Saturday Brain Ramble

It is easy
to grieve the loss of youth.
The loss of firm flesh,
the loss of hair,
the loss of vitality, energy,
the loss
of dreamy dreams.
It is easy
to complain of aching
to complain of aging
to complain of softer rounder
body parts.
It is easy.

So don't do the easy thing.
Be creative.

Laugh at your stumbles and bumbles.
Embrace your new style
the one that says
"Im a grown-up, I don't wear
trendy teenage belly button revealing pants
or tops
even though these silly things
are exactly back
to the ones I did wear
when I was a teenager."
Enjoy the wisdom of your years
and your unique overview
of the world.

Thank God you're still here
whatever "here" means to you right now.

Turn loose of your grief
over goals not met
dreams not realized
places not visited
[insert your regret here].

Start something now.
Something you were too young
and inexperienced
to even dream about
back then.
Do something you love.
Something you didn't even know you loved
back then
because you were too busy
waiting impatiently for life to happen
back then.
Open your heart and love unconditionally.
Give without expecting a return.
Pray knowing God hears you.

Everyone talks about
"living large".
Okay, but how about
living small?
Either way, it's your choice.
Either way is okay.

You can't love your neighbor as yourself
unless you love yourself.

So get started.
And by all means,
don't forget to laugh.

Not Our Stuff

My husband and I attend the First Christian Church of the Lanai. And not just on Sundays. Every morning. Okay okay. That means we go out onto our lanai, put on some classical music, drink our coffee, and read our Bibles and a few devotionals. Every day. How blessed we are. Anyway, this morning one of the devotional readings, warning against greed, made this statement: "we should not say 'my things', but rather 'the things that God has given unto me.'"There really is a big difference. I once heard someone say, "I never saw a hearse with a luggage rack." We never really own anything that we can't take with us when we die, do we? We can only enjoy what God has provided for us in this life.

This brings me back to our lanai. We live in a condo, and just outside our lanai, at the back of our building, is a narrow strip of grass with an even narrower strip of mulched "garden" area just beyond. This strip of miscellaneous vegetation is just feet from our lanai, and runs the length of our building. It's comprised of various small trees, shrubs and plants. Now it's not the job of our lawn care contractors to maintain this strip of plants. So some of the guys on the board, one guy in particular, keep it up. Also, anyone who wants to keep the patch behind their individual condo spruced up is welcome to do so. We've added a few personal touches of our own to the patch behind our condo. An ornament or too, some potted plants, and some plants we've planted in the ground. This is our little slice of Paradise that greets us every day as we report to our morning devotional time. We tend to think of it as "our garden". But it's not true. The fact is, that strip of land is actually "common area" which means it simply belongs to the condo association, not any individual homeowner. So whatever we plant out there, we have no claim to. Theoretically, it could be dug up, moved and replanted in another area. And it has happened. The one guy who does most of the weeding and tending and planting out there has a habit of chopping down what he thinks doesn't belong, and moving things around. He's pretty careful about not moving something he knows was specifically planted by an owner. Still, this has caused some commotion and not a little grumbling by people questioning his right or his authoritity to do this. But the fact is, most of the rest of us don't want to share in the responsility of tending the entire thing. He just does it because he loves to do it. And besides, when he does something that some people consider overstepping his bounds, he actually has the big picture in mind. He moves things and replants and prunes and weeds for the greater good. So that the whole strip will look nice. And usually he moves or prunes what he himself planted at one time.

Anyway, the point is, what we generally consider "our" garden, really isn't. It's just there for our enjoyment. So we enjoy it, and we try to cool our irritation when something changes out there. This is true of life. What we consider ours really isn't. We can't hang onto anything really. Money can be used up, jobs can be lost, homes can be destroyed, posessions can be stolen, health can be compromised. On and on it goes. It sounds kind of scary if you let your imagination run away with all the undesirable possibilities. But it all comes back to the idea that it's not our stuff. They are the things that God has given unto us.

So enjoy the day. Enjoy the gifts. Give praise for the loan. And give thanks for all.

Blessed Assurance

My sister and I were talking on the phone the other day and got to remembering the time we visited Grandma and sang hymns for her. She was close to a hundred years old, her body and her mind grown frail. But she was still Grandma and she had not forgotten who we were or anything like that. She was oh so glad to see us. After we had reported briefly any news about our families and our lives, we soon ran out of conversation. So somebody got the idea to go to the organ there in her livingroom and sing hymns from the old hymnal. Vicki played and I sang and sometimes we harmonized. It was a wonderful time for us two sisters who had not spent enough time together over the years. And for Grandma, a deeply religious woman, it was heavenly.

We picked out a few hymns and did a pretty respectable job of performing them. Then Grandma spoke up and said, "Have you got 'Blessed Assurance'? That's my favorite." We immediately looked it up in the hymnal and launched into a darn good rendition. All three of us were pleased as punch when we finished, Grandma giving us a little round of applause. Vicki and I continued with a few more favorites, and then Grandma spoke up again. "Have you got 'Blessed Assurance'? That's my favorite." We carefully explained to her that we just did that one, remember? Grandma quietly said, "Oh," and smiled sheepishly. We continued on with a couple more, really enjoying ourselves now. Then Grandma spoke up again. "Have you got 'Blessed Assurance?' That's my favorite."

Vicki and I looked at each other, grinning and trying to stifle our giggles. Then, reading each other's minds, we both said, "Sure, Grandma, I think it's in here somewhere." And we sang it again, for the first time.

Grandma couldn't remember what songs we had sung five minutes ago, but she could remember that Blessed Assurance was her favorite hymn. She couldn't remember if she'd had breakfast, but she could remember that God loved her and would one day soon take her home.

God did take her home at the age of 101. She left me with some of the warmest memories of my childhood, and one especially Blessed afternoon in my adult life, when singing hymns with my sister was the best and most important thing in the world.

The Condo BBQ

The summer residents of our condo complex had an impromptu post-4th of July get-together last night. Well, it was sort of impromptu. Actually on the real 4th of July my husband Buddy was outside grilling some chicken when one of the neighbors cruised by and jokingly said "what time is dinner?" My husband made some casual remark that it was too bad we hadn't planned a little party among the few residents left here for the summer. Oh well, too late now. After which he jokingly said, "Let's just celebrate the 7th of July instead." Ha ha. To which the neighbor replied, "The 7th. What's that, Saturday? Okay!" Ha ha. And he drove off.

So yesterday morning the phone rang and it was the neighbor. The very same one. Now he's one of the few original owners in the complex and he's kind of the go-to guy for little repairs and various other favors anyone might ask. Not that it's his responsibility, he's just a good neighbor, and he gets things done. So he said, "5 o' clock barbeque at the clubhouse. Tonight. I've got hamburgs, hot dogs, there'll be a pan of beans and some pasta salad and chips. Okay?" Buddy said "Okay!" And of course, yesterday was indeed the 7th of July. I guess there was no "ha ha" for neighbor Curt.

There are only 44 units in our Florida complex and during the summer most of them are vacant because the snow bird owners have gone North. There are only about 10 units left occupied, so it was easy to call the remaining few and get the party together. It was a good turnout - 18 people - and a great time. The burgers were grilled perfectly, and there were TWO pans of baked beans, plus a three bean salad so of course there were a few jokes that after all these beans, there would be some "entertainment" later on. (If this goes over your head, then you're probably way more refined than the rest of us.) Among the merry bunch was our 92 year old neighbor, Marguerite, who I have mentioned before. She's not only the resident "cookie lady", she also tells great stories, and remembers every detail. Some stories are poems she has memorized, but more often than not, the stories are real. You know, things that have happened to her. We all know she goes to "the center" (the Senior Center) every day and that she takes cookies to share, and that she takes a turn on the dance floor when her arthritic legs allow. She loves to talk about "the center" and its cast of characters, so we weren't surprised when she loudly started to tell a little story about it yesterday. It went like this:

"I was at the center the other day and I was settin' there listening to the band and watching everybody dancing when a fella I know real well came over to ask me to dance. So he stood there in front of me and said, 'Well Marguerite, how are your knees today?' And I answered him, 'Well Bert, if you were as stiff as my knees, we could have a lot of fun.!'"

WELL, Buddy just about choked on his hamburger, and our other table mate, a nurse friend of ours, almost spewed her three bean salad. She got so red in the face I thought she was going to pass out she was laughing so hard. Several others at nearby tables heard the story too and I thought there'd be no recovering. And Marguerite sat there grinning away looking like the cat that ate the canary. She got us, but good.

Well after that there was watermelon and ice cream with strawberries and of course Marguerite's cookies, but that's all just a blur. Marguerite's punch line echoed in all our heads for the rest of the day. In fact later on last night while Buddy and I were watching a movie, which was not a comedy, I started to laugh all over again.

Marguerite will soon be moving to an assisted living community, and that's a good thing for her. She wants to do it, so it's not a sad thing, at least not for her. But what are we going to do without her? At 92 she's still the life of the party, and her cookies will be missed too. But we're already planning on visiting her there. I can't wait to find out what kind of stories she'll have about this whole new cast of characters. I just hope they're ready.

55 But Who's Counting?

Yesterday I went to a doctor who specializes in bone loss. Seems I have an 8% bone loss in my spine and 7% in my hips. This I discovered after my "bone density test" which was done on the same day I had my most recent mammogram, which required an order from my gynecologist which I got when I went for my most recent close encounter with the stirrups for the purpose of my annual pap smear. I'M A WALKING CLICHE`! Bone loss, pre-diabetes, hot flashes and aching joints. And yet, I don't feel like I have any problems. At 55, I actually feel pretty young. Am I in denial, or do I just have a really good attitude about aging?

I mean, what can you do? You got two options: either you get older or you die young. I know what I would choose, if I had a choice.

And yet there are otherwise intelligent people out there claiming with a straight face that "aging is a disease, like any other." This just kills me. I even heard one bright chap take it a step further and claim that DEATH is a disease. Oh man. Beam me up, Scottie, what planet am I on? Maybe life itself is a disease. How about that? Maybe we should just try and cure life. Oh my goodness, I think I've stumbled onto something. Oh it's nothing new really, in fact the recent success of the book and video project "The Secret" has garnered a huge following of hopeful people who want to believe the premise that the universe is a big catalog: just put in your order and you get it. You think I'm exaggerating? It actually says that. So apparently there are people, and I guess lots of people, who believe that the "universe" can cure life. Hmm. Without writing another whole book arguing the point, which I think would be easy to do, I will simply say this: "The universe" did not create itself. Therefore it has no creative or curative powers of its own. However, God did create the universe and everything in it, so yes, He can cure your life.

But I digress.

Back to my aging body. Although I don't want to become one of those senior citizens who dwells on her ills, and in fact always SWORE I wouldn't, sometimes I just can't help myself. Especially when in the company of other women my age. We compare notes because it's still new to us. "How many times do you have to get up and pee during the night?" "When did you first start wearing reading glasses?" "Have you got a good dermatologist? I think I have a suspicious spot on my nose." On it goes. You don't mean to, it just happens. But it's okay. It's just life, and I don't know to what extent I want to "cure" it. Aging also means maturing and thank God for that. Aches and pains and forced exercise routines help develop patience and discipline. Days that are relatively free of joint pain and hot flashes feel like reasons to celebrate. A slowed pace generates an eye for details formerly unnoticed in the rush of things. Now don't think I'm perverted, but just today my husband and I witnessed two little lizards mating outside our lanai. Nature in action. How many twenty-somethings can say they've seen that? Huh? So even though I do use a special cream in a tiny little tub that's supposed to decrease those laugh lines, and I do dye my hair, the whole aging thing just doesn't seem like such a big tragedy. Okay, I'm lucky because people tell me I don't look my age. But see, there's another advantage to getting older - your wits get a little dull and you start believing the load of bull people tell you. All good.

So anyway, I guess that's all for now because I forgot what I was going to say.

Father's Day

I love my dad. I love him and I like him. He fascinates me, and he has provided me with so many good memories, and such a feeling of warm love, like a soft blanket. When I think of the word "father" I think of hugs and cuddles and watching Lassie while tucked under his arm sitting on the couch so I could bury my head in his chest when the scary parts happened. I really don't know how to pay tribute to this man. So I'll just ramble a little.

He's the most happily retired man I know. The concept of retirement was born with my dad in mind. At 88 years old, he now has been retired for as many years as he worked. And this is great, because he worked in a factory and hated it. So for the same number of years that he doggedly drove 30 miles to work and back every day, he has now been able to relax and do whatever he wants.

My dad still rides his motorcycle. Now this might be scary to anybody who doesn't know him, but I only worry about him on that bike the same as I would worry about anybody at any age riding a motorcycle. In so many ways, age for him really is just a number.

He still plays his saxophone late into the evening. Except these days, he does it in his own living room, playing along with big band CD's or videos instead of the hotels and lounges of his youth. He plays because he loves to play. Dad loves music more than anybody I know. But not just any music. He loves swing. Good jazz. A great big band arrangement can literally bring tears to his eyes. He's still that passionate about his love for jazz.

He taught himself to play the organ after he retired. He got himself a nice console organ, the kind with the bass and drum beat built in. He's not nearly as accomplished at organ as he is the saxophone. In fact sometimes it's downright painful to hear him struggle through a song he's trying for the first time. But he'll keep trying it, and try it again later until he gets it pretty good. When I hear him make it smoothly through a nice pretty song I always tell him, "That was a good one, Dad."

Dad saves stuff. Well, he saves pretty much everything he ever owned. It might come in handy some day. Even if it's just for parts. And actually, it usually does.

He invents things. He says it's because he's lazy. He hooked up a device that lets him know if the mailman has been by yet. His mail box is across the road, so you have to go out and check. But he rigged up a device that hooks over the bottom of the mail box door and releases when it's opened. This falls away and reveals a white flag that lets him know the mail has come just by looking out the window. He's been doing that for years. Now I see they're selling the same kind of thing in mail order catalogs.

Dad still climbs up on the roof when something needs fixing up there. Why wouldn't he? He's been doing it all his life. This is what he tells me. He goes into the garage, takes the big extension ladder down from the wall, carries it to the spot he needs it, walks it up to the house, extends the thing skyward, and up he goes. If he's painting the trim or something up there, he repeats this procedure over and over in every location he needs it. After repeatedly expressing my concerns about being up there when nobody's around, he now humors me by waiting until I'm home to do this. I think.

Dad has a few favorite TV stations. Number one is the Fox News network. He can watch these guys yelling at each other for hours. But on the flip side, his other favorite show is Seinfeld. Now Seinfeld was not intended as a show for senior citizens, and I doubt the creators or the advertisers expected octegenarians to be sitting in front their TV sets busting a gut over it. But he does. He still watches the re-runs and still laughs out loud over the misadventures of the Seinfeld characters. He also likes old movies, from the 30's and 40's. He can watch them over and over. It makes him feel comfortable. That's when men were men and women were feminine, and they were all wearing the right clothes. The plots are straightforward and you can understand what they're saying.

Dad has been a great role model without ever intending to. He's not a mover and a shaker. He keeps to himself a lot of the time. He's not out there involved in this and that, but he's not afraid of saying what's right and what's wrong, because after all, isn't it obvious? The lessons he has taught me have more to do with how to take life as it comes, what to really appreciate, how to take care of yourself physically, how to keep it simple, and how to simply love your family.
My dad loves me and I know it. No doubt. He loves all his kids unconditionally and can't get over how lucky he is to have such wonderful kids and grandkids. He just doesn't know what he ever did to deserve this great fortune. I hope he knows that we all feel exactly the same way about him.

Especially me.

Ooh! Ooh! Paris Back in Jail!

Paris Hilton has been ordered back to jail after being released for "undisclosed medical reasons" following only 75 hours of incarceration. She's going back in.

This is crazy. I'm so disgusted by Paris Hilton's celebrity and media frenzy. I mean so far she's only famous for being famous. Everyone knows who she is, but everybody kind of looks at each other and says, "But what does she DO?" She parties. Publicly. She poses, she pouts, she tosses her hair, she shops, she frequents night clubs, she does stupid reality shows that are far from real I'm sure. And she drives drunk. Then she does it again. I'm not even sure exactly what it was that got her thrown in jail this time, but I think it was something about a third offense. It's Hollywood in Neverland. Young celebrities are so accustomed to star treatment, they actually begin to believe they're starring in their own real life movie, and they can do anything because somebody will fix it in the editing room. They have "people" for everything and they lose track of the idea that they're responsible for their own behavior. Someone will air-brush out the blemishes and edit out the mistakes.

All of which brings me to this question: why did I turn on the TV today and watch the whole stupid mess unfold? I never turn on the TV during the day. But today, I found myself watching Ms. Hilton being put into a police car at her home and being driven through a nasty swarm of paparrazzi back to the jail she was released from in the middle of the night last night. After seeing the same footage about a dozen times, and hearing the commentators speculate on whether she would be ordered back to jail for the remainder of her sentence, I shook my head in disgust and muted the TV, going back to the more important business of folding my laundry. Ah, but did you notice what I said? I said I MUTED it. But did I turn it OFF? NO! Every few minutes I would check back to see if she had arrived at the court house yet, what was going on. And after more speculation and comments from CNN legal consultants and anchors, I would shake my head in disgust and MUTE IT AGAIN! This went on pretty much all afternoon. I was hooked.

So what's the deal? Well, I realize that it's simply the fact that it's a spectacle. No, I don't care on any personal level whether Paris Hilton has to stay in jail for 45 days, or 23 days or overnight. But there are issues involved. It's infuriating to think that the rich and famous are treated differently than the rest of us. It's fascinating to hear how such a thing came to pass. It's gratifying to know that the judge who imposed her sentence was mad as hell at the Sheriff's department for letting her go because she felt a little faint. (That's my sarcasm. I don't really know how serious her "condition" was. Poor thing) And of course when you come right down to it, it's entertainment. Yeah that's right. I'm being honest. We experienced the same thing with O.J.'s famous slow speed chase and then his endless trial. We know it's serious business. People were murdered. But we just can't take our eyes off it. The Paris thing isn't even close to being that serious, but it could be. What if her drunk driving killed somebody? What if she really was on the verge of a nervous breakdown in that jail cell and going back in really does cause her serious harm. What if she died? That's why we keep watching. Not because we're hoping something bad will happen really, but if it does we don't want to miss it.

Well, the judge ordered her back to jail and of course her attorney filed an immediate appeal blah blah blah. They say it may be Monday before the appeal can be considered. So potentially there are two more whole days of speculation, sound bites, commentary, file tape of the crying handcuffed Paris shown split screen with the glam red carpet Paris. There's only one thing I find a little bit gratifying about it all. It's the ultimate reality TV show and Hollywood ain't making a dime.

Company For Dinner

I am a bad blogger. Bad, bad. My last post was TWO MONTHS AGO. Probably no one will even read this because you've all given up on me and stopped checking ages ago. If blogs could have cobwebs, this one would be covered with them. Okay, enough self-flagellation. (and I actually looked that up to see how to spell it. One doesn't often use the verb "flagellate".)

So last week we had a couple of friends over for dinner. You may think I'm saying that casually, as if it happens all the time. It doesn't. If I may use the 'cobweb' thing again, then my good set of dishes should also have been covered with them. Anyway, these two friends are at the very least well-off, and one is actually what you call 'rich'. We, on the other hand, although comfortable, are neither well-off nor rich. Our condo is nice, but kind of small, and we're not really in the habit of entertaining. However, these lady friends of ours are so wonderful, and so comfortable to be around, we had no qualms about inviting them over. And I sure wasn't worried about the dinner part. My husband is a great cook. He's Sicilian, and I think they are all born with an innate ability to throw some garlic, onions, and olive oil in a saute pan and begin creating delicious things to eat. No problem there.

We did all our prep work the day before, and had a ball. He lets me say "we", and he even graciously shares credit with me, when in fact I'm more like the surgical nurse handing him tools and implements.
Him: "Pan."
Me: "Pan."
Him: "Olive Oil."
Me: "Olive Oil."
Him: "Knife."
Me: "Knife."
Well you get the picture. (I did make the dessert, which is my specialty, and if I do so say so, it was really good.) Anyway, we had fun, and it gave us a very good feeling of being prepared, and a calm sense of knowing we could enjoy the day and their good company.

Now don't be expecting me to report a big disaster at this point, because there wasn't any. Yes, it would probably make for a much more interesting story, but I'm pleased to report that dinner was a big success, and we had a wonderful day. I set a nice table, using all my best stuff, the condo was in good order (I'd been using some vacation time to get in the corners lately. Trust me, that doesn't happen often either. Some people do Spring Cleaning. I do Decade Cleaning.) I got to use all my wedding gifts, and we even had some really good coffee to offer with dessert. It was a fine day.

The funny thing is, I kept trying to put my finger on how it made me feel. I was kind of proud of us, and pleased that our guests had a good time, but it was more than that. And then I finally figured it out: IT MADE ME FEEL LIKE A GROWN-UP. I'm almost 55 years old, and I still think like that. For so many years we were immature musicians on the road, unmarried, renting one place after another, using borrowed or hand-me-down furniture, and indulging in bad habits, and partying till dawn and on and on. Now, all these years later, it still occasionally feels so recent, and I'm still getting used to being a grown-up. I gotta tell you, I LIKE being a grown-up. And I thank God we survived to get to this point. And you know what else? We are
rich. We love and respect each other, we feel blessed to have a place of our own, and we know God is always with us. Someone once said, "He is rich who knows he has enough". That's us.

So maybe we'll invite somebody else and do it again. We've kind of got the hang of it now, and what the heck, the place is still almost clean.

No Offense

I read a letter to the editor in my local Florida newspaper today, in which a man objected to being referred to as a "snow bird". He said it amounted to a slur, and after 30 years of spending winters in Florida, he preferred to be called a "winter resident" or "tourist". (Yeah, because "tourist" commands so much more respect.) I understand peoples' need to express their opinion in the newspaper, and have done so myself once or twice in my life. But sheesh, couldn't they pick their battles a little better?

Seems everyone is offended by something these days. Hasn't it gone a little too far? Why is "snow bird" so offensive? I don't know the actual origin of the moniker, but in my own mind it represents someone who "flies" South to avoid the snow in winter. This is bad? So what else is offensive that we should change? How about "early birds", those customers who flock ('scuse the pun) to restaurants between 4 and 6 pm to take advantage of reduced dinner prices? I guess we should change that name too. How about "frugal daylight diners"? Or "late afternoon reduced-price smaller-portion dinner eaters"? Either of these good?

Of course, like most names, it's all in the tone that is used when saying it. For instance, the word "Sweetie" sounds inocuous enough, as in "Sweetie, would you pass the salt?" But it takes on a more ominous tone in "Listen, Sweetie, I've got more class in my little finger than you've got in your whole liposucked body!"

Tone is what makes the difference. So what's going on with Mr. Winter Resident? Has he been hearing a little sneer in references to snow birds? In all fairness to him, there are always some complaints about overcrowded roadways and waiting lines at restaurants during 'season', often followed by laments that "the snow birds are here." And at the extreme, there are a few hard-core locals with pickup trucks bearing bumper stickers like "SNOWBIRDS GO HOME" and "WE DON'T CARE HOW YOU DO IT UP NORTH". These same fine citizens often display the confederate flag prominently on their trucks, and chew tobacco. I think a good rule of thumb is to consider the source when taking offense. I know that local business owners are delighted to see the annual migration of snow birds, and wait with baited breath their collective landing. However, if Mr. Winter Resident is miffed, so be it.

I also read in the same paper today that the powers that be are holding a contest to choose a new state song. Seems the current Florida state song, Stephen Foster's classic "Old Folks At Home", has become too offensive. Well, in this case I might agree. The lyrics do refer to "darkies" and the Suwannee River is misspelled 'Swanee'. Overtones of the bad old days of slavery have soured the desirability of this song being played at inaugurations and other official ceremonies. So they're asking people to submit their original songs for consideration. I say, come on, let's just choose "Margaritaville" and get it over with.

So anyway, I've decided I really should be offended about something. So I've decided that I object to the term "Baby Boomer". It is offensive to the largest portion of the population and should not be used. The term "Baby Boom" implies that our parents had nothing better to do in the years following World War II than procreate their brains out, and the name "Baby Boomer" implies I am nothing more than a product of this rampant practice of shameless procreation. It's demeaning. There.

Also, since I am fast approaching the age of 55, I'm protesting the terms "Senior Citizen", "Senior", "Future Senior", "over 55", "Geezer", "Old Coot", and "Old Fart". All offensive.
I've decided on a new identity. It is as follows:

"Person of Undisclosed Age, Young Enough to Look Forward to Tomorrow, and Old Enough to Value Today."

Thank you. I hope I haven't offended anyone.

Grace

My husband and I have had THE COLD (no matter where you live, you know what I'm talking about) since mid-January, no kidding. He got it first. I held off for about a week and half, thought I had escaped its grasp, and then got IT. This thing is most probably being doled out by Satan himself. Anyway, we took antibiotics, boxes and boxes of Theraflu, and more or less got over it. We thought. But no, IT'S back. According to the doctor today, it actually never left, just lulled us into a false sense of relief thinking we were just "feeling the last little vestiges." So today we both got prescriptions for more antibiotics, antihistimines, and narcotic-laced cough medicines. Goody. But here's the thing. There was a giant gift from God in the middle of this return of the cold.

For anyone who accidentally stumbled onto this site and doesn't know me, I'll let you know that I'm a singer. So is my husband. It's how we both make our living. All of it. We don't have a day job, or any other business. Our business is entertainment. So this accursed cold has been a double nightmare. We sing at a restaurant during the week and do cabaret dinner shows on the weekends. People buy tickets. Reservations are made. The show must go on. Enter THE COLD. So without belaboring the story, we have managed to get through it. But last weekend the second round of this disease was coming on me pretty good. It was making me cough a lot, and thus irritating the heck out of my throat, making my voice catch and break at unscheduled intervals. Like in the middle of a dramatic ballad. I was suffering through this at our restaurant job during the week. Now here comes the weekend with two important dinner shows to do. Actual dim-the-lights, curtain-up, ta-da-we're-on kind of shows. I was beginning to feel panicky. Then a story from the Bible (2 Corinthians) came into my head and wouldn't leave. It's when the apostle Paul asked God to take away his affliction. (There are theories about what the affliction was, but whatever it was, it was bad enough for Paul to ask God to take it away at least three times.) God's answer was "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." These words of God stuck with me. So I tossed aside my panic, and just had faith in this "grace" of God's. I didn't desperately pray to be miraculously healed by tonight, instead I just gave my affliction to God and trusted that His grace would be sufficient for me, and that His power would be made perfect in my weakness. The key word here is Trust. And you guessed it, I sang my little heart out with nary a wayward note or squawk. I was still weak, and I still had the cold, and in the morning I still coughed and hacked and felt miserable. And that second night I got on the stage again and trusted again and sang like a bird. Again. So what happened is, the affliction was still there, but it was suspended for an hour and half, two nights in row. By the Grace of God. Truly His power was made perfect in my weakness. So I'm just letting everyone know about it. I'm so grateful, I wanted to publish my gratitude. God is so faithful, I am humbled, because I know I don't deserve it. But that's the point. No one deserves it. And that's the gift. God is good. We are not. We can have faith, not because we're good, but because He is.

About Don

My cousin Don died last week. Today is his funeral and I can't be there, so I guess this is kind of my eulogy.

Don was only 63. Died suddenly and unexpectedly of a heart attack. Of course, that's just like Don. Most everything he did was unexpected. My brother said it best; "If you look up character in the dictionary you'll find a picture of Don."

From the time he was a kid he made everyone laugh. He was a clown of the best kind. A good hearted guy with an infectious laugh and a goofy outlook. My family lived across the road from his family on his father's farm when I was a kid, our two mothers were sisters. Don and his sister were just part of our family, always coming over, or us going over there. My brother and I, and Don and Sue all played together, ice skated together and spent Christmas mornings together. The ice skating I remember well. I was a lot younger than the rest, and I had double runner skates, while the rest struggled with single blades. Don, tall and gangly, was a vision in flailing arms and legs, every limb windmilling in the air as he tried to remain upright. (My mother used to pee her pants just thinking about it years and years later.) I would stand there, not really skating, but not falling either, and one by one the bigger kids would come skittering by and grab onto me for balance. I felt important.

Mom had a habit of making pizza on Saturday nights and we'd eat it watching Jackie Gleason. There was always some left over, and Don could be counted on to poke his head through our front door the next morning and ask for a piece. Yes, Sunday morning pizza is a big part of my recollection of Don.

He was just so good natured. No matter what kind of story he was telling, good or dire, there would be a crooked grin, raised eyebrows and a chesty chuckle at the end of it, along with some unique Don observation of it all. He taught us that life could be laughed at. Case in point: when he grew up, he took over his father's farm, becoming a farmer himself. One year he lost a finger in some farm equipment. This happens to farmers sometimes. So he used the situation to make jokes. My favorite was when he used to hold the stump tight against his nostril so it looked like he had his entire finger up his nose. That was a good one.

After we all grew up, I moved away for several years and only saw him once every year or two, but our childhood ties always bound us together in some way. We'd still laugh about an incident when I was maybe twelve, (and way too big for this sort of shenanigans) when he had offered to take me for ride up the road...on his back. Why? Who knows, it was Don living in the moment. So I had climbed on his back and he galloped me up to the neighbor's house and back, about an eighth of a mile each way, laughing all the way. Well, he suffered a really painful stiff neck for weeks afterward and never let me forget it. Even as adults, we'd still talk about it. I'd threaten to climb on again, and he'd back away and grab his neck, swearing it still hurt from the last time.

Then seven or eight years ago, my husband and I started spending summers up there in my home town where he and his lovely wife still live. In fact, they moved into the very house where MY family used to live, across from his parents house. How cool is that? So I have been blessed and privileged to be in contact with him more often, even enjoying dinner (my Lord, his wife can cook) at their house. My old house. A lot of people certainly knew him a lot better than I did, but all I can tell you is I just always felt better after seeing him. Life always seemed a little lighter around him. That chipped-tooth grin was worth a million bucks.

I can't believe he's gone. Someone who fills a room with his presence in such a positive way is so much more sorely missed. He was bigger than life. But the upside is that his memory is also huge. He will be remembered always with smiles and laughter, and that's the legacy of a successful life, in my book.

Thank you God for giving him to us. Now that he's Home and whole again, I guess he won't be doing the finger-up-the-nose-joke anymore. But I'm sure he'll think of something.

This and That

A few things have danced across my mind in the last few weeks, things I thought I might write about but didn't find the time. Darned if I can remember what they were. Well, there is one thing I was going to ask. Does anybody else use the subtitles option when they watch DVD movies? We do it a lot. Mainly because there's an annoying trend in movie making today where the actors seem to whisper half their lines. We're constantly saying to each other, "What did he say?" "Could you hear that?" Then we crank up the volume to hear the dialogue, and next thing you know there's an ear-splitting explosion or car crash that rattles the wine glasses in our cupboard. Whoa. So then we turn the volume back down while the crashing and yelling is going on. Then the scene switches to an intimate moment between characters, a moment when meaningful dialogue is happening, probably essential to the unfolding of the plot, and darn it, they're whispering again. It's enough to drive you nuts, or at least to use the occasional cuss word. Then on top of that when the actor is a mumbler like Nicholas Cage for instance, well just forget it. You'll never catch up. OR EVEN WORSE, if it turns out to be a British film. Oh man. Between the whispering and the British accents it's hopeless. Oh sure, now I'll probably get hate mail from British people. (Yeah, like there's a whole bunch of British people reading my blog.) So anyway we have taken to using the subtitles option from the menu at the beginning. This is very useful. In case you've never tried this option, you go to "Languages" and then select English. This is normally intended for the hearing impaired, which we apparently are while we're watching movies. Then you start your movie and voila you can now follow the plot. Yes, it does take a little of the spontaneity out of it. You often read both characters dialogue before the second person actually speaks. Takes a little zing out of humorous exchanges, but it's a small price to pay all the same. Now what we usually do is start watching the movie and see how bad the whispering or accent is before we just jump the gun and go right for the subtitles. It's usually apparent early on if you need them. So then you can pause, go to the menu, click on your subtitles, and go back to the movie right where you left off. Do not ask me specifically how this is done. This procedure is a husband thing, totally foreign to the female mind. Well, to mine anyway. (Oh great, now I'll get hate mail from feminists all over the world. Yeah, like THEY'RE all reading my blog too.) So my questions is, does anybody else do this?

Let's see, what else has been on my mind? Couple of funny moments. My husband, the comedian, saw all the flags at half mast recently and said, "Gee, it was really nice of them to fly the flags at half mast for James Brown."

My friend Cindy has been urging me to write about my 91-year old neighbor, Marguerite. She's a pip all right. She bakes. But I mean she's addicted to baking. Cookies cookies cookies. She can't stop herself from baking them, and then she has to get rid of them. Guess who she calls? And do you think we could say no? Me, the diabetic, and my husband who wants to lose 20 pounds. What do you think my response is? "Okay, I'll be right over." That's what my response is. She's got a great little sense of humor. She'll call up and say, "Marcy, there's a funny smell in my kitchen." And I, knowing where this is going, will play along. "Really? What do you suppose it is?" "Well, it smells like fresh baked cookies," she says, "Would you like some?" Which elicits the aforementioned response, "Sure, I'll be right over." We tried putting them in the freezer to deter us from eating too many. Turns out they're very tasty frozen. Oh well. She does take quite a few to the senior center, which she visits every single day. She still drives, and she dances at the center when her knees permit. She also has dozens of poems in her head which she can recite from memory word for word. But they're cute and fun like the Florida version of "The Night Before Christmas". That kind of stuff. Little stories that she performs. Criminy, I can barely remember the pledge of allegiance. She has a boyfriend, also 91. Well, there are lots of stories, and I'll try to remember to jot them down when they come up.

I guess that's all for now. Just a few little snapshots for my dear friends who tell me they enjoy my blog. As always, thanks so much for being there.

Holy Night

All is quiet in Heaven. Not just quiet. This night is so quiet you can feel it. Hear it. As if all of Heaven and all of Creation is holding its breath.
Muriel, the youngest angel, always curious, always questioning, finds her way to the Great Room and stands boldly before the Throne. There is not a trace of fear in her as she stands in His magnificent Presence.
"Father?"
"Yes, Little One?"
"I know something is happening. Everyone here is shining a little brighter than usual, but no one is speaking. And that star. I've never seen that one before. What is it? What's happening?"
"Something very special. The world will never be the same after tonight."
"Is that good or bad?" she asks.
"It is good."
"Will you tell me about it? May I know it?"
"Certainly, Little One, soon everyone will know it. It is my Son. He is about to be born. Down there, below the star, in that manger."
"Your Son? But he was just here. He's always been HERE. Why are you sending him down there? It's dangerous there, and there is so much the humans don't understand. They may hurt Him."
"I know."
"But that's a stable! He's a King. Why is He being born in a stable? Shouldn't His arrival be a bit more spectacular? Maybe descending from Heaven on a great cloud, with trumpets blaring..."
"All in good time, my Precious."
"I don't understand."
"Right now I need him to come into the world as a baby, the way all humans do. He has to be one of them, has to feel what they feel, experience the same joy, sadness, temptation, pain, grief...."
"Loneliness too?" Muriel asks.
"No. Not loneliness. Because I will always be with Him. As for the stable, it's a fine place to start. He will show the world that it doesn't matter where you were born, or what you own. That's not what counts."
"But why does He have to leave here and go there at all?" Muriel pleads.
"He has a most important job to do. Something only He can do. You see, my people have wandered far away from me, like lost sheep. I need Him to round them up and bring them back to me."
Muriel tilts her head. "Like a shepherd?" she asks.
"Exactly," He says softly. "They've forgotten how it was in the Beginning. They've forgotten that I created them in My own image, and they've gone chasing after meaningless pursuits. My Son will remind them of My Love for them. Show them in ways no one else can. He will Save them. Do you understand, Muriel?"
"Maybe, a little. But why are you doing it? If they've forgotten You, why not forget them too?"
"Because I love them." He says, and sighs.
"But will they listen? Will they follow Him?" Muriel is skeptical.
"Many will. And those that do must tell the others, and with their very lives, show the world what He has taught them. None of it is easy, Muriel, but it must be done."
They are both silent for a long moment. Then a sound rips the air, a sound so startling Muriel jumps a foot. The sound grows louder and louder until it reverberates though all the Halls of Heaven, filling the Universe. It is the unmistakable wail of a baby's cry. Muriel's eyes grow wide. "That's Him!" she cries. In this very moment, suddenly the Angel Chorus begins to sing, a thousand voices proclaiming "Allejujah, He is Come!" A squadron of Messenger Angels swoops down on a field where shepherds are tending their flock, and gives to them the Good News. All of Creation resounds with the Joy of this most Holy Moment.
Muriel bows low before the Throne, and simply says, "Thank you, Father." Then in an instant she is gone to join all the Heavenly Host in the Celebration.
The Father listens to all of it. The chorus, the harps, the shouting, the Baby's cry. Then he closes His eyes, settles back, and whispers, "It has begun."

.................................................................................

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A HOLY NIGHT.
With Love, From Marcy

Diamonds In My Garden

As I sit on our lanai this morning looking at our pretty little garden, I see a newly sprouted plant, and on one of its leaves the sun is glinting off something that can only be a drop of water. It's shining as brightly as a diamond. And it's only a drop of water. God's gifts are so precious A diamond and a drop of water look exactly the same from a few feet away.

A Visit To Remember

I'm depressed. Yesterday I had the best hair day of my life. It will never be that perfect again. I almost wish I hadn't had it. Now every other hair day will pale in comparison to it. I'm doomed to a lifetime of almost-my-best-hair-days. Sure enough, this morning... it's gone. Oh well.

Just kidding about the depressed thing. Actually I'm pretty happy. My husband and I just returned from a pre-Christmas visit with our kids and grandkids. (Well, the truth is, they're his two daughters, but I get to claim them a little too, because they've known me most of their lives, and even lived with us on and off. They love me, I love them.) We only live a few hours away, but our work schedule at Christmas won't allow a nice Christmas visit this year, so we went early. But it really feels like we've had our Christmas now. We exchanged gifts, we watched the older daughter put up her Christmas tree, and the younger daughter had hers up too. And we thoroughly enjoyed the company of our two teenage granddaughters, who are just the coolest young women now. But the real entertainment came with the two-year old granddaughter. We found out from her mom that she kept pointing at a Barbie guitar in a catalog and saying, "Thank you Mommy, thank you Mommy." Apparently this went on pretty much nonstop. So we bought the guitar. When my my ever-alert husband went to buy it, he also noticed a pair of pink cowboy boots in her size, so naturally who could resist? She loves shoes more than Oprah does. So we couldn't wait to see the reaction to both. WELL.....we gave her the boots package first. She barely ripped the paper off one end of the box and she got all rigid the way little kids do and started squealing "Shoes! Shoes! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!". We couldn't figure out how she knew what they were from seeing about 3 square inches of cardboard, but she knew. Well, the pink boots went on her feet, and as far as I know, they're still there today. So next was the guitar. You can imagine that scene. More squealing and "Guitar! MY GUITAR! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!" After finally extricating it from its packaging, her daddy helped her put it on properly and showed her how she should hold it. Well let me tell you, the Barbie guitar doesn't play the Farmer in the Dell. It plays licks like Keith Richards. You touch a string, or a button and it's rock n' roll baby. But the best was yet to come. It comes with a head set microphone that you plug into the guitar and it amplifies your voice. Once we figured out how that went on her and how it worked, she was loaded for bear. She got the rhythm going on the guitar, then figured out that when she spoke it was amplifed, so she started singing made-up songs loudly and without a semblance of melody. She did this for awhile with her feet planted in one position. Then, (and I think I actually saw a light bulb go on over her head) she began WALKING AROUND, playing and singing. It was like she was born for this. But it wasn't enough for HER to walk around by herself. She went over to my husband, who up to now had been sitting comfortably on the couch, laughing his butt off saying "I can die happy now", and pointed at him straight-armed and commanded, "Grandpa! DANCE!!" Then she came to me, "Grandma, DANCE!" And so on until everyone in the room --Mommy, Daddy, Grandpa, Grandma, cousins, Auntie etc. - was up dancing while she strutted around like Chuck Berry singing her little heart out. It was a scene. This two-year-old had taken complete control of the room. But then, I guess that's what two-year-olds do for a living.

I'm still basking in the afterglow of a wonderful family visit. I've had my temporary fix of good quality time with my "daughters" and grandchildren. Not to mention the fabulous home-cooked meal of meatballs, sausage and pasta, prepared by one of the daughters. She's a throwback to the old Italian mamas. Except that she's young and adorable and thin. Go figure. The other daughter is also beautiful, and a gifted hair stylist. She had to keep reassuring me that my new longer hair style was "perfect". I become all insecure and needy around these young, beautiful women. "Do you really like it? How's the color? Really? Do you think I should trim it here?" Thankfully, they're patient with me.

So I feel as if I've already had my Christmas, and my wish for everyone is that they have an equally wonderful holiday. Unlike the "best hair day", I'm not worried that there will never be as good a Christmas as this one. I know they'll just keep getting better and better.

I'm Still Alive

For the three people who actually read my blog, I thought I'd just check in today. It's been way over a month since I wrote anything. I did start writing a draft of something back in October, involving my observations of a praying mantis outside my bedroom window building a cocoon by squirting white stuff out her butt, but when I merely mentioned it to my sister she was so horrified and grossed out I scrubbed it. I thought it was cool. Anyway.

We're enjoying life in Florida. I sometimes think about a church I used to go to, and at the top of the bulletin it would say something like "the second Sunday of the month, in ordinary time", meaning it wasn't Lent, or Advent or any other Holy observance. Now, after all we've been through in the last few years, I'm often aware of how grateful I am for "ordinary time" in our lives.

So anyway, I've been giving some thought to my Geezer Handbook idea. I think it would be a great book. I don't want to give away the store here, but here's the concept: being a geezer is not necessarily a bad thing. And you're not automatically a geezer just because you're old. It's more a state of mind. But they do often go hand in hand. See, geezerhood can be good, because it gives you license to do anything you darn well please and not care what anybody thinks. And I'm not just talking about passing gas loudly in public. Although that's a plus. But I mean you say anything you want, wear anything you want and just don't give a hoot what anybody thinks about it. You're old. Or at least old-at-heart. Also, cheapness is often associated with geezerhood. Or as we like to say, "frugal". For instance, if you're dining with friends at a restaurant, never "split the bill". Always keep a calculator handy to figure out your share EXACTLY. And always carry one of those little cards that tells you how to figure the tip and NEVER pay more than 15%. Before tax. I think there are lots of useful tips for people aspiring to be geezers. I think I could be a big help. Hey, we all make our own contribution. And living here in Florida, I figure I'm pretty qualified to write the book on geezers. Heck, I'm fast becoming one.

Well, I just wanted to say I'm still here. I'm hoping for some inspiration soon so I can write again. Take care, all. As always, thank You God, for a good day. In ordinary time.

Not Just Another Day

It's the fifth anniversary of what we all call "9/11". There are probably more postings on this day than any other. It just doesn't feel right to let the day go by without saying something.

God knows there's nothing really new to be said. I'm so sorry for all who died. I'm so sorry for their families. I'm so sorry that we all have to live with a fear we hadn't known before. I'm grieved that this awful act has made us suspicious of people who look like the perpetrators. I'm sad that young men and women are dying in a war that was probably a direct result of this infamous act, although I'm not necessarily "against" the war. I worry that zealots of every stripe have become even more zealous for their causes. And against the other guy's.

I'm glad that many who lost their most precious loved ones on that day are beginning to move on and find that there is still life to be lived. I'm proud of all the people who have helped their fellow man get through this. I'm glad for the people who came to the realization that when the world falls apart, God is right there, willing and ready, to take them into His arms. I'm hopeful that one by one, we will all come to know God. The real God. Not a misconceived notion of a God who demands that infidels be murdered.

There is one God. He had one unique Son. That Son commanded us to love one another as he loved us. It could be so simple. Let's just make it simple.

Oldies Station

I've been listening to the oldies station again. Some of the songs bring back great memories and get my foot tapping, my head bobbing, and my pulse racing. Then there are other songs that are just plain annoying. Maybe they always were, but I'm really noticing it now all these years later. Case in point: "American Pie". Oh sure, no one can help singing along to the part we all know; "Bye bye Miss American Pie, drove my chevy to the levy but the levy was dry"...etc etc. But the rest of it....well first of all, the song is about as long as a TV miniseries. I swear DJ's only play it when they need to go to the bathroom. Or a doctor's appointment. Second, DOES ANYBODY UNDERSTAND IT??? There was a time, many years ago, when a bunch of us actually spent time discussing it and trying to figure out all the metaphors. (Someone thought "the day the music died" referred to the day Buddy Holly's plane crashed. OK. Now there's only about 340 more metaphors and heavily veiled allusions to go.) Of course, now that I'm mature, I naturally spend my time in more meaningful pursuits. Like Sudoku. In fact, I finished an entire Sudoku puzzle during the song "American Pie" just this morning.

Another truly annoying song is "MacArthur Park". More hard-to-understand lyrics and deep meaning. "Someone left the cake out in the rain, and I don't think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again....Oh Noooooo!" The only part I get is "oh no".

Of course it's no small wonder that our generation cranked out songs with crazy-quilt lyrics and screaming feedback guitar solos. Everybody was higher than a kite. To a bunch of greasy haired musicians sitting around a smoke-filled basement smoking pot and staring at black light posters at four in the morning, ridiculous lyrics were brilliant, man! Dig it!

But then there are the really good songs, like "China Grove" by the Doobie Brothers. Of course I don't know what that song's about either, in fact never really listened to the lyrics, but I don't care. It's got a GREAT groove and it rocks your socks off. And "American Band". Killer. It's not that I consider myself a rocker, in fact I guess I'd say I'm not, but when certain songs come on the radio they just grab me. I can't keep my legs still. I'M YOUNG AGAIN! Okay, there it is. Certain songs just take you back to some pocket of time that must have been good, because you find yourself grinning and bopping. Nothing wrong with that. If there were only a radio station that would play just the songs you love. But of course that's impossible. But maybe they could just stop playing "American Pie." Thanks.

The New Neighbors

We just met our new neighbors yesterday. They will be living upstairs from us in our condo complex. Sharing a garage with us. My husband and I are pretty much geezers living among mostly other geezers here. Okay, at 54 and 62 we're on the adolescent end of geezerhood, but still. And I'm okay with that. Our complex is only 44 units and although it's not an "over-55 community", like many of the communities down here, (down here being Florida), it just kind of turns out that way anyway.
So back to the new neighbors.

Our previous upstairs neighbor was an old woman in her eighties who was, shall we say, eccentric. She became more and more eccentric until she began threatening people with brooms and hammers and calling the police and fire departments reporting imaginary break-ins and assaults. This is not funny and I'm not making fun. She had become our friend, more or less, over the years, but we began keeping a watchful eye out for her as she started drifting back and forth between glad to see us and calling us filthy names. Then finally she "went over to the dark side" for good. They took her away and sold her condo. We heard they sold it to someone who intended to rent it out. Oh goodie. Enter "the renters", our new neighbors.

Our doorbell rings yesterday and a woman introduces herself as the owner/rental agent of the condo upstairs and just wanted to let us know that our new neighbors were moving in RIGHT NOW and would we like to meet them? Sure. I walk outside to where their furniture-laden truck is parked, and the woman points me toward a twenty-something guy, about six foot two, with gorgeous curly locks who looks like my nephew and has no shirt on. She says, "This is Aaron. He and his girlfriend Wendy are moving in upstairs." Holy cow. YOUNG PEOPLE!
This should make for some animated conversation at the next potluck in the clubhouse.
"Whose kids were those at the pool today? Ruth and George's?"
"No, they LIVE HERE!"
"WHAT?! But they're, they're YOUNG!"

So anyway, after I overcame my own shock and introduced myself and so on, I went back inside and told my husband the news. Young people were going to be living upstairs, sharing our garage. He got a sardonic look on his face and said, "This oughta go over big," thinking as I was about the rest of our neighbors. So he goes out to meet them too. By now Wendy is also outside and we chat briefly, offering any help we might be able to give. They seemed nice. Respectful. (Oh good Lord, listen to me. Respectful. That's what my grandmother would have said.) So we go back inside and soon we hear some conversation outside. See, the stairway to their unit is right outside our door in a kind of little courtyard. We can hear everything. So, it seems that Aaron and his friend Jeremiah, who is helping him, can't get the massive couch through the door and around the immediate corner. No way to make it go no matter what. They're thinking that maybe if they removed the screen from their lanai (Florida-speak for screened-in porch) at the back of the unit, they might be able to pass it up from beneath. I'm thinking good luck with that. In fact I even said it. Next thing you know, we look out our lanai door behind our condo and see Aaron and Jeremiah with the couch. In a flash, they had it on its end, and hoisted it so the top end was resting on the lanai above us. Now here's my favorite part. Aaron takes over holding the whole thing while Jeremiah runs around the building, up the stairs, and through the apartment to pull it up from the other end. We're standing in our living room looking out back at a guy HOLDING A COUCH all by himself, arms over his head like Atlas holding up the world, and his arms aren't even shaking. My husband and I looked at each other and he said what we were both thinking. "Might be good to have this guy around."

Well, that's chapter one of the new neighbors story. I don't expect there'll really be much to report. They seem like good kids. Hey, I'm kind of looking forward to being exposed to some youth for a change. Besides, in a neighborhood full of "Hanks", "Franks", "Eds", "Eleanors" and "Marguerites", it's kind of refreshing to hear names like "Wendy" and "Aaron".
Welcome to the neighborhood.

The Waiting Room

The family waiting room on the surgical floor was near capacity when I entered it to begin my own vigil about 5 PM. Some people seemed to be waiting as a family group, some as friends, and some as single spouses, like me. It struck me how many people must be having surgery. And this was just one hour of the day, in one waiting room on one floor of one hospital in the world.

I had just kissed my husband before he was rolled into the O.R. for major surgery. After four years of dealing with bladder cancer, exhausting every treatment and out-patient procedure available, he was now having the bladder removed. Serious stuff. I knew it was going to take several hours, so I settled in for an evening of reading, Sudoku, and a dinner break in the cafeteria. You may notice that I left out the word "worrying". That's because my most important activity during this waiting period was praying. I prayed. It was not desperate praying, but confident praying. I gave my husband's well being to God, and prayed for the doctors, nurses, and electrical equipment. (We live in Florida, and my first answered prayer was that there were no hurricanes yet in sight to threaten electrical power, or require evacuation at a most in-opportune time.)
A few friends had offered to stay with me through this, and I had declined. Something told me it would be better this way. I was able to be still, and know that God is God. The first miracle was that I wasn't fearful. My husband and I had been praying about this for quite some time. He had already put himself in God's hands, and faced this life-changing event with all the grace anyone could ask for. And that was perhaps the biggest miracle of all, and also what allowed me the strength to stay steady.

Time passed, and the waiting room thinned out, as one by one, surgeons came to speak with families about the outcome of their loved ones' surgeries. After three hours, I got a progress report from the operating room, saying things were going well, but they didn't have an estimate of how much longer it would be. There was lots of work to be done. I was grateful for the report. It was kind and considerate of the staff to let me know. After a few more hours, it was down to me and one family left. It was getting late by now, almost 10 o'clock. The wife and two beautiful daughters now sharing the room with me were beginning to frazzle. The husband had been in surgery all day. Another cancer patient. Just when the wife's considerable strength had been almost completely spent, their surgeon arrived to speak with them in the conference room. Mostly good news. I was glad for them. And I prayed for them too.

Another hour, and a few people came and went. The hospital volunteer at the desk outside had long since gone home. The halls were quiet, the night was dark, the TV murmered across the room at low volume. After six hours of surgery, at 11 o'clock, when our surgeon finally walked in to speak with me, there were just the four of us left in the room; me, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The doctor saw me sitting alone, but I wasn't.

The report was good. My husband came through it well. It went according to plan, and I was able to go and see him shortly afterward in recovery. He was groggy, drifting in and out of conciousness. I smoothed his hair and smiled at him. His first barely audible words were, "You wanna dance?" I couldn't believe that even now, he made me laugh. After another brief lapse into sleep, he opened his eyes again and said, "Thank you Jesus." Amen, my Love, Amen.