Some Tunes, A Card, and an Anniversary Hunt

"I think I put it on top of the coffee pot," Don bellowed from the shower.

"I've already pushed my coffee button," I yelled back, "there's nothing there."

"Maybe I put it there last year," he continued, as if I was supposed to expect a yearly anniversary card hunt.

"I don't believe you," I stated, "You haven't hidden my card. You just want to watch me hunt."

"That hurts my feelings," he replied, indignant.

We'd listened to a copy of the song I wrote for him on the CD player before he got ready for work. I woke early, drank a quick cup of coffee, and summoned him from the basement so we could enjoy the moment. I wrote it a year ago but never made it to the recording studio to create a permanent copy till this week. When Debi's song needed to be recorded too.

Pleased with myself, I didn't think much about his card. Even after he promised I would find it as I went about my daily routine.

But he called a few hours later, "Did you find your card?"

"No. I haven't found the card. And I haven't looked for it, either. I'm not hunting for a card that I'm not sure even exists. I think you're pulling my leg."

"Why, Susan," he exclaimed, "I don't know why you would think such a thing."

"Seriously?" I asked, "You thrive on this kind of stuff."

Suddenly aware that he might be telling the truth, I did a basic search after we hung up. I checked out the piano, my favorite food baskets, and my nightstand to no avail. But as I hunted, I tidied each room.

My journal and Don's Bible lay stacked on the kitchen table till I waltzed by one last time. As I made delivery rounds, I thought "Why has Don's Bible been on the kitchen table since Sunday? He reads it every day."

Still puzzled, I walked towards his quiet time chair and realized his Bible was in its normal spot. Surprised,  I looked closer at the one in my hand and saw a name in the bottom corner I didn't recognize: Steve Wood. Then I remembered Catherine and Hazel (our granddaughters) had picked up the Bible after church on Sunday, and I'd assumed it was Don's.

It wasn't. It was Mr. Woods.

The bulky mass had something tucked inside so I flipped it open. And there, hidden in Steve Wood's Bible, I found my anniversary card, complete with a photo of Thing 1 and 2 dancing merrily through life... and a very sweet note.

And that, my friends, explains it all.

Without further ado, here's my song for Don and don't miss Debi's song (that I sang at her funeral three weeks ago) posted below as well.



 



photo credit: zpeckler via photopin cc

2

Egg Crackin' for Mitochondrial Disease

As I slipped out from under my soft blue sheets Monday morning, Don said, "There's an article in The Wall Street Journal about charities trying to copy the ice bucket challenge." (Charities Seek Their Own Ice Bucket Challenge)

"Oh," I replied, half asleep. 

Uninterested, I walked on partially numb ankles straight to the coffee button.

By days end, I realized how big this whole thing was. And  that I had unknowingly put myself out there as one of those "copy cat" kinds with a video I made the day before. The one where I cracked an egg on my head in honor of Mitochondrial Disease. (See below!)




Yesterday, someone suggested I was insensitive to promote mito instead of ALS. As I thought about that, I concluded a few things:

First, I spent the end of last week preparing and executing a massive garage sale. I had no idea ALS awareness was exploding across the internet until Saturday night when I crashed into bed, surfed FB, and saw my friends Bonnie and Lu dumping a bucket of ice on their heads. Since Bonnie has ALS, I knew something was up. When I ran across a video with Bill Gates doing the same, I was intrigued but still unaware just how big this thing had grown.

Second, as I got dressed for church the next morning, I chuckled at the thought of cracking an egg on my head for mito awareness. As I explained in the video, my family has a long history with egg cracking. You can still link to a story I wrote with the explanation on a Focus on the Family web site here: A Thing of Beauty.

Recent photographic evidence: 

Cousin Jessica begged to  re-start our family "crack-an-egg-on-your-head-on-the-last-day-of-school-tradition" at Nathan's 20th birthday party. It had been a few years. It was time. March '12

She triumphed!

Sam had no idea what was coming in this photo at his high school graduation party. May '12

He may look forlorn, but he was just soaking the moment in before the mad pay back chase began.

Nathan went for pay back at his 21st birthday party! May '13

And he succeeded!

And this is me last May with Olivia and Makayla on their last day of school this year. They needed fun and I needed fun and so I swore to them that cracking an egg on their head would enhance their life. 

As the idea churned, I ran into Bonnie and Lu as we walked into church. We shared a good laugh over their video and sat a row apart. When the service ended I turned to Lu, Bonnie's caregiver, and said, "I think I'm going to crack an egg on my head for mito today!"

Her eyes sparkled big as she replied, "If you do it, I'll do it too!" 

The game was on. The video up before my Sunday nap. And it made me smile. Big.

Lastly, my body continues to challenge me. I was surprised with double vision in March. By June, jaw ligament laxity caused my throat to tighten when I sing. Right hip pain can leave me weeping on any given day if I'm not careful. And ongoing muscle and joint discomfort impedes forward momentum, daily. 

While symptoms can be overwhelming, what really baffles me is the number of health care professionals who have NEVER heard of mitochondrial disease. A GI specialist once apologized to me for skipping the chapter in his book about mito. He'd just re-taken his board certification test and didn't even look the information over. In over 20 years of practice, he'd never met anyone with mitochondrial disease.

He's not alone.

I'm used to it now. But part of the burden of living with mito is knowing that most doctor's have no idea how to treat you. So you hunt. You search. You give up. And then try again. Some will go out of their way to help. Others, like a neurologist I once encountered, flatly state, "I don't do mito."

It's really complicated.

So if I can smack an egg on my head and ride a spin off wave from the ALS ice bucket tsunami, then it's worth the slime and extra laundry.

I'm not trying to compete. But rather join in the conversation. Make an unknown word relavent. And maybe make life a smidgen easier for the countless ones who fight for energy every day. 

I'm just doing it the egg crackin' way. 

6

Unwavering Faith

I was sipping coffee at my kitchen table, minding my own business, when heavy footsteps started down the stairs. Nathan  turned the corner, dressed in khakis and a navy polo.

"Where are you going?" I asked, surprised.

"It's Sunday," he replied, "I'm going to church."

Comfortable in my PJ's on what I thought was a Saturday morning, I hesitated and then offered, "I don't think so. It's Saturday."

Startled, Nathan said, "It can't be. We just had a conversation that made me think yesterday was Saturday, making today Sunday."

As caffeine stimulated mental gears, I second guessed myself, not sure who was wrong, Nathan or me. I was fairly certain I was right, but his assertion made me question my resolve. He was dressed with gelled hair. Ready to walk out the door. My frame was crowned with a dirty mop and wrapped in frumpy PJ's.

Surprised that his perception made me doubt my own, I rehearsed the last few days, "Thursday was Aunt Laura's birthday. And mom, Laura and I went to the High Museum of Art to celebrate on Friday. That was just yesterday, so today is Saturday!!"

"Oh," he offered, "I'm not sure how I messed that up. But I guess I did."

Triumphant, I savored the last few drops and relished the fact I hadn't lost my mind. But the interaction made me think about how easy it had been for his confidence to override my own... which reminded me of how easy it is to allow world events to do the same.

Robin Williams committed suicide this week. ISIS barreled through Iraq, threatening the USA. Throw in the crisis in the Ukraine, minority refugees starving on Sinjar Mountain, and the Ebola epidemic in Africa and doubt, fear, and anxiety easily override peace.

While I read about world bullies and their displays of evil, a quote lingered in a back corner of my mind, "'Don't be afraid,'  the prophet answered. 'Those who are with us are more than those who are with them.'" (2 Kings 6:16)

Elisha had successfully protected the King of Israel from attacks by the King of Aram. The enemy King grew frustrated and learned the prophet was to blame. So he sent a group to capture him.

 "When the servant of the man of God got up the next morning, an army with horses and chariots had surrounded the city. 'Oh, my Lord, what shall we do?' the servant asked." (2 Kings 6: 15)

That's when Elisha said, "Don't be afraid... Those who are for us are more than those who are with them.

And Elisha prayed, 'O Lord, open his eyes so he may see.' Then the Lord opened the servant's eyes, and he looked and saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha." (2 Kings 6: 17)

Elisha prayed that his enemy's eyes would be blinded. And they were. After promising to lead the group to the man they sought, he led them straight to the King of Israel instead. Once inside the city, the prophet prayed that their eyesight would be restored. And it was. When the King asked if he should kill them, Elisha said, "No." So they fed them and sent them on their way. And the group no longer raided Israel.

(Read the entire story here: 2 Kings 6: 8 - 22 )

While I value the 'love your enemy' ending, hope surges in me when I imagine the crusty old man, surrounded by chariots of war, simply stating, "Those who are with us are more than those who are with them."

 It's like seeing beauty in the barren place.

 

An array of color in a dark storm.

Or finding a cross in the after math of 9/11.

"Those who are for us are more than those who are with them..."

Oh to live with unwavering faith.

photo credit: Leo Reynolds via photopin cc
photo credit: Werner Kunz via photopin cc
photo credit: Marco Guada via photopin
photo credit: Marcus Rahm via flicker
photo credit: gravity_grave via photopin cc

3

All Types of Radical

Coffee warmed my insides as I sat calm and quiet at my clean kitchen table this morning. After days of constant activity, I've been nesting in the confines of my home. And it's been good.

My stairs are vacuumed; my dresser cleared; and a few random photos hung. Our family is growing and photos need updating - one in particular.

A phone call mid-week last week, left me numb. For a short while.

I had taken Debi's eighty year old mom, Winnie, to lunch to give us both a break from hospice. A severe case of miscommunication led to three restaurant attempts before we settled on a food choice. Hungry and tired, angst settled into satisfaction with each swallow.

Just as a genuine smile returned, my phone rang. Sammy, my 20 yr. old married son, said, "Hey mom, are you free tonight?"

Not sure how I should prioritize my time, I said, "I'm not sure. What time?"

"About eight o'clock."

"Are you coming to my home?"

"No," he replied, "You'd have to come to Atlanta, to our home."

"What's going on?" I blurted.

"Well," he hesitated, "Courtney has struggled with her looks for a long time. And she wants to do something radical. She realized recently that if God called us to missions in a foreign country, she's willing to go, no question. But if God called her to cut her hair, she would cry. When she recognized that she values style and look based acceptance, she wanted to tackle the insecurity. So she decided to shave her head and I'm going to shave mine too to offer support. And you're invited."

Blood drained my face and pooled in my toes. No longer hungry, I stammered, "Are you sure about this, Sam?"

"Yes mom. We're going to do it."

Silence.

I knew right then that there was no changing my son's mind. So I ended the call with,  "I  have a few things to say, but I'm sitting here with an eighty year old woman whose daughter is dying across the street. So I can't really talk about it right now. I'll call you later."

Winne looked at me with big eyes, wondering what the fuss was about. When words finally formed, I explained that I'd just been invited to watch my son and his wife shave their heads that evening. Laughter ensued. Comic relief in the midst of the storm.
 
I called Don. Drove Winnie back to hospice. And then called my oldest son who spoke truth, "Mom, it's harmless. If they want to shave their heads, let them do it." (Not that I had any choice!) "Of all the radical things they could do, this is minor. Let it go."

With much more pressing issues only a short distance away, I called Sam and told him that I loved them with or without hair and promised to support them no matter what they chose.

I was soaking in a hot bath with Epsom salt when they called to tell me the deed was done. Nathan arrived soon after with photographic evidence... evidence I now have permission to share. After fielding a host of questions from her Bible Study gals and spending time in praise and worship with both of their friends, the cutting and buzzing began.

I visited with my niece, Jessica, last Saturday. We swapped stories about suffering since she just arrived home after serving six weeks in Kenya. As she walked out the door, I heard myself say, "You know Jess, we're all radical in our own ways. I just spent a week in hospice. You spent a summer helping missionaries in Kenya. Dad is running for political office at the age of seventy... and Sam and Courtney just shaved their heads to grow deeper in their relationship with Jesus - to risk acceptance on earth for greater acceptance from heaven."

And after spending more time with the shaved heads, I'm super proud of their type of radical. I'll wrap my arms around them any day and claim them as my own. Cause I have a feeling there's more radical to come. And that's just a good thing.

photo credit: danmachold via photopin cc

3

A Healing in Hospice

 I almost dumped an entire cup of coffee in my underwear drawer Thursday morning. No joke.

As I dressed for the busy day, I sat the cup on my dresser top and started to pull my hand away. A finger caught in the handle, tipping the mug forward. Coffee splashed into the drawer and onto the glass top, but somehow I averted the disaster. The adrenaline rush helped me get out the door in a timely fashion, though.

After my fifth visit with my jaw therapist (the TMJ kind), I headed back to Tranquility, a community hospice facility in our county.  My friend Debi was transported there on Monday to ease the process as she labored into eternity.

She slipped through heaven's doors Thursday evening, about eight o'clock. And our long bedside vigil came to an end.

Debi was a fighter. She battled colon cancer that metastasized into liver and lung cancer with an inner glow that defied logic.  Self conscious about a lost tooth and thinned hair, I'm not sure she grasped the beauty we saw in her. But it's what drew me to her two years ago, when I realized she was the one mentioned on prayer lists. The forty- something year old, blonde haired mother of two never looked as sick as medical tests verified. So as cancer hollowed her cheeks and ebbed the sparkle in her blue eyes, I couldn't stay from her side very long.

As summer comes to a close, I'll remember my week at the ocean's edge, my week in luscious mountains, and this week in the beauty of the hospice facility where she died; God's presence equally evident in all three locations. While I would rather that suffering was not a part of anyone's life, I know that walking through the depths of sorrow can lead to the deepest understanding of God's rescuing, eternal love. 

As I sat by her side, rubbing her soft hand, I didn't care about the dirty dishes piled at home, or national news issues, or lots of the silly things that clog my brain at times. Perspective changed in the face of her suffering; what matters was no longer skewed by selfish longings.

Debi was on her way to her eternal healing and watching that up close reminded me once more that "Our light and momentary sufferings are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all."(2 Corinthians 4: 17)

So let the coffee spill. Let the politicians argue. Let the storms rage, and humanity struggle for purpose.  My prayer is that I wake tomorrow and the next day... and even the next, remembering I'm journeying to heaven, not towards comfort here on earth.

This is Debi and her family with me and Don at my Sam's wedding in December. She was very sick on high doses of chemo but drove in pouring rain - an hour and a half - to support me at the wedding. And as you can see, she didn't look sick. But she was. She sacrificed for others, and fought to live every day to the fullest.

 photo credit: javaturtle via photopin cc

6