View from the Couch

I am presently celebrating a milestone of sorts. Three weeks ago yesterday, I returned home from the hospital after undergoing spinal surgery. The day of surgery I entered the hospital with severe pain in my low back that radiated down my right leg and into my foot, causing numbness, tingling and an increasing lack of ability to function throughout the day. After having the worsening condition for nearing ten years, I was told by my surgeon that it was not a fatal disease and I could continue to go on as I was, adding the medical devices I would need to move (i.e., walker and electric scooter) as the condition continued to deteriorate; manage the condition by taking spinal injections (did that - didn't work) and physical therapy (did that - didn't work); or we could fix the problem by removing the excess growth of bone and arthritis compressing my spine to the point where it disappeared on an MRI, and then fuse the two vertebra together where the impingement had been to stabilize the spine. That definitely sounded like the plan, thus the entrance into the hospital.

The day of surgery was as uneventful as a day of surgery can be. We arrived way too early in the morning to prepare and within ninety minutes of my arrival, I was wheeled into the operating room. I was definitely relaxed, but not a little bit overwhelmed by the bed on which I would be placed (stomach down with arms over my head) for the operation. It had several sections, none of which appeared to be supported in any fashion. It was a very good time to go to sleep. The next thing I recall is being called from the netherworld by someone saying surgery was over and trying to determine what surgery was being discussed and who the person was calling. I recall the trip through the hallways to my room - or was I going toward the light as fluorescent bulbs lined the way.

My room was pleasant and very bright and I slowly rose to consciousness to see the beautiful faces of my fantastic husband and oldest son. The surgeon spoke with them and told them the surgery had gone well and he thought I would be very happy with the results. Now all I needed to do was heal, and three weeks ago I was discharged to home.  At this point, I should stand and cheer - Ta-Da!  It's over. I'm doing great! Yeah, right.

I was ready for the healing period before I entered the hospital. My employer was informed I would be on medical leave for approximately eight weeks, I knew I would be unable to lift more than five pounds, bend, twist, or do much travel. I had received excellent advice from my sister-in-law who had similar surgery and shared information that aided her. I was ready - or so I thought.

Those who have had surgery are aware of the "log-roll" used to get in and out of bed. That was my first problem. I am five foot, one inch in height. When I actually sit on the edge of our bed, my feet do not touch the floor. My "log-roll" became more of a beached whale flop as I was able to hoist the upper part of my body onto the bed while my legs crept up the side of the bed until I finally reached the top. My long-suffering husband helped by standing by and lifting as needed and providing a barrier to my simply flopping off the bed. Together we made it and I found myself in bed, the only place where I am allowed to be without a confining brace that reminds me of all the things I am unable to do. At this point I was taking narcotic pain medication that aided with sleep (and incredible dreams), and the ability to move gingerly from the bed, to the toilet, to the straight-backed chair, to the reclining sofa with shuffling walks between those trips.

My darling had to help me monitor the condition of my wound. I learned I have a nearly five-inch scar down the center of my back. At first it was bruised and angry red, amazing us with the fact it was held together with bits of tape - no stitches or staples. I also had a drain placed during surgery that involved a second wound, again covered with steri-strips. The wounds are healing well - the steri-strips are gone, although some adhesive remains in spots, and the bruising has begun to fade.  I am well aware that bone was removed from my hip to help with the fusion in my spine, and the bones are knitting. I consider the brace to be my "cast" while my bones knit. Taking a shower is a challenge and I have found it amazing the uses there are for the rubber-coated tongs provided at the hospital as an extension of my arms. Why didn't I think of that? We could be millionaires! I am also the owner of a walker - never thought it would happen, but it has been a balance-saver

I am learning to walk again. Because of trauma the nerves in my back endured, they must now regenerate and every once in a while, I experience some strange sensations in my feet and legs. I am no longer taking narcotic pain relievers and rely on Tylenol to keep the pain at bay. I just keep telling myself it's proof that I'm healing and things are heading in the right direction. Praise God!

One interesting thing that has occurred is a change in my sleeping patterns. I have attempted to retire at the same time each night because I want to retain as much normalcy as possible. However, I have discovered that I am able easiest to fall asleep on my left side (after nearly perfecting my whale flop procedure). Peabody, our Pekingese/Poodle mix loves to sleep on my feet. I usually maneuver from beneath his body and end up with my feet next to him. Misty, our little Papillon/Bishon mix loves to place her back against mine and snuggle in for the duration. When it comes time for me to assume a new position (on my back), I am suddenly faced with one dog between my legs and another snuggled under my armpit as I also deal with the pillow that is supporting my knees. These position changes bring full awakening (at least to me) and an hour or two of prayer or rambling thoughts.

Last night, as I listened to my beloved's even breathing and felt the warmth of the pups, I found myself praying again for family and their safety and health, as well as their closeness to God. I also found myself reflecting on a post shared by our son from a friend who was rejoicing over three years of victory over addiction to methamphetamines. Our son had the privilege of praying with this friend at the time and I found myself in tears once again at the wondrous workings of our great God. These times of wakefulness have been times of blessing for me. When the pain is severe, or my legs feel weak and I wonder if I will ever feel "normal" again, I can count my many blessings. I am grateful I have an excellent surgeon and the care at the hospital was extraordinary. I rejoice that I have a family and friends I can be assured have kept me in their thoughts and prayers. I rejoice that, with each ache and pain, I am aware my body is knitting together as it did before I was born, although not as perfectly and much older. I have spent much time lately thanking God for who He is and the wonders He has wrought. Pain and weakness are my companions at this time; but I am upheld by the best husband in the world and we have enjoyed our slow walks. This time away from work and stress have allowed me to enjoy my husband and family and times alone with the Lord. What more could anyone ask?

Lessons from the Pups

We have two little dogs, Mr. Peabody, a Pekingese/Poodle mix, with no desire to be more than a decoration on our laps. When we bought him, he was very quiet and continues to be that way, which is really nice when you realize how yappy little dogs can be. He is just about fourteen pounds of snuggles and love. He has an underbite, pushed-in face, and eyes that communicate volumes of adoration. We purchased Misty as a companion for Mr. Peabody. She is a two-year-old dynamo, tiny but mighty (at least in her own mind). At ten pounds (a Papillon/Bischon mix), she makes up for all the noise Peabody doesn't make.  Misty has quite an attitude. She does not like it when people attempt to approach her - she wants to approach them on her terms. She has a tendency to sneak up on people, nip at the back of their pant legs, then run in the opposite direction. So far she has not actually bitten anyone except family (a story for another time) and I truly think those bites surprised her almost as much as those she nipped. Both pups absolutely love our granddaughters. All we have to say is the girls are coming over, and both dogs begin looking for them.

Everyone in our association knows Mr. Peabody and Misty. When we walk them around the path Misty always has a ball in her mouth. She runs to pick one out each time she leaves the house. Most of them return home with her, but some are still out there somewhere. During the summer, the dogs love meeting the children in the area. Peabody will graciously allow them to pet him excessively, while Misty will drop her ball at their feet and happily retrieve it  when it is tossed. One neighbor, about half-way through our walk, has a bird bath that is just the right height for the pups to take a drink from it each time they pass her house. Her cat sits at the patio door and stares at them. They are definitely entertaining.

Both pups sleep in our bed - I know, the dog whisperer doesn't like that - Peabody wrapped around my feet and Misty between us. She has one problem, however. We have a pillow top mattress with a two-inch foam pad on top of it. While Peabody has no trouble jumping on the bed, Misty is not quite as successful. She must go into the closet, turn and run before projecting herself onto the bed. If there is space to accomplish this feat, she settles down for a nice warm snuggle time. However, if she leaves the bed in the middle of the night, there is not as much room in the bed and she is unable to project herself quite as far. She thumps her nose into the foam pad and she needs to try again. She does this a few times before sitting down and whimpering for one of us to help her. Ron has no problem getting her to come to him for a lift into the bed. I, however, am not successful because she will not allow me to pick her up! I am the alpha in the family as far as the dogs are concerned. I am the one who bathes them, brushes them and clips their nails. I am much less likely to pamper them than Ron is and he happily admits to being "low man on the totem pole," in the house. I think I intimidate Misty. She loves to cuddle up when I'm not in a position to groom her, but at other times, she avoids me.

This morning, Misty wanted to jump into bed with me after Ron had wakened and was readying himself for the day. I moved over to make room for her, and Peabody, after grumbling in the way only he can, moved as well. After about six thumps, she began to whimper. I patted the mattress, she backed into the closet and tried again - thump. She tried again and thumped again. I called her to try to pick her up and she would not come near me. She tried again a few times with the same results. Her whimpers gained volume, but she would not come to me for help. After another few tries, her whimper became more of a groan than a plea and she crawled under the bed.

Here is my "message" moment. I think that we are often like Misty. God is waiting to help us obtain what we want. Instead of allowing him to pick us up and provide the help we need, we continue on our own, stubborn and independent - wanting to do things our way. We continually bump our noses on obstacles to the blessings God has for us. Instead of allowing him to guide our steps and learning from our mistakes, we back away from him and avoid him in the attempt to make our own way.

It would be so much easier if we just relaxed and allowed God to pick us up. Now, the question is whether to buy some steps for Misty. Her nose must be getting sore.

What Were You Doing?

Each year on our anniversary, we play the "What Were You Doing?" game. The day before and the day of our anniversary, we ask each other what we were doing on that day at that time. This year we have been asking, "What were you doing forty-five years ago today at this time?" After forty-five years, we find that some of the smallest details are becoming fuzzier, but there are some things we remember every year. Our most precious memories, we find, include many funny things that happened that day, but some are so special, they remain locked between just the two of us, kept in that place in our hearts where we share the only key.

When we remember the day before our wedding, we remember it as busy with final loose ends to tie up. We had no groom's dinner, but after the rehearsal, everyone was invited back to my home where my mother had prepared yet another feast for those who attended the rehearsal. Ron's family had traveled from Minnesota and were all there, as well as all of our bridal party and family. It was a crowd, but everyone was happy and, of course, only my Mom could have made a simple meal a feast fit for a king. she accomplished this in spite of helping me plan a wedding, caring for our busy family and dealing with the natural emotions of "losing" her first child. I am still in awe of her love and abilities. She was and is my example of beautiful womanhood.

The day of our wedding was the only Saturday in November with beautiful clear weather at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees. That was a true indication to us that God was smiling on us and blessing us. Ron was a member of the Fifth Army Band, considered at that time to be one of the premiere military bands. We were blessed to have his friends from the band provide the music at our wedding. Unfortunately, we didn't think to have it taped, so it only remains in our memories, but the musicians were spectacular. We had asked one of the men, a fine trumpeter, to play "Trumpet Voluntary" as the processional. He was to begin playing as I entered the sanctuary. The aisle I had walked every Sunday to attend Mass, extended forever that day as I stood on my Dad's arm at the back of the church. I actually forgot the trumpet would begin as I stepped out from under the balcony and when it did, I momentarily hesitated. My beloved Dad didn't miss a beat when he whispered to me, "Can't back down now." His comment immediately calmed me enough to begin the long walk down that aisle.

I remember the priest who conducted our wedding was having his own first that day. We were his first wedding. He was nervous as well. He asked Ron if he would take me as his wife. When Ron affirmed he would, Fr. Dubi turned to me and asked if I would take Ron to be MY wife. I had no idea how to answer - if I said "no" how would that look to those witnessing the wedding, but if I said yes, was my answer valid? It's amazing how many thoughts can crowd a second, but I chose to say yes, so now Ron and I acknowledge we are both on level ground, since we're both wives.

We forgot about the photographer who wanted to take pictures on the steps of the church after the ceremony and as we exited the church to a volley of rice (at that time it was allowed), and lima beans (thanks to my teen-age cousins!), we continued to run to get to the car and out of the rain of lima beans. We needed to retrace our steps to have our pictures taken. Fortunately, the spots where the lima beans hit did not show on the photos.

The reception began a few hours after the wedding because a wedding immediately followed ours at the Church. We shared the flowers we bought with the next wedding, so didn't need to remove them from the church. To keep those who had traveled from being without a place to be until the reception, my parents once again hosted a light lunch at our home. I continue to be amazed at the unconditional love my parents had for us not only that weekend, but our entire life together. The reception itself was huge, Polish, and filled with laughter, dancing, food, more food, and plenty of drinking. I had shared with Ron the traditions with which he would deal during the reception - we could not leave until the last of our guests was gone and he had to dance with any woman who asked him. Poor Ron did not know how to dance, and so we spent two weeks prior to the wedding in my basement with me trying to teach him the basic steps to the waltz and polka. When the time came, Ron rose to the challenge and did pretty well, until his partners asked him a question. Then he needed to stop dancing, because he couldn't count and talk at the same time. Most of the guests left before midnight, except for one man who mourned the loss of a pin. He claimed the pin was worth four thousand dollars and he refused to leave without it, even with assurances from my parents and the owner of the ballroom that if he left his name and address they would surely return it if it was discovered. He refused to leave and we were kept at the ballroom because we had come to the reception in my parents' car! We learned after hunting for nearly an hour that the pin itself was plastic, and he had received it after taking a course in broadcasting for which he paid four thousand dollars. My father quickly closed the session by telling the man everyone had to leave - now!

We returned to my parents' house to find Ron's car up on blocks (thanks to my uncles and cousins again). Fortunately for us, that was all that happened negatively because my father asked our neighbor to keep an eye on the house and he chased off the pranksters with a rifle. Thank you!

My mother performed another miracle by hosting a party the following day at our home for anyone who wanted to come over and be with us while we opened the gifts we received. Unfortunately, Ron and I were not able to make it to the party because we were both ill. After all the excitement, nerves, emotions and very late night, we woke with severe headaches. We arrived at my parents' home too late to see everyone else, but did spend some very special quiet time with my family. Ron was discharged from the Army two days later and we were free to begin our new life together. We spent Thanksgiving with my family and then said good-bye. I assured my mother I would not forget my family and she told me I was always allowed to return home, but not without my husband.

We grew up at the beginning of the "free love" era. However, Ron and I were both raised traditionally and with a strong faith and foundation. We determined prior to our marriage that divorce would never be an option. When we had our counseling sessions, we openly discussed the differences we would face as a "mixed" couple with Ron Protestant and me Catholic. He wrote us a beautiful letter after our marriage encouraging us to keep Jesus at the center of our marriage and we could never fail. We have faithfully done that.

We celebrate forty-five years today. We remember the day with joy and fondness, awe at the love expressed to us. We have learned the true meaning of unconditional love. Our years have been a mix of ups and downs. We have grown together and learned to know the heart of each other. God has been with us every step of the way - through the birth, growth and finally, adulthood of our sons, through Ron's injury at work and his continued pain each and every day, through financial lows and near poverty, through the ministry of those in our congregations who loved us, and even through those who did not. He has been at the center of our marriage and our life. We could not have survived without him. We have been through things that would have brought many couples to separation and divorce, but we have been blessed to survive with our marriage intact.

Our commitment to each other and our marriage has grown stronger. A waiter asked us at dinner last night how we have made it. He is planning to marry next year and wanted to know our "secret". We continue to be humbled by the fact we are looked at as an oddity - a couple whose marriage has continued. We are humbled because we are truly and completely blessed. We have worked hard, but the commitment we made forty-five years ago sealed our love and desire for each other. We had no loopholes, no ways out. We did not "try it out" before we married. We knew no one else. We kept ourselves for each other and God blessed. He has remained faithful to us as we attempted to remain faithful to him. As we look back, our memories are precious. As we look forward, we are expectant. We pray that God will give us many, many more years together here on earth, hopefully to even see our beautiful grandchildren joined in beautiful, long-lasting marriages!

At Your Age....

As we age, we must face some harsh realities. We must adjust our thinking to take into account the many changes occurring in our bodies. Most of us realize we can no longer do the things we used to be able to do without preparation. For instance, to bend we must position ourselves by something  which we can grab for assistance in rising again. To walk up stairs, we must make sure a sturdy railing is close by to allow us to pull while trying not to cry out in pain as our knees loudly crack and pop (no sneaking around anymore). We find ourselves talking to our bodies. "Come on feet, you can do it, just move a little bit." Above all else, we try to remain off the floor. Once down, we may need to call for assistance - "Help, I've been playing with my grandkids and I can't get up!"

We discover while our bodies are striking for the right to stay put, they are also growing strange, and sometimes painful, lumps and bumps. They all have medical terms like bunions, corns and hammer toes, but what they really are is the body's way of paying us back for years of wearing shoes. This is why many older people wear "old people's shoes." You know the ones I mean, the wide ones with round toes and Velcro so it is easier to remove without bending (remember that need for positioning). I'll be ordering my pair soon.

Our eyes are beginning to betray us as well. We must hold our reading materials farther from our faces to see small print. We may need to have two different types of glasses, one pair for distance and another for close work. We hang glasses around our necks or wear them on top of our head. We often lose one pair - the one we need at that moment. Personally, when using the computer, I enlarge the print to about one hundred thirty percent to see it clearly. Thank heaven for that ability. Speaking of computers, we need to talk about our fingers. That is another area where the body likes to develop additional bumps around the knuckles while thinning the skin and throwing a few dark spots around to decorate them.

While others are looking around them to see who might be present, or where the food is, we must first gauge the distance to the nearest bathroom. We ask ourselves questions before traveling, "How many rest areas between here and there?" or we are computing the ease with which we can arrive somewhere comfortably, "If I go right now I will be able to make it easily." We always visit the restroom prior to leaving the house, especially in cold weather, and resist the desire to drink another cup of coffee."

The worst thing about aging is what happens to our minds. I am one of those people who can start a task, then think of another, and another, and another until I finally return to the first task - with nothing completed. I easily begin a sentence and forget what I was saying within two words. We have grown adept at talking to someone who is very familiar while desperately trying to remember a name.

I have decided to make the best of aging. There is nothing I can do about it. So far I have not been offered senior discounts although I'm very qualified to receive them. I like asking for them and having a clerk tell me I don't look like I'm sixty-six. Of course, I know they're lying, but it sounds good anyway. I may be going grey (I'll keep it covered for a little while yet), and I may search for my keys while holding them in my hand. My husband may walk through the house looking for his cell phone while talking to the doctor on it, and we both may rattle when we walk from all the medications we have to take - with water again. (Where is that bathroom?) We're maintaining our senses of humor about growing older. My dad used to say, "Old age is not fun." Laughter is good medicine and Ron and I are going to be well medicated. We may not be able to stop the aging process, but doggone it, we're going to enjoy it as much as we can.

Now where did I leave my keys again???

Wounded Warriors - Changed Attitudes

I graduated from high school in nineteen sixty-five - during the time of the Viet Nam war. I was not interested at that time of much beyond the Beatles and spending time with my friends. I did not like the news at all. It seemed every college campus was shaken by one protest or another, sit ins, angry words and even violence were part of those scenes.. We heard about all those who dodged the draft by finding other places to live, especially Canada. All of this swirled around me while I blissfully lived the life of a sheltered, parochial school graduate about to enter the job force and more worried about the wardrobe I would need for work than the difficult times through which my country was going.

After graduation I was offered a job as a secretary and my life became one of work, friends from school and new friends and experiences, as well as my mother's sudden illness. I began to hear and see more of the world around me. My boundaries were expanding and I was beginning to seek opportunities to build experience and social skills. One of those opportunities presented itself in the form of the United Service Organization (USO).

My new maturity caused me to pay much more attention to the world in which I lived. I became extremely upset by the treatment I saw the young men received who were returning from the war. They were insulted, called baby killers, and treated generally as unwanted. No one seemed to care.

The militant in me was born. I determined to do something to support those who were fighting for my country. The politics of the war meant nothing to me. With a father who had served during World War II and uncles who served during the Korean War, I was raised to love my country and feel deep gratitude and respect for those who sacrificed themselves to protect the freedoms we have. To show my support, I became a junior hostess at the chartered United Service Organization (USO), which was the officially recognized organization. We were called upon to provide a "home away from home" for the men and women serving in our military as well as the occasional foreign military personnel coming through the city. One weekly opportunity quickly became my favorite. Each Tuesday evening we traveled to the hospital at the Great Lakes Training Center.

We were given strict instructions. We were to visit with the wounded, talk to them about their families or girl friends, play board or card games, and even write letters for those who were unable to do so. We were never, under any circumstances, supposed to ask them what happened to them. If they started to tell us anything, we were to listen quietly, but ask no more of them. I was nervous the first time we went because I did not know what to expect. I had never seen a wound beyond a cut finger or skinned knee. Now I walked into a large ward where each bed held a young man with various injuries from head wounds to missing limbs. It was amazing to me that they were happy to see us enter, and willingly talked about everything but the war. Many weeks we traveled back to our center with tears in our eyes brought on by the things we had seen and the stories we heard. My heart was touched deeply by the sacrifices that had been made. The wounds were grievous to be sure, but the attitudes of these young men were remarkable. They were proud to have served their country.

Perhaps the experience that most impacted my life, however, was when we were invited to attend a dance at the mental health ward of the hospital. These were not the young men we were used to visiting, but men who were literally old enough to be our fathers, World War II and Korean veterans, who were suffering with what was then called "shell shock," or PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). These men were unable to enter back into society because what they experienced during the war was so traumatic. They were gentle, sweet men for the most part, who enjoyed spending time talking to us, dancing and enjoying the company of someone not connected to their medical conditions. Those visits changed my life.

The wounds with which our military return from war are long-lasting and life changing not only for them but their families as well. They will bravely work through painful rehabilitations without complaint. They are proud to serve and willingly set aside their hopes and dreams as they leave their families to spend time in conditions most of us would never abide. They depend on our continued support and love. The thought they are not forgotten carries many through the most difficult situation. When they return home, it is often hard for them to adjust. So many are physically wounded, but many more are wounded mentally. We cannot see those wounds, but they are very real.

I have been overjoyed to see the difference with which our military are being welcomed home during this time. It was so very different for those returning from Viet Nam. I never heard anyone tell a veteran from that war thank you for your service. We can never take back the way the men and women who served then were treated, but we certainly can say thank you now. I don't remember the names of the men I visited with at the hospital so many years ago. I hope that they were able to return to loving families who supported them as they healed. I pray those who suffered invisible wounds have found help to overcome. I'm sure most have, but I'm also sure many have not.

These wounded warriors changed my attitude and my life. I am proud to be a patriot. I am proud of the men and women who serve in our military and sacrifice so much. I'm deeply grateful for the families that support these faithful volunteers. I pray that we, as a country, never forget that what we have is due to the sacrifices so many made, and that we learn to be worthy of that sacrifice.

You Prayed What???

When I was much younger I prayed for the privilege of becoming a martyr for Jesus Christ. Yes, you read that correctly. Let me assure any readers that I am not a person enthralled by pain. I hold no desire to be tortured or separated from any part of my body. I am not a masochist.

I was brought up in a home where Jesus was my best friend. I clearly remember my mother telling me I could always know that Jesus was by my side and I did not need to be afraid of bad dreams, being lost, or fearing to be alone. I knew beyond any doubt that Jesus was real and, though I could not see him with my eyes - my heart felt his nearness and love. When I was confirmed as an eighth grade student in the Catholic Church, I was asked, as were all my classmates, whether I was willing to live for Christ and, if called upon to do so, give my life for him. I felt the solemnity of the moment and the strength of the vow I was about to take. My "yes" meant yes and I determined to be the best follower of Jesus I could possibly be. There have been many times I have fallen short of that goal. I have not been perfect and do not claim perfection in any way. However, I feel an urgency lately that I have not felt previously; and I sense that the time is coming when I may be called upon to choose, as many before me, the acknowledgement of God or the ways of the world.

Persecution may seem to be an impossibility in our society and in America - where everyone is free. However, over the past few months and weeks, the loss of religious liberties for those of us who profess Christ as Lord and Savior, has become more prevalent than ever before. We have become accustomed to being seen as unenlightened, uneducated, intolerant haters, foolish and "losers." Our beloved Christian symbols have been desecrated  with urine and forbidden from public sight. We have been told that our faith is obsolete, irrelevant and out of touch with societal norms. As far as persecution is concerned, this all is quite mild. Believers in other countries know full well that when they say their "Yes," it means loss of family, livelihood, freedom and death. Yet they make the same choice I did with joy and the knowledge of their eternal salvation.

Our country is growing more intolerant of Christianity as the days pass. Public stories recently showed that standing for one's Christian principles and beliefs may well lead to the loss of livelihood. In the workplace, standing upon Christian principles could lead to discipline, loss of job and possible litigation. Our beliefs are offensive to many. All of this saddens me deeply. I feel the urgency to become bolder - to make clear to all with whom I come in contact that I am not ashamed of the Gospel!

We who profess Christ should not be surprised at the reaction of our society. We were warned by Jesus himself that we would be despised as he was. I draw strength and comfort in knowing that I may be unenlightened in the eyes of the world, yet I have within me the light of Christ. We may be considered intolerant haters by those who attempt to silence the word of God as they have for over two thousand years; however the word will not be silenced. If called upon to die for Christ, I know my last breath here will be my first with him in heaven. With all my heart I want those I love sharing my eternal lifetime in heaven.

I am only human and have hoped at times that God would ignore the prayer of an enthusiastic, immature child. My vow remains, though, and I cannot turn aside from it. I remain enthusiastic as I watch the blessings unfold before me that have come as a result of the choices I made - my godly husband, my sons and their beautiful families. I have seen my granddaughters blossom in the knowledge and love of Jesus. I have been blessed with family and friends who have looked beyond my peculiarities to love me as I am. I have been blessed with a home, a job and a faith community in which I am encouraged to become exactly what God has gifted me to be.

I am deeply humbled and grateful to God for my life and the opportunity to live for him. Yes - even to be a martyr for him if called upon to do so.

Sometimes It's Best To Shut Your Mouth

Busia and Dziadzia (grandma and grandpa in Polish), came to the United States as immigrants shortly after World War I. They worked very hard to raise their family and become acclimated to a society completely unlike the ones from which they traveled. They loved America and were thrilled that their children had the opportunities which they had suffered hardships for them to achieve.

My grandfather never did learn English very well, but that was not unusual. He was a quiet man who I recall appearing serious and quite grumpy at times. His smile was infrequent, but he did attempt to tease his grandchildren. I was very intimidated by his gruff manner, but when the smile broke through, the love in his eyes sparkled. There was something that thrilled my heart each week at our regular Sunday dinners when he led the family in prayer - in Polish. While I never understood the words, the sound of his voice, rich with respect , showed his faith. My grandmother, however, learned her own version of English. It was quite broken, but easily understood by all of us. She was devoted to her family and grandchildren. Because I was the first, I was most spoiled and remained close to her to the end of her life.

When my grandparents, my father and my aunt and uncles wanted to discuss us, they would change their language from English to Polish. Because none of the grandchildren had learned the language, we never knew what they were saying, therefore their secrets were never revealed. Occasionally we would hear a phrase that we latched on to and my father gladly translated for us. I proudly learned to say, "Merry Christmas!", "Give me a kiss." and other phrases. We even learned to sing happy birthday for my father's ninetieth birthday party, and I eagerly shared the song with my four granddaughters so they could wish their great-grandpa a wonderful day.

One of the things my family took joy in was playing games. My grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles often joined in a game of cards to finish the day. We cousins would play or watch the game, trying to learn the rules so we could join the group. During those times, my grandparents would lapse into Polish, as would some of their children, which made learning the game difficult, but it was fun to watch them enjoy family together.

Fast forward to my own family. When our two oldest sons were toddlers, I would tease them with a few of the phrases I had learned growing up. One of those, I believed, was to call them "little monkeys." That would be considered a most acceptable phrase by most people, but I said the word once when we visited my parents and my father reacted much stronger than I had anticipated. He raised his voice to ask, "Do you know what you just called your children?" I drew back in amazement as I told him what I thought I had said. "I called them little monkeys, didn't I?"

"No," he responded, "You just called your little boys... let's just say, I would not win mother-of-the year for my label of my sons." Mortified, I decided I would never, ever say anything I could not specifically translate myself. This has become a topic of humor in our family, but I still cringe at the thought I could have said this where my grandmother would hear it. You see, I learned the word from her! She said it a few times during the family card games and it was she who told me it meant "little monkey!"

Getting Old Is Not Fun!

One of the lasting memories I will have of my father is his expression of resignation each time something made him feel his age, or inability to do the things he wanted to do. He would say it in Polish, but since I have no idea how to spell it (and learned the hard way - a subject for another post - not to try speaking or spelling a language with which I am not familiar), I will simply translate it - "Getting Old Is Not Fun!" Unfortunately, with each passing year, I know exactly what that means.

I am one of those people who will begin to wash a load of laundry, think of another piece of clothing to add and go to the bedroom to pick it up. When I get to the bedroom, I realize I never made the bed, so I do that, then take the drinking glass from the bedside table to take it to the kitchen. When I'm in the kitchen, of course I need to make a cup of coffee. While I'm waiting for the coffee to brew, I make a side trip to the living room and find a piece of mail and take it to the desk where I see dust bunnies building a community, and decide to retrieve the duster from the laundry room where I find the load of laundry still waiting for the missing piece of clothing!

Most people over sixty would probably relate to my foibles, and we all chuckle at how silly we feel when such things happen. However, there are other things occurring now that are not nearly as easy to face. In the past year we lost my beautiful godmother and beloved father and my husband has lost a precious sister. These were blows that made us all the more aware of our own mortality. We have been placed face to face with how we will finish our lives.

Ron is now "retired," which for a minister is never really complete. He keeps his life busy in many ways by volunteering at the emergency room in our local hospital, teaching a driving course for those over fifty-five, guest preaching and teaching, and shuttling cars for a local dealership. He finds ways every day to show the deep faith he has as well as his love for others. I still work full time, but wish I were retired. I, too, try to show each day how important my faith, and share it in various ways. We have both become well aware that we may not have many years left on this earth. The question is, how will we fill those years in the way God wants for us?

I want to see all of my family and friends (past, present, and future)  assured of where they will be for eternity. I don't want to leave this earth with the knowledge that I may never see some of them again because they have not taken the simple act of accepting the forgiveness they have been offered through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. The responsibility of carrying Christ to our world is awesome.

As we age, we all have aches and pains, worries and cares that keep us from focusing on what is most important. Our society attempts to defy aging in the attempt to keep mortality at bay. We wonder whether we will be able to afford our increasingly abundant medications and medical treatments. As we age, we begin to think of the possibility that we will lose our mobility, our mental acuity, and become more dependent upon others to assist us. We may need to give up our drivers' licences, our finances and our health decisions to someone else as we become less able to do things for ourselves. We are becoming vulnerable and we don't like it.

I am very grateful that we live in a comfortable home, still have a stable income and can still care for ourselves and our chores. I am grateful that we have a strong family relationship with our sons and their families, our brothers and sisters. We continue to trust that our lives will be fulfilled and fulfilling to others as we go day to day. Nope, growing old is not fun; but it is necessary. The alternatives are not acceptable. Another thing I remember about my father...

"Well, I'm up, I'm taking refreshment... what more can I ask?"

What Did They See?

What did they see in the eyes of the Master, those times that He met with the Pharisees?
Did his eyes spark with frustration, anger and fire?

What did they see in the eyes of the Master, that time in the boat skimming dark Galilee?
Did they see strength and power over nature, and glances of wonder for lack of faith shown?

What did they see int he eyes of the Master, when the children were gathered so close to his chest?
Did they see joy, comfort and freedom? Did his eyes reflect the innocence there?

What did they see in the eyes of the Master, each time he gazed on some body in need?
Did his eyes brim with compassion, love and forgiveness? Did they see the power he had to fill every need?

What did they see in the eyes of the Master when he was taken and hung on the tree?
Did they see dread, pain and sorrow; loneliness, with love and forgiveness mixed in? Did they hear agonized shame when he begged for his father, compassionate love for his mother to hold, and forgiveness and welcome for the repentant thief?

What did they see in the eyes of their Master/Redeemer that Sunday he rose to waken the dawn?
Did they see joy, forgiveness and triumph? Did they see their failures swallowed up in his love?

What will we see in the eyes of our Savior on our first day of standing in front of this throne?
Will we see welcome, love, joy and forgiveness, or will we see sadness as we're turned away alone?

Of Dreams and Foxes

Have you ever experienced one of those dreams that remain with you throughout the day? Do you wonder if it means anything, or are you able to forget it and allow the dream to go into that area where dreams go when deleted from the mind?  My dream this morning was one of those dreams and I believe it was meant to be shared.

We were in an old church, much like the first one we served, with wooden floors that slanted toward the altar area - floors that squeaked, allowing no one to sneak into the Sunday worship late. The seating was theater-style and the sloping floor made you feel you were leaning forward, perhaps in eager anticipation of the message? The altar and choir area rose about five feet above the first pews. It was a damp, musty building, but we loved the congregation and our children, who were not in the dream, had friends there.

The morning worship service had ended. It had been okay, with the typical, "Good job, Pastor" comments made as the people filed by on their way home to complete their day.  My husband and I remained, as usual, to turn out the lights and lock the doors.

As I opened the front door, the cocoon of silence that wrapped the church was broken with cries of pain and pleas for help outside. The bright morning had disappeared and darkness had overcome the neighborhood. I was shocked by the sight of people being attacked and brought down by a pack of foxes, covered with mange, disfigured and obviously rabid. A woman lay to my left in the snow. She gazed at me with pain-filled eyes, whimpering in pain and begging for help. There were mounds of snow surrounding the area making access to the church slippery for the people, but easier for the claws of the foxes to climb.

Ron ran for something to use as weapons to keep the foxes from gaining access to the building, and, armed with a large stick and a broom, we found ourselves striking out at the foxes. Several times we drove them back and each time a few people rushed through the door to the church and into the sanctuary. Men, women and children streamed through the door as over and over we drove back the beasts. Some of those rescued joined the fight allowing more people to come flowing in to safety. As the numbers of people entering slowed, the fox attacks did as well. I recall asking about the woman in the snow and hearing a voice say, "She didn't make it - don't worry about her."

I turned back to some families remaining in the hallway who said they had never been in a church. We regaled them with all the church had to offer them and while the sound of the foxes outside grew quiet, we conducted a tour of the education area, youth room, music room and library. We listed all the programs the church offered, Sunday School, youth group, Bible Studies and choir.

As we neared the sanctuary, the noises assaulted us. Voices in raised whispers were heard from those who "respected the church." As we stood in shocked awe, the visitors shrank to the wall with disbelief and dread. As we observed, people were pointing at each other, criticizing and gossiping. Others shook their fingers in the faces of those they had chosen to correct. Some people cried, and some began to moan in pain, begging for aid. All over the sanctuary, I watched as people began to morph into mangy, disfigured foxes. They began attacking one another. I saw the eyes of the woman again, over and over.

I heard the words, "Whatsoever you do to the lest of these, you do to me." I realized with a broken heart that we had failed to do what God wanted of us. Instead of healing the hurting and saving the broken, we had been distracted by superficial things. While we thought of programs and buildings, the foxes had entered and overtaken the church.

I woke to my own thoughts, loud enough to have been spoken aloud, "Dear Lord, forgive us! We have allowed the foxes into the church."