She's even become best friends with the pastor's daughter (actually, her friend is the daughter of TWO Presbyterian ministers -- her mother and father. A double PK -- preacher's kid). We have spent the summer going there, and it's clearly where we are supposed to be. Lily even cares what she looks like when she gets dressed for church, and will go to youth events without being beaten, or at least not being beaten hard. (Just kidding.)

I long for our home church, for the place I never wanted to leave. But I can see already how God is at work in this new place. Maybe if I'll get over my despair about changing, he'll even find a way to use me there.