One of Those Days

I started a post on December 10th.  About the evening of November 28.  Blogging is not at the top of my priorities as you can see. 

However, since the tragedy (though tragedy may not be a strong enough word, nor is devastation, gut wrenching, or piercing) at Sandy Hook this evening is even more meaningful to me.  I hope they had moments that will sustain them a lifetime. 



Last month, the month of November, the month where it was a delight to read what my friends' treasured in their statuses, I had one of those days. 

At the time, I made notes about what made it one of those days.  I jotted down some observations, which I fully intended to write about-to get it out of my system.

You see, friends, on a dreary Wednesday in November, I had one of those days.  And it was glorious.

It started in the kitchen.  While preparing supper, I went to discard my trash.  While dumping it in the trash can, I noticed the trash can had hulls in it.  Hulls of walnuts, almonds, hazelnuts. 

And it was at that moment I realized the holiday season was upon us.  And, simultaneously, I realized that very often the most mundane, small acts can help us see how fragile and precious life is.

For as long as I can remember, my father welcomed the holiday season by purchasing mixed nuts-the kind you need a nutcracker for.  And for as long as I can remember, I've seen those shells at the bottom of the trash can. 

For about 30 minutes, it seemed as though time stopped.  I could hear the news in the background from one direction and snoring in the other. 

And for that brief amount of time, I understood just how fully blessed I am-to have a family, a home that is a respite from the literal and metophorical storms.  I saw for that amount of time how silly things, like shattered walnut pieces, helped me grasp that for that one moment, all was right in the world.

After my father's stroke, you never know what will go next.  He no longer drives and when he's a passenger with me, he doesn't critique my vehicular skills.  Just this evening, he informed my mother we needed to set our clocks back an hour.  Little things aren't the same-the way he answers phone calls, the way he stays in the house, the way he no longer jokes.

But for that one amount of time, life was good.  I know it's silly and sappy.  But one day, hopefully years from now, I will look back on this memory and smile.  Or cry.  And I will continue to celebrate the tiny, ordinary moments. 

Someone Should've Warned Me...

You know, it's funny (and not in the ha ha way).

I've known many a person to pass away (coming from a large extended family).  And while grief is grief, and mourning is mourning, "they" say reality doesn't set in until the funeral's over and the out of town company's left.

When you're left alone with a new routine.

Which is what my family is dealing with in my father, post-stroke.  Back during that miserable two months (I look at the blog posts and have to laugh, because humor was the only thing that kept me going) and I wish someone would have warned me.

There would be a day when simply  seeing a recipe for chicken and dumplings on Pinterest that would make me cry.  My father always made the best c'n'd, by hand...and why didn't I sit in the kitchen and watch?  Make him write that down?

Why didn't someone tell me about the fact that whenever he is tired and enunciates slowly your body goes on high alert...and you're ready to go to church, but stay home because the two episodes before happened on Sunday mornings and you will not risk a third. 

Why didn't someone warn me that all the silly teasing that once drove me crazy is something I would happily give my right arm for now?  That his silence denotes that the mind is deteriorating, and the once quick wit is now slowing.

One of my favorite authors broached this subject in a book.  She found an essay that sums up everything perfectly: "Normal Day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it will not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want more than all the world your return." Mary Jean Irion

(To read the entire essay, go here .)

My family is learning a new routine.  One that is gaining more familiarity...but I still miss the old one.

Yesterday we celebrated my father's 73rd birthday.  He didn't want much...so we went out to eat at a buffet.  I was leaving work, so I met my parents at the restaurant.  As we were walking in, Daddy said to Mama, "Tell 'em you've got two seniors, and one who looks like one."
As I pretended to be insulted, my heart was quietly overjoyed...for a quick moment, we had the old routine.  And it was good.  So very good.

Wide Eyed and Bushy Tailed

So my sister finally made good on a promise to herself this week.

She adopted a kitten.

And he is precious.  He was found on the side of the road with his sister, so the people named them Bonnie and Clyde.  He was scheduled to be put down next week and Kel couldn't bear that.  Kel adopted him,  decided Clyde didn't suit him (probably after the Gillespie debacle) and renamed him Tiger.

Which brings me to my post.  She brought him to my parents house the other day and she was so proud to show him off.  Tiger, being accustomed to living on the side of the road or in an animal shelter, was not yet comfortable with all of us.  He was, indeed, wide eyed and bushy tailed. 

Kel said he had spent the night in her apartment mostly away from her.  Somehow she'd left a bathroom cabinet door open, and he spent the night nestled under a pile of folded towels.  He hid under her bed, and only came out to eat or use the litter box, not even to play with the toys that were just for him.

Tiger didn't understand just yet that he had been adopted into a family.  And while we held him and cooed over him and told him he was safe and wouldn't have to worry about anything again.

Isn't that just what our God has done for us? 

We, too, have been adopted into a family. (Long, long ago he decided to adopt us into his family through Jesus Christ.  Ephesians 1:5, The Message).

Even if we turn away and hide (be it under towels, in workaholism, alcoholism, success, or whatever), He does not love us any less. ("I've never quit loving you and never will.  Expect love, love and more love!" Jeremiah 31:3 The Message)

He saved us from death.  ("For God so loved the world that He gave his only Begotten Son that who ever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.  For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through Him." John 3:16-17 NIV)  

Even though some days may be difficult or scary, God is still there.  ("Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you." Dueteronomy 31:6 NIV)

Since this is a new relationship, it will take time to grow.  They will need to spend time together to learn to that Kel can be trusted.  But it will be an exciting journey for them both. 

Make that two of 'em wide eyed and bushy tailed. :)

The Sweetest Gift

So I made no bones about the fact that Christmas Break 2010 was two weeks spent being ill. 

So ill I only left the house to go to the doctor.  No Christmas shopping, no present swapping, in short, no fun.

However, that did not stop a very sweet gift from making its way to my very bedside.  Before I tell you the gift, let me give you a little exposition.

You have to understand, my father ended his role as a bachelor at the ripe age of 39.  I came along when he was 41.  Daddy was the last of his brothers and sisters to get married, so my grandmother and grandfather on that side were already old when I came along.  Case in point:

I was two weeks old in this picture.  My grandmother was 76.  By this point, she already had 34 other grandchildren and had gone blind.  This is how I remember her.  An old woman.  She was smart-even though she was unable to see, she could play the piano and knew the Bible backwards and forwards.  She also knew all the grandkids' names what we liked to do.  As I got older she lost a little weight, but I will always remember her like this.

Until Christmas Eve 2010.  My parents drove to Tennessee, where this grandmother lived and many of my relatives still call home.  Upon returning, Mama came in my room and presented me with this:

The first time in my entire 30 years I have ever seen my grandmother as a young woman.  She was born in 1904 and no one knew when this picture was taken.  We all guessed she could be no more than 18.  The picture I have is a copy of the original, but the original must be somewhere around 100 years old.  My aunt had it and made a copy for my dad.  It's embarrassing to admit, but I had never even tried to imagine what she looked like-I had assumed some people were just born old in my childish way.  And looking at this photograph, I see so much resemblance of my father and my cousin Judy.  This photograph ties together generations.

I've seen plenty of pictures of my other grandmother as a young woman, but none of my daddy's mother.  Of all the gifts I received this Christmas, this was the sweetest gift.

Family Tradition

Today was a wonderful day.

Today I got to do something I have not done much of all summer.  I talked (which is normal, 'cause that happens.  ALL the time.)  But it was at someone's house.  In chairs.  Like an adult. 

Not in my car, rushing from point A to B.  Not marching around the neighborhood in the twilight or evening hours.  It was so refreshing to just sit and have a face to face conversation with a lovely hostess.  If you ever want charming company, I can tell you to visit my friend Melanie.  She makes super yummy cupcakes and has funny stories.  After hearing about how they celebrated her friend's birthday, I am making it a point to stay on this lady's good side.

Anyway, at one point today we were reminiscing about something and Mel was saying something about her grandmother.  Which got me to thinking about my grandmother.

My dad's mother passed away when I was sixteen.  Daddy was raised in Tennessee, and I've grown up in central Kentucky.  My parents made it a point to try and visit her monthly, but there was always a house full at that Granny's.  There was always at least one cousin, and more often than not, one or two aunts and uncles there.  Lots of people to have fun with, and lots of animals to pet.  A creek, cards games to play or movies to watch.  My mom and dad would visit with my grandmother (my grandfather having passed away when I was three) and I would talk to her, but not that often.

As a result, I was not as close as I would like to have been.

I can tell you a lot about her.  I can tell you she loved the Lord, that even though she went blind from glaucoma in her middle age, that didn't deter her devotion one bit.  She knew as much of the Bible by heart near the end of her life as she did when she was sighted.  The local gospel radio station would hold memory verse contests.  My granny knew so much they station actually asked her to stop calling in with the answers.  Because she was putting everyone else in the county to shame. :)

She's been gone for over a dozen years now, and the hurt is not so fresh.  I wish I had not been so preoccupied with dogs, cats, and cousins.  But every so often, something will happen that brings her memory to light.  And it will make me smile.

A while back, Mama and I were discussing something.  I can't remember what it was, but it was something I wasn't too excited about.  Mom said something, and I had an immediate reply for it.  And Mom just looks at me, smiles and says, "You have your grandmother's wit."

Because both my grannys can be pretty entertaining, I asked her to clarify.  And she explained it was Daddy's mom.  Again, the grandmother I knew was very holy and good.  I had not heard about this woman.  And Mama explained that before I was born, Granny was known for her banter.

And I can't explain to you how, over ten years later, it does my little heart good to know I somewhat possess that trait.  It's nice to know that someone who knows the both of us can see the similiarity.  I guess that's the part of me that wishes she were still here and this is a small way her memory is still alive.  It's our own family tradition.

Meeting my granny for the first time at the age of two weeks.

Rehab, Day 1

There are just some things a daughter just does not EVER want to witness. They are just plain terrible, and I'm looking for therapists as soon as I finish this post. (If you don't know me, please understand that last sentence was written in jest.)

For instance, Tuesday.

I escorted my father to outpatient rehab for the very first time. Since it was the very first time I thought my role would be filling out 15 minutes worth of paperwork, seeing him to the door, and leaving him there for two hours. (Because I've heard tell from numerous people, "I dropped so and so off at rehab today...") It's imperative you know my expectations-it explains why I had no make up, not even powder. So what I thought would be a 20 minute errand tops turned into an hour and 20 minute trip.  And looking like white trash is no longer "in", so I couldn't even pretend I was trying to be fashionable.

And it was not without cringe inducing moments.  Because we're dealing with my people.

The incredibly nice speech therapist wanted me to stay in and help Daddy answer questions.  Because there's two sides to every story.  But we survived the speech therapy session.

And then on to physical therapy.

Now you have to understand Daddy loves to talk. And loves to tell a big bear tale.  The bigger the tale, the better.  And for the people that know him, we know he's puttin' on, and just laugh.  But then you get these people who believe him. Every. Single. Word.

The two physical therapists (the one licensed one and the student one-bless both their hearts) asked him his goals for physical therapy.  I will give you his answer:

"I just want things to be the way they used to be.  Before all this, I was driving.  I was able to mow the lawn.  I used to do all the housework.  I used to do all the dishes.  I used to do all the cooking.  I used to do all the laundry." It was at this point the therapist interjects and wants to know about stairs.  We cover the fact that there are stairs at the house.  The therapists are concerned about him packing laundry baskets up and down the stairs.  (I'm worried about the therapists.)

And can I just say I had been shaking my head no to negate everything he was saying after the second sentence?  But do people listen to me?  No.  All I have to say is, yes, Daddy used to drive.  He used to mow the lawn.  Dishes?  On occasion.  Cooking.  He'd fix himself lunch and maybe fix us supper sometimes.  (Though to be fair, he does make chicken and dumplings that will make you slap yo' momma.) Laundry?  He'd wash towels once a week when he got bored.

But since SOME people believe every word that comes out of mouths, and they carry clipboards, it is documented that my daddy runs the household.  And he is desperately worried his wife is going to leave him if he can't resume his household chores.

It's recently come to my attention that Australia has a lot of people with my last name.  When he is well, I plan to move there.

G'day mates!  

Cougar Bait

About two months ago I'm minding my own business reading in the living room and my parents are in the kitchen having a snack.  All of a sudden I hear (71 year old) Daddy ask Mama, "Brenda, what'd you say a 'cougar' was?"  And Mom explains that a cougar is an older woman after a younger man.  I hear Daddy start cackling.  "Well, I got an email.  It said there were 30 cougars waiting to meet me online." Mom and I are both snickering now.  "Brenda, how old do you reckon them women'd have to be? 90?"  And that's when we almost choked.

Fast forward to the day Daddy got out of the hospital.  He was chomping at the bit to look at his tomato plants in the yard.  Since he was still a little unsteady on his feet, he needed a cane.  We had not acquired one at this point, so what's a good Southern family to do?  Take a paint roller extender (minus the roller) and use it for a walking stick.  Yup, we did.  And because it's MY family, and MY father, it's not just a stick.  It's a cougar stick.  'Cause he needed something to keep the cougars off. 

And because I am the product of my father, I nicknamed him "Cougar Bait". 

Which we still call him-to his face.  'Cause we're respectful like that.

For my peace of mind, would you please not tell your grandma about him?

Hooray For Family

As I sit here, it's semi-early (7:15 a.m.).  The house is quiet.  But we have had the best time over the last twenty hours.


If you've read any of my previous posts, you know that it's been a very crazy summer.  It's been one filled with illness, recovery, and learning-both in classrooms and out.  But for a little while last night, it felt like our home was the way I remembered some of my relative's homes when I was growing up.  And it did wonders for my spirits.


Usually, my family is the one who does the traveling around.  If we have kinfolk who come up from Florida to Virginia, we'll visit Virginia, and manage to see lots of family.  (Once, when I was twelve or thirteen, I spent the week in Virginia.  Never even had time to miss my family-we were too busy having a big time.)


Since Daddy has been ill, people have been coming to us.  The fact that at the moment we are unable to travel makes me sad.  But all of the guests have been wonderful.  


Over the last few weeks, but especially the last 24 hours, we have visited.  We have eaten our fill.  We have reminisced.  I've heard stories about my cousins, my parents, my grandparents that I'd never heard.


And we have laughed.  


The kind of laughter that makes not only your sides but your face hurt.  The kind that makes you gasp and giggle and then start all over again.  The kind that you take for granted while you're laughing, but when you get a quiet moment to just sit and reflect, you realize how very blessed you are.  Because you haven't laughed that hard in a long time.


And you see you're blessed because you have so many people who care about your family in your life.  And to see how God sends you those people just when you need them.   And you can't help but echo David's sentiment, "What is man that you are mindful of him?" Psalm 8:4

How To Ensure The ER Will Talk About You

As I mentioned previously, my father suffered a stroke not too long ago. 16 days ago to be precise. And because we like to make sure that we will be remembered (good or bad), my family takes certain precautions upon entering the ER. It is of the utmost importance to make a lasting impression on those who give so much to making the welfare of the community better. My family does our part to make sure we are not forgotten. This includes:

• My 71 year old father denying he needed ANY medical attention. Of course, as he was saying this, he couldn't hardly open one eye, limped, slurred every single word that exited his lips and had one side of his face drooping. Nah, Daddy, I just didn't want to do my homework this afternoon and decided that I'd druther run you to the ER instead.
• Daddy telling the ER physician we accused him of forgetting his own child's name. (While en route to the hospital, he couldn't come up with my sister's name. I asked him mine, and he thought and thought before saying, "Dr. Robin". Told you he was funny, even during a stroke.) When the doctor asks you what your kids' names are, reply without missing a beat, "Nosy and Busybody". That'll show 'em. [FYI-I informed my sister that she was Nosy and I was Busybody.]
• Make sure one member of your party wears the LOUDEST flip flops in the county. While your father may not be complaining or bellowing in pain, we need to make sure that everyone knows you're there. Noisy shoes will remind them to come and check on you.

Thought we were finished? Ha!

13 days later, Daddy was sent back to the ER under doctor's orders for a CT scan after experiencing several hours of mental confusion (including making my sister go to the mailbox at 7:45 a.m. and trying to make me check the mail even earlier, thinking I was my mother despite our nearly 30 year age difference-that made Mama's day).

Of course, thinking only of the comfort of our parents, my sister stayed at the house, ready to transport my mother to the hospital once she arrived home from work. So I took Daddy back up to the ER and awaited the diagnosis. He had been doing so well, that all the confusion was such a shock.


In walks the ER doctor and nurse. "Well, sir, so you're confused? What seems to be the trouble?"


My father replies without missing a beat, "You just wait until my wife and other daughter get up here. Then you'll see why I'm confused."


Needless to say, the medical staff laughed (as did I). They ran a bunch of tests and said that he was going to be okay. The confusion could be with him for a few months, or indefinitely. However, Daddy still has his sense of humor, and we are so grateful.


Explaining this whole mess to everyone though-once we got home, one of his sisters called. Daddy tried and tried to explain it. Then finally, he called Mama to the phone. Mom listened for a moment, then burst out laughing. "That's pretty much it," she answered. I asked her later and she said, "Your dad kept telling them, the girls felt bad so they put me in the hospital."


Any wonder Daddy won't let me help him with anything?


"A cheerful heart is good medicine." Proverbs 17:22

Hope Comes One Bite At A Time

Ten days ago, my family experienced a life changing event: my father suffered a stroke. Now, thank the Lord, things are slowly returning to normal (although you could make an argument we weren't all that normal to begin with), but it's amazing how you measure progress.

Sometime I will tell you about how Daddy was completely and utterly himself throughout the ordeal (which meant even in the throes of a stroke, he was still laugh out loud funny), but things I've never even thought about I take for granted.

For example, eating. Being able to hold a slice of bread in your left hand and use it to move your food around is a BIG deal. Trust me on this one. A week ago, Daddy was released from the hospital. That first night home, he tried to eat. We stuck a dishrag in his lap because a napkin wasn't big enough. He couldn't hold anything with his left hand. He would try to pick up bread and his hand-eye coordination was off. He couldn't hold anything, even when you put it in his hand. It was painful to watch your father, whom you have seen as a powerful figure your entire life, be reduced to being fed with a fork by you.

And the left side of his face was paralyzed. This meant that he would "hide" vast amounts of food in his cheek. We were in constant fear that he would not chew his food well and choke or that he would not feel the food there and leave it in there. Mealtimes required extra vigilance.
Even though we put on brave faces for the visitors and well wishers, it was hard. We heard the doctors say that he would get better, but had doubts.

Fast forward to this morning. Eating breakfast with toast, there sits my father, holding his toast in his left hand. Again, this miracle had previously gone unnoticed in our household until this week. Not only that, he could bite and chew without needing assistance from us.

This morning I learned that God works in all kinds of ways. He does send us hope. This morning, He sent it one bite at a time.