Setting My Pace for the Holiday Race

 I woke (almost like normal) on Thanksgiving Day, drank coffee, showered, fixed my hair, took a great selfie with Don, and then loaded into the van with necessary ingredients for the day. As I sat on the beige co-pilot seat, however, my stomach swirled and fatigue weighed heavy. And right before we left, I realized I couldn't handle three stops in twelve hours. 

So we devised a new plan. Nathan went on his way without us, while I put my PJ's back on and crawled under my warm down comforter. A two hour nap, a bowl of chicken soup, and the latest episode of NCIS  helped me navigate the evening hours. But ever since I've been in full on recovery mode. Why? I guess I've done too much. It's called a mito crash.

It's funny how I can think I'm OK, that I've got this energy thing under control, and then hit a wall that leaves me no choice but to crawl back into bed. Or rather, limp back into bed because my right leg has become so weak.

I was actually relieved to spend turkey day at home, with Don, in the quiet sanctity of the holiday hush.  While we visited with family in the evening, I spent the next few days at home, napping and hanging ornaments on my tree. Today I woke with Sammy's cough and cold which only underscores my need for rest.

But I know how far I've come because I'm really OK with my slower pace. There are twinges of sadness, no doubt. But pulling away from the frenzy instead of pressing into the madness forces me to focus on what matters.

My parent's church choir director hired Nathan and me to help with their upcoming Christmas concert. I'll accompany the choir while Nathan sings with the tenor section. As we rehearsed last Tuesday night, a moment flashed where I relished the feel of the keys as they passed underneath my fingers; each note played, a reminder of opportunity stretched outside recent limits. My right leg may be weak from pedaling the piano but I'm making extra money doing something I love, with family. 

Living quiet till the concert is a fair tradeoff.

 A few weeks later, Nathan will graduate from college.  When we dropped him off his freshman year, I wondered if I'd be able to walk by the time he graduated, my legs were so wobbly.  However, if I anticipate our Savior's birth with quiet nights at home, lots of amazon shopping with my feet stretched out in front of me, I might be able to walk through the stadium - even without a cane. 

The day after his graduation, I'll gather with my piano and voice students and perform for the residents of Winwood Retirement Center. They may not hear very well and we might not hit every note correctly, but sitting together, sharing music... well... "Next to the Word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world." (Martin Luther)
 

If I focus on what I can't do, pressure and disappointment build. But if I relish each key as it runs beneath my fingers, I realize the unique snowflake difference that is me, right here and now, the way God designed my frame. 

I'll need more rest to make that difference. But even in December, rest is OK. And if I hold fast to a slower pace, I might even mean these words when I sing them on Christmas Eve: "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..." (Mohr)

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Emerging Again, Complete with a Song

As I finished the last of my morning coffee, Olivia said, "Did you know that if you chew gum while you're peeling an onion you won't tear up as much?" 

"No, I've never heard that before," I chuckled, "But you sound just like your mom."

Olivia's mom, my friend Debi, passed away from cancer in late July but left behind a lifetime of home remedies - some of which I take seriously. While she offered anecdotes for almost every plight, Olivia is quick to point out her mom also knew how to cook apple cider, potato soup, mac and cheese, and oatmeal with added pizazz.

So when the twelve year old and her older sister spend the night with me, Olivia starts our day with oatmeal. Like today. Yummy, cinnamon, cranberry, walnut filled oatmeal.

We enjoyed Sam's BBQ together just Tuesday night where the girls taught me more about my new iphone 5c. After years of dropping calls with T-Mobile, we swapped couriers to Verizon.  Here's our first iphone selfie:

They're facing the holidays without their mom and I just sang at another funeral after a friend's husband lost his life last week. So making hearty oatmeal, stirring No Bake Cookies (and eating them straight from the pan), and rearranging my living room furniture to accommodate a Christmas tree has made for a therapeutic day. 

But before we make pumpkin muffins and pull out the tree lights, I'll post a video of the song I wrote last week. It's a rough recording. The piano sounds clompy and out of tune and I haven't washed my hair in two days. But Olivia promised I look fine and held the camera high enough you can't see my thighs. So I didn't even put on eye make up and simply hope the words have meaning.

They anchored me in the storm. 

Center of the Storm

We can't make any sense of this senseless tragedy

We're still looking for hope cause our hearts are filled with grief.

It's impossible to understand all the turns our lives can take

So I'm just asking God, come fill this place.

Cause we are broken, our lives tattered and torn

We are broken, oh so weary and worn

So Jesus come and be, the center of this storm

There's no changing the past or rewriting what's gone wrong

There's just living today with the strength to carry on

You gotta wonder if the tears will dry 

Cause this ache keeps grabbing hold

So I'm just asking God, come take control

The wind will blow and the rain keep pouring down

So more than ever God we need you now

 

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Death with Dignity - the Old Fashioned Way

Artwork By Jason Schreer (c) 2014

I read the headline with a warm cup of coffee in hand. And it just made me sad: Right-to-die advocate Brittany Maynard, right-to-life advocate, ends her life.

It didn't help that it was day before the 18th anniversary of the day my first husband left this earth; his labored breathing a means to his end, or his bright beginning as I often reflect.

The mystery of losing a loved one became real that day and has remained a woven thread of beauty and pain ever since. I marvel at the beauty and wipe tears when the bitter overshadows the sweet.

But I can't imagine cutting any moment short. 

So what does it mean to die with dignity? To ensure no one will ever have to change your diaper? To make certain you'll never feel pain? To leave this earth before your memory fails or you lose control?

The last three months of Jason's life weren't easy.  His balance was failing. Mobility a chore. His right eye was going blind and hearing slowly fading. That's the short list. But we fought to squeeze life out of every opportunity we could.

As hard as it was, I can't wrap my brain around at what point we would have called it quits the way this modern movement encourages. We took a trip the week before he had brain surgery. He needed a wheelchair and couldn't navigate steps without my hands moving his feet. I probably even fed him because his arms weren't working well. 

But he was there. With us. In the mountains. One last time.

They swung in the hammock.

Nathan, Sammy, and Jason

 Jason held a sleeping Sam on the Georgia Mountain Railroad, and tried to imagine Jesus holding him with the same father heart he held his son.

 And we left with one last family photo, knowing the days ahead were very uncertain.

October 14, 1996

He died three weeks later. 

"Bail before it gets too hard," they say. Say goodbye with a Hollywood-type-not-too-messy-ending, barring the harsh realities. Take control instead of trusting the Creator of the Universe to carry you through each moment and hour. 

Some might say I don't know what I'm talking about because I wasn't the one with the brain tumor. No, I just took care of him every day as he faded from earth. I sat with him in doctor's offices and hospital rooms, hoping beyond hope for a miracle. 

And I got one. 

About ten minutes before he died, I looked at some friends and said, "He's either about to be raised up off that bed or I have nothing to worry about." 

With renewed confidence, I walked into the living room where he laid on his back on a fold out sofa bed and cuddled next to him. In fact, I leaned over him, in prayer, sensing a peace I couldn't explain. I felt like Jason's arms were wrapped around me even though he hadn't moved. And as that distinct, divine sweetness lingered, I heard someone say, "I think he just breathed his last."

I was in awe. My husband had just died, but I had felt the transaction, sensing a presence not my own right in the room as he entered heaven's door. 

That, my friends, is death with dignity, courage, determination, and trust. And this is one of many drawings left behind by the artist I loved till his sun set and his visions of Narnia became real.

Artwork by Jason Schreer (c) 2014

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