More than a 50th Anniversary Celebration

Two weekends ago, I traveled to Southern Oregon.  Besides being a time to reminisce about my summer exploits (see my last blog for insight into my very scary “rural-roots” psyche), I attended a very significant event.  I watched my parent’s best friends, Sandy and Sonny, renew their wedding vows after 50 years of marriage. FIFTY YEARS. Who does ANYTHING for 50 years anymore??  The 50 year marriage is truly remarkable.  But I was struck by another deep and powerful undercurrent of the celebration day.  

But first, a bit of background…

I don’t remember meeting Sandy and Sonny.  They always just “were”.  I’m told that I was 3 years old when Sandy started babysitting me.  My parents and Sandy and Sonny met when they were in their 20s and have remained best of friends to this day.  My dad will get home tomorrow from an Eastern Oregon hunting (“camping with guns”) trip with Sonny.  (I heard Sonny actually got an antelope.  What??  A freakin’ miracle.  My world is just a bit on tilt.)

Together, for 44 years, my parents and Sandy and Sonny have laughed, played pinochle, raised 5 kids, had misunderstandings, celebrated birthdays, exchanged garden produce, fished, cried over children’s decisions, gone to church, gone to lunch, celebrated holidays, hunted, applauded children’s successes, fixed cars, and laughed even more.

17 years ago (I believe this weekend) Mom and Dad moved 5½ hours away from Ruch to St. Helens.  One would think that this would hinder, distance or at least slow down any friendship.  Um.  No.  Now the friendship has a different texture (staying in each other’s homes for extended weekends, phone calls, bragging about grandkids, and still the “camping with guns” trips), but they are still doing life together.

OK.  Back to the 50^th anniversary celebration in Ruch.  It’s like a camera snapshot.  I am sitting at a table with my parents and yet ANOTHER couple (Pat and Jack) that, to me, have also always just “been”, because I met them when I was 4.  Pat and Jack are also treasured lifelong friends of my mom and dad (and me) AND lifelong friends of Sandy and Sonny. SO!  I am sitting at this table, with people my parents and I and I have known, loved and done life with for 43 years, watching their mutual lifelong friends renew their vows after 50 years.  (Oh, and by the way, just last year, Jack and Pat celebrated their 60^th anniversary.  Mom and Dad are the babies of that little trio and will celebrate their 50^th in 2 years.)

DOES THIS STRIKE ANYONE ELSE AS COMPLETELY ASTONISHING??? 

And let’s not be Polyanna.   I know these six people.  Well.  None of them are close to perfect.  In fact, each one would quickly admit that the any and all of other ones can, at times, be irritating, hurtful and self-centered.  They all have their quirks and the quirks aren’t always cute.  Each of those 3 marriages have been through very, very rocky seasons.  Some have almost not made it.  I have been close enough to all three to personally hear harsh and painful yelling matches in each marriage.

And it is just THIS that makes the whole snapshot at the anniversary celebration so astonishing.  So profound.  So sacred.  So beautiful.

And this is just a snapshot. This “snapshot” of the vows renewal does not even include the “video” that day of me hugging, talking to, and reconnecting with Joan (the farmer’s wife/breast cancer survivor/pillar of the community), Ron and Martha (current pastor of Ruch Church for 30 years/my youth pastor/sang at my wedding), Dorine and Doug (widow and son of Earl, one of my all-time heroes of the faith), Grace (a second mom/ mother of my childhood best friend/woman of courage and dignity) and SOOO many more.   It also does not include the “video” of long line of people sharing memories of Sandy and Sonny – almost ALL of the stories going back more than 35 years!

These are my roots.

Through much of my late teens and 20s, I fought hard to distance myself from the rural, hometown, simple life.  I moved to the city. Single and “sophisticated”.  (Do. NOT. Laugh.)  In many ways, I truly have changed and morphed. And some of those ways I really like.   (My dad told me at the 50^th that I dress like a liberal. Why thank you, Dad!!  Bahahahah!!!!  What the hootie does a liberal dress like?? Someone not from Ruch?? I have no idea! )  But it strikes me at this point in life, that many “sophisticated” people would give anything to have the gift I have been given: simple, basic, goodness-filled, longevity of community connection… those relationships that enrich and bring meaning to our lives. Astonishing.

The long-term warmth, connectedness, affection, support and reflexive commitment that is still alive and well between all of these people is an imbedded foundation of clarity, wealth, anchoring and (even now) renewal for me.  As I grow older, I am allowing this legacy to permeate my soul.  Shape my identity.  More deliberately.  I am learning to deeply treasure it. Savor it.  It is rich.  And so very rare.

Memories of Summers in the Ruch Metroplex

Last weekend my husband and I hopped in our little Nissan and took I-5 South to beautiful Southern Oregon.  Ruch, Oregon, specifically.  It’s the little (almost) town where I grew up in the late 60s and 70s.  (It didn’t even have a post office.  Still doesn’t.)  Ruch (say “Roosh”, please – not “rutch”) is located in the spectacularly gorgeous Applegate valley and boasted (during those years) 2 gas stations, 2 grocery stores, 2 churches, a bar, a hair salon, a trailer court (where I lived my first 6 years) and my small elementary school.  It was populated with farmer, red-neck, timber-worker types and (further away from the busy metro center) pot-smoking, bead-wearing, skinny-dipping hippy types.  (Who didn’t necessarily like each other.) Guess which of these sets I herald from.  (Clue: my dad is a Rush Limbaugh fan.J)

Well, the jaunt south brought back memories of summer in the ol’ hometown …

My summers were spent in the water. The Applegate River was one huge playground.  We would swim, dive and (a few brave/stupid ones – not me, mom!) jump off the bridge at Cantrall-Buckley Park. And be chased by harmless but absolutely terrifying water snakes.  Or if we had a full afternoon, we would grab inflated, old tire inner tubes (remember the smell of those things??) and float on the river with our faces turned up toward the hot summer sun.  And severely scrape our butts on the jagged rocks that caught us by surprise. (Awkward place for band-aids.)  

I also spent hours and days at a time in the pool of my best friend Sheryl.  Above ground pools were pretty new back then (ok… at least in Ruch) and we would swim, talk about boys and lay out on the deck of the pool listening to the Beach Boys and Evie.  (No comments on that combination, please.)   After a dinner of grilled hamburgers and fresh-from-the-garden-corn-on-the-cob, we would watch the sun peacefully set on the other side of the Applegate Valley and then swim late into the hot night playing Marco Polo, tag or whatever.  Ahhh, summer.

In junior high, when I felt especially motivated, I would call a friend, hop on my purchased-with-my-own-money-in-4^th-grade Schwinn 10-speed. (Do you even understand how much $130 was to a 4^th grader in 1974??  Yep.  Still proud of that.)   We would ride 15 miles over the mountain into the neighboring (Rogue) valley and the 15 miles back.  It was grueling and steep going up (oh, my lungs burned!) and very steep, fast and wonderfully adrenaline-buzzed going down.  Clocking 40 mph, logging trucks passing us – WHY am I still alive?  Well, when we arrived in Medford, we would go directly to Bi-Mart. (Why Bi-Mart, you ask? I have absolutely NO idea.  Who really understands the mind of a junior higher?)

My dad owned a Honda 90 motorcycle.  BEST.  VEHICLE.  EVER.  When I was 8 years old, I learned to drive it.  No, not ride it.  Drive it. I was not tall (read: short), and once on the bike, I could not touch the ground.  So I would stand by the motorcycle, put it in gear, THEN I would jump on the seat and turn the throttle and go – all in one simultaneous motion.  Once up and moving on that Honda 90, I was a demon on wheels.  We lived on the side of a mountain that had paths, back dirt roads, deer trails and old logging roads.  I tore them up.  Then I discovered places I could catch air and do some pretty impressive jumps.  And land right side up.  Most of the time. (Remember Bactine?  Went through about a bottle a summer.) 

Well, there you have Connie and a little slice of her childhood summers... Totally fearless. (Except for the snakes.)  Unbelievably stupid.  Oh. And utterly feminine.

Next blog… more about the trip to Ruch and our surprisingly meaningful visit…

Doernbecher and Gratitude

Doernbecher Children’s Hospital is a place for gratitude. 

Let’s be clear.  My stay there 2½ weeks ago was no walk in the park…

·        Major back surgery for my daughter

·        Sleepless nights for me (in a body that is still in cancer recovery)

·        Watching my Lizzie suffer almost constantly with pain and discomfort

·        Trying my best to appropriately help a 16-year-old who truly didn’t want to have to be helped

·        Watching my daughter’s breathing rate drop to 5 times a minute

·        Emotional, physical, mental and spiritual utter exhaustion

·        Almost passing out in the recovery room (don’t laugh – I’m a confirmed medical wimp!)

But I found that Doernbecher is a place for gratitude. A strange place for something like gratitude, really, with so much suffering that is sometimes palpable within its walls.  The suffering you see just by walking through the halls is so deep, so diverse and so intense.

·        A mommy holding a infant’s hand as he is rolled down the hall on a tiny hospital bed

·        A single mom completely alone in the surgery waiting room with a high tech empty wheel chair sitting beside her

·        Signs for “school” that remind you that some kids are here for a very long time

·        A toddler screaming in pain in the middle of the night

·        Pediatric cancer wards

And then there was the serendipitous (read: God ordained) timing of being at Doernbecher at the same time as my dear friends the Phelps.  The Phelps family and I have a long and (at least from my perspective J) happy history.  I met my husband while employed at their bookstore in Medford over 20 years ago (and that, my friends is still happy!).  They are a dear, faith-filled family… now 3 generations of blessing to the Rogue Valley. 

Brian’s 17 year old daughter was admitted about a week before Lizzie.  When Devynne went into surgery (her 4^th open heart surgery in her short lifetime), things quickly became very scary for the Phelps family.  And stayed that way.

·        An expected 5-10 hours of surgery turns into 2 surgeries lasting 18 hours

·        Difficulty controlling bleeding

·        She goes into cardiac arrest several times on the operating room table

·        Unexpectedly needs dialysis

·        Back into surgery the next day to control bleeding

·        Problems with the dialysis machine

·        Her lungs struggling to get her oxygen

·        Concerns about long-term brain damage

·        A doctor telling the family that it was the scariest thing he had been through (OH. MY.)

And THIS is just the tip of the iceberg of their first TWO DAYS!!  They are still at Doernbecher.  She remained unconscious for over a week.  Devynne just got out of ICU a few days ago… after multiple terrifying, gut-wrenching ups and downs.  Now the family is figuring out how to do dialysis at home.  Possibly long term. 

I cannot even imagine.

It seems like gratitude is all about perspective.  Right?  MY daughter is just fine, thank you.  They did a big back surgery.  Things turned out well. Doctors are happy.  We are fine.

Here’s the miracle:  Brian and his family are grateful.  (WHAT?!?!)  But they are.  And with good reason.  Dev is alive. She is recovering.  She is back with them.  They have deliberately chosen to be thankful. The whole way through this ordeal.  A most certain beacon of light and truth for all of us.  (Prayers for them are still deeply appreciated.)

There is always someone in this life who has it better than me in some way.  There is always someone who has it worse.  There is always – and I mean ALWAYS – something to be genuinely grateful for.

This has kept me sane this last season of my life. I would like to be able to say that my generally positive attitude and profound gratitude through cancer and the other pain we’ve been dealt this year has been a result of my deep spiritual life. Hmmm… It has actually been survival.  I’m a pragmatist.

Gratitude works.

And the older I get, the more clear it is to me that God’s loving instructions to us are very deeply just that – loving.  Because He knows how we function at our optimum.  “In everything give thanks” is not a sadistic command from a god with a twisted sense of humor.  No, gratitude works.  It aligns my often distorted, self-absorbed reality with the True Reality – one where there is a God of love who constantly works His ends toward the most beautiful outcomes for my life, His far-reaching renown and an eternal weight of glory. It keeps everything in perspective.

Indeed, Doernbecher Children’s Hospital (and every other pain-filled location) is a place for gratitude.

“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, confusion into clarity…. It turns problems into gifts, failures into success, the unexpected into perfect timing, and mistakes into important events. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow.”

— Melodie Beattie

A Little Inconvenience

Well.  This has been the longest break from blogging that I have taken since I started back in mid May.  I’ve missed it.  And I’ve missed my readership – all 8 of them.  (jk. lol.   There are actually 11 people that read my blog.  Including my mom and dad.)  So, my apologies to my wide readership.

But trust me.  I’ve been a bit pre-occupied.  A little busy.

A little 5-day trip to Doernbechers Children’s Hospital.  For my 16 year old to have her little back surgery.

Her little 11inch incision.

(In case you were wondering, our family is, indeed, competing this year in the Baker family “Most Gruesome Scar of the Year” contest.  So far, my husband is losing. But my daughter seems to be winning the “How Fast Can I Grow During a 4 Hour Surgery” award.  Yep.  Almost an inch and a half.)

So my last 2 ½ weeks have been a little full.  And a little exhausting.  And a little painful.   And a little disruptive. For our whole family.  (I lie. There has been no “little” about any of these things.  But you knew that.)  Our family’s year has felt like being in a boxing ring and this is (oh please, let it be, dear Lord!) the final round for now.  Seems like the punches feel worse the more fatigued we become.

Here is my standard (and truthful) answer to how Lizzie is doing:  “The surgery was hugely successful.  The doctor is thrilled with the outcomes.  The recovery process is brutal.” 

We are grateful to have it behind us. 

We are grateful for her excellent recovery.

We are grateful.

The Gift of Swollen Tonsils

I have never been so alarmed by seeing swollen tonsils.

Lizzie came into my room Thursday morning with a cheery “look, Mom!” and shined a flashlight in her throat.  Very swollen tonsils.  Several white spots.  Lovely.  She is kid #3 in our family, so this is NOT the first time I’ve seen any number of variations of a sore throat.  And I’ve never really been alarmed.  Until Thursday. 

Here’s why:  she is scheduled for major back surgery at Doernbecher Children’s Hospital this coming Wednesday.

About 15 months ago, Lizzie was told that she would likely need surgery to correct her scoliosis.  Since that time, we have been emotionally and logistically preparing ourselves for this lumbar/thoracic fusion with hardware – a 12-15 inch incision, 5-7 days in the hospital, and 6 weeks of recovery.  In January, our family decided that this summer was the time for this life-disrupting event.  Let’s do this thing.

So Thursday we went to the doctor (found out it is not strep) and her surgeon told us that it is possible that the sore throat could postpone surgery.  Possible. Not for sure, but possible.   If her surgery has to be postponed, we have to wait 30 days before it can be rescheduled. 

To fully appreciate this little story, you may need to know a few things about me.

I plan. 

I plan free time, social events, projects.

I schedule.

I schedule conversations, tasks, meetings, housework, recreation.

I plan vacations.  It is ½ of the fun of vacation.

I plan months (and sometimes years) ahead.

I plan well.

I plan compulsively.

Planning makes me happy.

As I read this description, I wish it were more of an overstatement. “Spontaneous” is something other people do.  And it looks interesting.  And mildly uncomfortable.

It is hard to describe how much a surgery postponement and rescheduling is not, and I do mean NOT, in the “plan”.

I have cancelled 2 weeks of clients.

My husband has planned time off of his work.

Lizzie has no camps, no trips, nothing “summer-ish” planned for the rest of July and August.

We have each completely cleared our schedules.

The last couple months have been spent positioning our life for this surgery and her recovery.

Not. In. The. Plan.

And I am strangely grateful.  (Folks, we are finally getting to the main point of this story.  You may now breathe a sigh of relief.)

Here it is: with all my compulsive planning, I live a lie.  This lie says that I control my life through planning.  This is a comfortable illusion.  The lie says that when I plan and position, I can guarantee that the plan will happen.  This last year of fighting cancer has challenged that lie over and over again.  There are very few ways in which this year has gone as I planned (or wanted). And I am actually learning to unclasp my hands.  Some.  But the possibility of a reschedule has exposed yet more layers of my clenched fist stubbornly hanging on to the mirage of control.

When I put all my weight on my plans, on this illusion of control, it is profoundly dangerous.  It can and will eventually hurt me.  Because it is not based in reality.  When I hold rigidly to my plans, I am violently jerked around when life does not do what I have decreed.

The current challenge for me is to once again acknowledge that there is a God… and I am NOT Him.  In any way.  I have the privilege of submitting to His loving design.  I get the opportunity to put my heart and head in the arena of reality.  This reality reminds me that God alone ultimately determines my life events, their timing and their sequence.  I won’t do it perfectly, but I want to trust a merciful and wise God with the timing of my daughter’s surgery.  Don’t get me wrong.  If we have to reschedule, it is going to be another painful blow in a year that has held been quite brutal. But here’s the thing: even if she does go into surgery on Wednesday as planned, life has given me another chance to flex, to release my agenda and to trust a kind Father with the details of my life.  I have been given a gift of a fork in the road.

And for this I am strangely grateful.

Thank God for swollen tonsils.

Proverbs 16:9 In his heart, a man plans his course, but the LORD determines his steps.

Thoughts on Waking Up (or Cancer is Interesting)

Cancer is interesting. 

I know. That’s kinda sick. 

But as I have watched my own fight with cancer and the beginnings of recovery, sometimes from a fly-on-the-wall perspective, it has truly been quite intriguing. The whole ordeal has been a study.  (Of course I’m sick.  Look at the profession I have chosen – a therapist.  I observe and carefully monitor pain every time I walk into my office.  Really?  Who does this?)

I’m using this blog, at times, to write parts of my story in a public forum that I would normally only discuss with close friends.  Here is why:  I believe that there is a certain universality in suffering.   Intense pain can show an unlimited number of creative faces: the death of a family member, betrayal by a spouse, fighting cancer, losing a limb, financial disaster, chronic illness, war trauma – the list is endless.  But in the end, it seems that there are certain themes in genuine suffering that are universal.  Some results are very visible, some are less so. Therefore, I am choosing to put the inner workings of my story in this blog in the hope that someone might feel less alone on their own journey.  This year and a half, difficult though it has been, has by NO means been the most difficult time of my life.  In fact it probably rates #3 or so.  (THAT, my friends is a story for another time!) J

So here’s the fly-on-the-wall story of the last few weeks of my journey…

This season started about a year and a half ago.  The first 6 months consisted of 2 car wrecks, multiple bouts of sickness, calling 911 on my husband and many other things in a long list of life stressors.   While still very weakened physically and emotionally from that six-month period, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer.  Two surgeries, treatment in isolation, ugly scarring, thyroid levels not being regulated well – all of these have contributed to a very difficult year and a half. 

During this time, I have unconsciously and reflexively wrapped myself in a cocoon.  I have deeply hibernated.  I have been asleep.  A very, very deep pulling in.  Withdrawal.  I have had to do this to survive.  I have been fighting for my life… both physically and emotionally.  The cocoon has been absolutely essential.  A sheltering protection of which I have been largely unaware.  I have gone through the motions and look like I’m functioning “normally”, but those close to me feel the cocoon, the desperate withdrawal.

As my health has begun to improve, I have slowly begun to peek out of the cocoon.  There is a type of “waking up” that is happening.  But (as in all of my recovery) it is not happening in a straight line. I poke my head out and say, “Wow! I’ve been asleep a long time!!”  Then I reflexively pull back in when I get exhausted or overwhelmed.  BUT!  I AM poking my head out and waking up here and there.  That is happy. 

There are certain areas of my life in which I have NOT been asleep… I have HAD to be (sometimes maddeningly) aware of my physical health.  I have been intensely riveted to my daughter’s life and journey, as this year has been intensely brutal for her.  I have been largely aware of my husband’s world (as I wake up, I realize maybe not as much as I thought, but still quite a bit).  I have been awake for the life movements of my very closest friends.  Probably most significantly, there has been a beautiful clarity and connection with God that I have not had for years… for that, I have been gratefully, blessedly awake. 

The bare essentials.  Stripped to the absolute basics of survival.

Here is what non-cancer life is like for me:  I am given a package by life (an event, a relationship, a change, an idea, etc).  The package can be big or small.  I take the package.  I look at it.  I process it.  I think about it.  I make connections.   I may talk about it. I may write about it. Once I have absorbed most of the meaning from the package, I put it on the shelf marked “Processed”.  

This last year when I have been given a package by life, here’s how it goes:  I take it.  I look at it.  If it does not fit one of the categories above (those for which I have been “awake”) then it IMMEDIATELY (and I mean immediately) goes on a shelf marked “To be Processed at a Later Date”.  And there are a heck of a lot of packages on that shelf right now.

OK.  Back to the cocoon.  As I re-emerge, I am beginning to identify areas in which I have been asleep.  I don’t think this is a complete list, but some of these are my environment (the seasons, my overall physical surroundings), my senses (fully seeing, tasting, hearing, smelling and feeling), life events (ones that would normally hold substantial meaning for me) and second level relationships (ones that are genuinely and deeply important to me).  I don’t like this list.  It makes me sad to write it.

Friday night, I spent a warm and comfortable evening with my husband reading in Barnes and Noble – one or our favorite date spots.  (Don’t laugh.  We are a very exciting couple.  Really.)  As I walked out of Clackamas Town Center the sun was setting beautifully.  There was a cool breeze.  The air smelled like so very much like summer.  It immediately reminded me of the beauty and joy of summer and of summers past.  Within a fraction of a second I teared up.  An involuntary visceral reaction.  It was the beauty of the evening and the memories associated with it.  And right on the heels of that was the sense of the lost summer of 2010.  I didn’t LIVE it.  I was (necessarily) asleep.  And pretty soon tears were running down my face – such a profound sense of loss.  And a lot of questions:

What all have I missed?

What have I lost?

What beautiful things have happened that I haven’t been able to absorb?

What has changed and I haven’t been aware of it?

What will life be like when I wake up?

Who will be there for me when I wake up?

Has my cocoon done permanent damage to important relationships?

Can I wake up fully yet (please?!?) or will my system demand that I wait until after Elizabeth’s major back surgery on July 13^th and her following weeks and months of recovery? (answer: wait)

So…  I feel both eagerness to pull the packages off the shelf and truly “live” and “remember” what is needed of this last year and a half… AND a wariness about some of the loss that “processing the packages” may bring.  All of this, of course, while still living in the tension of wanting to get better more completely and “wake up” soon and knowing that Elizabeth’s upcoming surgery and recovery will likely require me to “cocoon” for longer than I want.

Cancer is interesting.

There are often more questions than answers.

There is no tidy box to put all this stuff in.

And I sound like a therapist.  J

The Happy Consolation of My Routines

By nature, I am a person who loves to provoke change. 

I love to create something out of nothing.  Plowing new ground is part of my DNA.  All my life, I have initiated new things.  Whether it is a performing arts program at church, a class reunion, a new program for women’s spiritual life or just a brand new type of therapy group – I love to create something new. Let me build an effective machine!  (God forbid, I do not mean that literally!  My mechanical IQ is beyond embarrassing.)

Even looking at a blank Word document is an exhilarating challenge for me.  There is nothing written.  Soon there will be something. (NO telling whether the “something” will be worth reading, but that’s not the point!)

I chose a profession where initiating personal change is the essence of what I do every day, hour after hour.  And to stay effective in my work (ok… and life), I have to constantly monitor my own internal and external world and open myself to deep personal change.  I put out a lot of energy to provoke change.  Alright.  You get the idea. 

Paradoxically, I am deeply infatuated with my routines.

Aaaahhhhh… my routines.  *happy sigh*… The comfort, the warmth, the grounding, the happy rhythm of my routines.  While instigating change as a lifestyle, there is deep consolation in the nurturing predictability of my routines.  They provide a harmonizing counterpart to the energetic chaos of change.

Every morning in my office before work, I go through the routine of making myself a huge mug (and I do mean huge – a full 32 ounces!) of decaf Constant Comment tea.  I drink its warmth and soothing flavor while seeing my first two clients of the day (usually starting at 7 a.m. – yes, decaf and no, you do NOT want to ever experience me with caffeine in my system… even that early!)

Sunday evenings at 7:00 begins our family’s sacred ritual of watching AFV.  All three of us smashed together on our black leather love seat eat popcorn and pretzels and laugh uproariously at people falling off trampolines and at men getting hit in the crotch. It’s almost spiritual.

Most nights after work, my husband and I drive to the gym.  It is only 15 minutes there and 15 minutes back, but we use that time to find out about each others’ days, hold hands, listen, encourage, give feedback and keep connected – ok… and sometimes have needed spats (I mean “discussions”) – in the middle of the demands of work and family.  That, my friends, is a worthy routine.

Most Saturday mornings will find me doing coffee at Jazzy Bagels in Gresham with my dear friend Ruth drinking cup after cup of their decaf (remember the previous warning?) and eating their sesame seed bagels (or cinnamon raisin – or both – depending on my mood).  We watch people walking their dogs of all shapes, sizes and breeds in downtown Gresham.  We laugh about parenting our unique and beautiful teenage daughters.  We talk about life, family, faith, culture, work – there’s nothing off limits with Ruth.  She is a friend of 29 years and we have both been through hell and high water, together and apart. Ruth is pure gold.  Her insight and personal quality never fail to enrich me.  And how could I not value this routine??

Since I was about 7 years old, I have looked forward to the moment I crawl into bed and snuggle up with a good book.  As a kid, I remember crawling underneath my sheets with a flashlight because I just had to read a little bit more – and it was past “lights out”.  To this day I savor reading a good book before drifting off to sleep.  Most often fiction.  (Well written, pleeease.)  Not usually educational or intentionally for personal growth.  Sometimes inspiring.  Sometimes funny.  Most often just a very good read.   Another routine that brings me joy and happy rest in the middle of demanding days.

Now it’s Sunday afternoon.  I have just initiated something new in writing this blog.  I forged new territory! I created something out of nothing!!  I have provoked change on this empty Word document!!!

Uh-oh. 

I need a routine for Sunday afternoons.

The Server

Imagine with me… 

You enter a very upscale, fine-dining restaurant. (For my family’s current financial status, this is truly imaginary...)  You are seated at a table in a quiet corner with someone you love.  You scan the menu while conversing with this special person in your life.  The server takes your order.  He is efficient, quiet and unobtrusive.  You go back to your intimate and deep conversation.  The conversation takes all your attention, but you are drinking from your glass of water and sipping on a glass of fine wine.  Your meal is served and it looks delectable.  You begin to eat.  Yum!  Fantastic!  Meaningful exchange continues between you and your loved one.  Things take an amusing turn and you find yourself giggling as dessert is served.  Finally, dinner is paid for and you leave the restaurant with warm, happy memories of a delicious meal and a rewarding time together.

A perfect scenario.

What happened during that meal that made it so perfect and that you were only vaguely aware of?

Without you ever even noticing...

Your silverware was spotless.

Your water glass was always full.

Just the right condiments were made available.

Each course was served at just the right time.

Your food was hot.

Dishes magically disappeared when they were not needed.

Your dessert was set before you with perfect timing.

Your after-dinner coffee was kept full and warm.

The check was made available and payment was made with no wait.

(Let’s take a moment to enjoy this fantasy about perfect service… Lord knows it’s infrequent enough to remain in the realm of fantasy.)

Bottom line:  Your server was so incredibly skilled that he went virtually unnoticed.

This server is my husband.

Hold on.  I’ll explain in a minute.

Some of you may not have (to your own real misfortune) had the privilege of meeting or really getting to know the man I am married to.  That is very sad.  Let me help.

My husband is a man of integrity, wisdom, compassion, humor, depth and love.  He is the deeply involved and supportive father of three children. He is a faithful, loyal and helpful friend to many.   He currently works as the Senior Chaplain at Portland Rescue Mission.  He loves his work and he does it with skill.  He provides varying levels of pastoral care and support to a staff of about 90, to more than 60 residents in drug and alcohol recovery and to several hundred homeless guests that eat meals and use the services of the Mission.  It is demanding, challenging and often dangerous.

He is amazing in the most literal sense of the word.

He is also the husband of a woman who has been fighting cancer for a year.  This has not been fun.  For either of us.

I have been sick.

I have been needy. (Hold the sarcasm.)

I have required a lot of extra effort and care. (No snide remarks.)

He has performed household responsibilities that I usually address.

He has had to parent through treacherous waters.

He has had to take up a lot of slack.

He has adapted almost constantly.

He has plugged holes when the dam started to leak.

I have been deeply cocooned as I have fought for survival.

I have not been very attentive or very available to him.

I have often fought the depression that comes with long term illness.

I have been personally absent.

He has missed me.

I have done everything I possibly can this last year… but…

He has carried a very, very heavy load.

And here’s the crazy thing:  He has made it look EASY.

Enter – the server.  My husband.

He is quiet about it.  He is unobtrusive.  He does not toot his own horn, he just meets the need.  He morphs to solve the current “crisis of the day”. He puts his head down and just keeps moving forward. He reflexively rises to meet the demand at hand.  He does not parade this adaptable posture of service… because he’s hardly aware of it.

And I have hardly been aware of it. His kindness to me has been offered with such insight, skill and sensitivity that it could have gone largely unnoticed.  Just like the server.

Over the last couple weeks – wonder of wonders – I have actually started feeling better for the first time in about 3 months. I am just emerging from the cocoon and looking around at a world I have not been fully aware of for over a year.  It is just beginning to dawn on me the amazing love and compassion shown to me by this man… and the toll it has taken on him.  Not surprisingly, just as I am getting more on my feet, my husband is becoming aware of the profound emotional and physical fatigue that has accompanied his constant service.  He can start letting up a bit… assessing the losses and deep weariness that is a natural response to being “on” for a whole year of crisis… and somewhat alone in it.

It is hard to express the vast gratitude I have for a husband of this caliber… for his gentle kindness to me at a huge personal cost.  I am well aware of the shortage of men in this world who will serve with such selflessness.   I am, of all women, most blessed.

The waiter has served a wonderful meal with expertise and genuine care.

And HE, my friends, deserves an extraordinarily large tip.

Ten Years Ago Yesterday

Ten years ago yesterday our family pulled up deep roots from Medford, Oregon and moved to Portland.

June 11, 2001.  It was a warm, cloudy day.  The U-Haul was packed and ready to go that morning – sitting in the front yard.   My distraught 6 year old daughter continued her threats to superglue herself to the side of the house. (Precious.  She was born for theater.)  We prayed together (while I cried) in front of my favorite house I have ever lived in…

and was now leaving.

Back story:

My husband had resigned his pastoral position a few months before from a church we loved.  Our 2 oldest kids had left the nest.  Our life in Medford was rich, full, challenging and basically happy. We were known and loved by people we knew and loved.  For years, my husband and I had both wanted to go to graduate school, but we knew it would take a move to a different city to get the degrees we wanted. He was 46. I was 36.  It was now or never. 

Sometimes I still can’t believe we did it.  I can’t believe we lived through it.  It was a huge gamble – a huge risk.  The cost was extremely high.  The transition was volcanic.  It was violent.  The first year about killed me. (If I am exaggerating, I am not aware of it. Really.)

In that first year…

We bought investment real estate (for the first time) – a duplex – and lived in it to make ends meet.

We built an apartment in the basement of a duplex (also a first time experience).

We lived 3 different places in the first 3 months after moving.

I did full-blown panic attacks.

The renters in our house in Medford threatened legal action.

We poured all available financial resources into the duplex.

Then our sewer backed up one day and ended up costing $12,000 to fix.

A drug house was just on the other side of our back yard fence.

Our daughter was diagnosed with significant medical issues.

I was down for 2 full months with viral pneumonia.

We pulled our daughter out of a horribly chaotic first grade classroom in March and I home schooled the rest of the year.

I was profoundly homesick.

We had no faith community for the first 10 months we were here.

I had very few friends and was extremely lonely.

It felt like a nightmare.

I plunged into a deep depression (think: trying desperately not to start rocking in a dark corner) and finally took anti-depressants for the first time in my life.

This is the short list.

I’m serious.  The first year about killed me.  

Moving our family was like transplanting a full oak grown tree. Labor intensive. Cumbersome.  Awkward. Messy. Weighty. Needing heavy equipment.  And then you wait and wonder if the tree will live through the shock.

Well, it did.

The next years had a lot of blood, sweat and tears as well, but we slowly settled in… and began to thrive.

JR started grad school – and loved it.

Elizabeth’s medical condition slowly improved.

Our duplex helped us stay afloat financially.

We found a church that allowed us to serve and heal.

We found a high-quality elementary school that helped us teach our daughter well.

We started to make friends.

I started grad school – and REALLY loved it.

Our life here in Portland has continued to grow and thrive. It is home.  It is now a wealth instead of a wasteland. This list of blessings from the last several years is long.  (Have you noticed I think in lists??)   

We have a wide and deep circle of treasured friends.

JR received a Master of Arts in Pastoral Studies in 2003.

I received a Master of Arts in Counseling in 2007.

We led an outreach team to India and were deeply enriched.

Our daughter has become deeply involved in a fantastic Christian theater troupe.

We have paid off some of the debts we accrued with the transition.

Elizabeth had the privilege of singing and dancing in the Keller Auditorium.

JR is incredibly happy and fulfilled in his job at Portland Rescue Mission.

I have been blessed with a thriving private practice that brings me immense satisfaction.

Our family has survived my fight with cancer.

My fight with cancer has highlighted the love and support network we have here in Portland.  (Yes, yes, you dear Southern Oregon peeps have been a substantial support, as well!)

THIS is truly the short list.  Of the short list.  Because the blessing list is very, very, VERY long.

Ten years.  The oak tree is thriving. It has endured some gale-force storms over the last 10 years.  Life is far from perfect.  But (as always) what doesn’t kill you absolutely makes you stronger.  So the oak tree stands…  

By the gentle, sustaining and loving mercy of God.