Power of the River

On the edge of the McKenzie River we each took two handfuls from the bag. A gentle breeze rising from the cold water caught the first handful while it danced in the gleaming morning sunlight on its downward fall. The second handful was released a bit closer to the water in the little alcove above the rapids. The final handfuls swirled around close to the shore as if they weren't sure it was alright to leave us. I caught my breath as I thought for just a moment, "It's all coming back at us," then the power of the river took over. Our gazes were transfixed as the water gently took the cloud of ashes farther away from us and then all at once they were gone. Completely and totally gone from our sight they were pulled into the river of life. They were sent onto their next task of regenerating the riverbed, the cedar trees rising from its banks, and the life that teemed below. We returned to our bench just on the edge of the bank. Cleansing our ash stained hands with cloths, gently using those same cloths to wash each other's feet, and then taking a small vile of oil to make the sign of the cross on one another's feet, hands, and forehead. Raising our song only loud enough for each other,  "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below, Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts, Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen." Suddenly a bright yellow raft with summer vacationers rushed by on the rapids. Life speeding by! And, just as suddenly, a big family came to the shore we'd claimed as our private sanctuary. Mom, dad, kids of every age, grandpa, and the dog, all came close to see, to experience the river of life.

The river, the morning sun, life on the water, under the water, and at the bank's edge all affirmed our choice to let go. The length and breadth of our time on that hallowed bank far transcended the thirty minutes marked by the clock. With heart-healing grace it reached back over the past two years to remove the dust from our feet, the pain from our souls, and the ache in our hearts inflicted unjustly upon a geography of betrayal. The ashes that swirled away to bring new life were our burnt transcriptions of places, names, events, injustices, and wounds brought on by forces outside of us that we could no longer harbor within. Their burning and washing away revealed a new geography - one of grace-filled healing.

As the rushing McKenzie is new every second may our path, God's leading, and healing grace prove to be just as powerful, just as life-changing, just as beautiful here in our new home, our new future, our new grace.  

Sunday Calls to 911

Since moving to Oregon a year ago I've called 911 a few times. The most traumatic was 37 weeks ago on a late November Sunday morning and the least traumatic was today, an early August Sunday morning.

As I grabbed my phone this morning to punch in 9-1-1 I keenly remembered the very same action last Fall. On that morning I'd been up and dressed for church long before my husband woke up. I wanted to try the local Catholic parish, but he sleepily told me he didn't feel like it. I was just on my way out the door when I realized I'd never make it. Mass was starting as I was looking at the clock. Just as I decided to stay home, Rod came out to the kitchen and was very groggy. He wasn't waking up very quickly and mumbled something about needing his coffee. But, then he started to stumble a little, I carried his cereal bowl to the table, he sat down, and then it really started.

He wanted to lay down, he said, and then his words started to emerge in very slow motion. His speech started to slur as he started grabbing the sides of the table. The horror grew in my stomach as I started yelling at him to open his eyes, stick out his tongue, and to try to smile at me. Within seconds I was calling 9-1-1 and I couldn't get the words out fast enough, "My husband, he can't talk, his teeth are clenched, one eye is more closed than the other, please hurry!" The operator asked me if I could get him on the floor and again I yelled at Rod, "Honey, help me get you down, You have to get down on the floor!" but he couldn't move or speak. Both arms hung limp at his side and his torso was dead weight. His head kept flopping forward and the operator told me I had to hold it back so his airway would stay open. This frightened me even more. His eyes were half closed and didn't seem to see anything. I didn't think he could hear me. At one point he slurred as loud as he could, "No!" and I think he was fighting what was happening to him. I had to let go for a moment to unlock the front door for the paramedics. Within seconds those five guys had thrown the table away from Rod and thrown him on the floor. As he lay there his speech returned and he tried to convince them he was just fine. He was not. He'd had a stroke. His left carotid artery was only open about 5%. The MRI revealed a past undetected stroke, too, when we lived in another state. Two days after "the event" (as we call it) he underwent neurovascular surgery and came out of the anesthesia paralyzed on his right side. Another wave of horror set in, but after returning him for immediate testing it was determined his right side just needed more time to wake up. And, indeed it did and his language returned. He came home on Thanksgiving Day. His recovery has taken time and today he told a friend, "I'm about 80%."

Today, on this particular Sunday morning 37 weeks later, he was once again in the kitchen, pouring his coffee, and as he looked out the window I heard him say, "Oh my goodness! What in the world? There are cows across the street!" I jumped up to see two extremely large bovines eating grass across the street and moving along at a healthy clip. I called 9-1-1 and instead of saying, "Something's horribly wrong with my husband!" I told the operator, "We have two really super large black cows loose from their pasture, eating the grass, and on the move through our neighborhood!"

As the cow incident began we thought we wouldn't get to church today because what if the cows decided to cross the street, graze through our yard, and even take a swipe or two at the car? Well, for whatever reason those two turned their really big bodies around and headed back to the pasture. Then, the police car drove through very slowly. "Do you think we can make it?" I said. "Well, if we really move, yes!"

And would you believe it, we made it. We walked in and found seats just as the worship band started the first praise song. As Communion was passed I turned to Rod saying, "The Body of Christ broken for you." "And also for you," he replied. Sweet grace. Sweet grace, indeed.

Three Neighbors

An unidentified man was found dead in the middle of the intersection this morning

on the west side of town.

 It was unclear what happened to him.

 Surveillance from cameras

at nearby businesses will be reviewed.

  If you witnessed what happened or have any information,

please contact the Eugene police department.

~ Eugene Evening Newscast

 A man was once on his way down from Jerusalem to Jericho...

Her family's home was hit by an Israeli mortar this morning.

All of her siblings and parents were killed.  Her neck is broken

and she'll be paralyzed for the rest of her life.

We can't help her here. She needs to be flown out today.

~ NBC News, Emergency Room Doctor working in Gaza

He fell at Jesus' feet and pleaded with him to come to his house, because he had an only

daughter about twelve years old, who was dying.

The woman shuffled into Albertson's wearing men's shoes several sizes too big,

filthy pants meant for someone twice her size,

a torn camel-colored winter coat on a day over 90 degrees.

Her hair was stringy, grey, greasy, and stunk from a distance.

Her anxious face oversaw the deliberate movements of her very thin torso.

~ Observation of a homeless woman while we were choosing ice cream 

She came up behind him and touched the fringe of his cloak.

*******************************************

But, the man/woman was anxious to justify himself/herself 

to Jesus,

 'And who is my neighbor?'

The dead man in the road,

 the paralyzed girl in Gaza,

 the homeless woman in Albertson's.

Where is the Good Samaritan?

Where are the peacemakers?
And

Who's wearing Jesus' cloak?

Leaving

It was midnight as I rinsed out the glasses I'd brought upstairs from the basement guest room. I'd had enough and we were packing to leave in the middle of the night. Hours earlier, another attempt to have a decent, honest conversation with my Mom had culminated in one of her most hurtful statements and exits to date. Rising from her chair she'd glared at me, strode defiantly to the bathroom a few feet away, her smoker's bathroom, and she'd slammed the door screaming, "Go to hell, Sherry!" That was it. I wasn't going to hell, but I certainly was leaving. Our vacation visit was just going to be cut short. My Dad had been nowhere during her tirade, but then he stepped out of the darkness into the kitchen, "If you leave now, you'll never come back." I don't know if he thought I would choose to never come back or she would never allow it. I don't know but, something he said held me there. We didn't leave that night.

Many, many painful leavings have taken place since that July night twenty years ago in Polson, Montana. Dad died suddenly and Mom sold his vineyard taking leave of his dream, of our dream. Her dementia decline became evident and we all began the long, painful process of her leaving her own life. Incident after incident and her inability to cooperate left me with no moral choice but to legally initiate the process of making her leave her own home and fiercely protected independence.

On the day of this terrible task, over two years ago, she was so out of her mind that at first she didn't recognize me when she opened her front door. Then, she spent the next hours slamming me over and over with, "You bitch!" as I explained that the Court had given me the authority to have her move because she was no longer safe by herself. This time though, unlike eighteen years earlier, it didn't matter what she said and I didn't consider leaving. It took hours and hours, but she finally conceded and agreed to leave with the paramedics. I took refuge on the stairs far from her front door as they wheeled her out secured on the gurney. I knew it was the last time in her life that she'd ever leave through a door that belonged to her. It's hard to find the right words to describe her leaving that day. Terrible. Frightening. Numbing. Sad. Overwhelming. Guilty.

Over the next three months I spent days and days going through her private and personal things before selling her condo. After moving her with everything she'd need, much was left behind ~ family pictures, cards from loved ones and friends sent over the decades, calendars charting things done and not done, notes to herself further convincing me that she was now in the necessary environment, jewelry,dishes, files, computer, furniture, clothes, large framed prints, vases, pottery, knick-knacks, statues, financial records, receipts for everything back to 1955 when they married. The history of our family was sorted into piles to save, recycle, donate, trash, sell, and shred.

One of my parents was dead and the other one was demented and I was sorting their life. I felt like an invader, a trespasser of the worst kind.

I forced myself to call the shredding company to meet me in the hotel parking lot. Fifty pounds of paper, fifty pounds gone in minutes. Fifty pounds of memories shredded. I had no choice and I hated it. But, I had to handle it. I couldn't leave.

So, when we drove her from Kalispell through Polson this past April to move her close us in Oregon, I watched her carefully through the rear view mirror. She turned and looked up the road to the vineyard because she recognized something. She never turned her head towards the condo on the lake where she'd lived alone for ten years. She has no memory whatsoever of those ten years.

As we were leaving that little town where she lived for two decades, I asked if she wanted to stop and see anything. "No." I ran it through my head - not the vineyard, not the condo, not Dad's grave, nothing. We drove in silence. My heart memory recorded the moment we ascended out of the Flathead Valley for the last time with her as our passenger. I wanted so badly to say I was sorry, but she wouldn't have understood.

The same woman who slammed the door, told me to go to hell, and called me a bitch now holds my hand each time I leave her lovely assisted living apartment. She remembers nothing of the turmoil and distress so indelibly imprinted on my memory. She says I Love You and Please Don't Forget Me.

 Dementia unravels a mind, resets a heart, and never leaves. Neither will I.

The Frog FBI

I'm being watched. I don't know if they know I know, but I know. They're pretty small and have great disguises, but I have still seen them. Just last night one of them tried to nail me on the front porch - right in front of all the neighbors, too! Anyway, they think I don't know, but I do. Earlier this evening I watched one of them leave his post and crawl very slowly to his companion agent. They tried to be very casual about it, but I saw the whole thing. They glanced at each other, but then turned their heads. One went south while the other went north. Then, I lost them for awhile only to later find the brown guy sitting right out there on the ledge staring at me. The green guy was really incognito because I couldn't see him anywhere. Two weeks ago they infiltrated the house, but we quickly deployed our anti-FBI dome and they haven't made it through again. Stay tuned for updates on their tactics. Like I said, they don't think I know, but I do. It's hard to miss activity in the flower box on the other side of the kitchen window!

Distractions

I go with apprehension and hope. The drive up the beautiful hill distracts me from the duty of the drive itself. The smell, when I come through the door, is always the first thing on my internal list. Is it OK? Is it bad? What does it mean if it's bad? How can I distract her to remedy the bad? Today she said, "I don't want to live like this. But, I know I don't have any choice." Such heavy words for a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Distraction is called for again, "Let's call Mark," I suggest. "OK" forces its way out of her sad, little, old mouth. I repeat the now-weekly ritual of dialing his cell and he answers with great gusto, "Hello! Hi Mom, How are you?" He and I talk about what's new, what we've done, what we plan, the wildlife we've seen, etc. I prompt her participation with a question, "Do you want to tell Mark how many deer you saw today?" "Three" The part of conversation that I've deemed the most valuable comes at the end. "I love you, Mom." "I love you, too, Mark." My husband and I finish our self-ordered tasks of watering plants and I basically beg her for some dirty laundry to do. I haven't washed anything for two weeks which means her clothing must be pretty toasty. This time she concedes that her pants could use some washing. By the time she's done a few more things have been removed from the closet. "Rod will bring these back to you in the morning on their hangers." "Great service," she offers. I kiss the top of her shrinking head and tell her we love her. The soiled clothes are piled in the portable hamper. She holds my hand, "Don't forget me." "We never forget you," I say. And with this I'm out the door back into the hallway with other smells. As we make the reverse drive down the beautiful hill my apprehension turns to sadness and my hope plummets into guilt and uncertainty. I know she's better off here than in Montana. I know these things in my mind. My heart is broken, though, every time I see her because I know where we're headed.