Watching Mom's Christmas

The camera angle is one way and there's no zoom capacity, hence, I can see her at the end of the table in her usual spot (hum, it's the same seating position she always had when I was growing up - the head of the table!), but I can't glean very much detail. The people are running around getting food ready for the Christmas party, there are kids playing by the huge tree in the living area, and some of the staff are there with their families. There's no sound, but I imagine they have music playing and it's most likely pretty noisy. She just sits there and doesn't seem to move over the next two hours. I can't tell if she's happy or not. I can't tell what she's saying to the woman sitting next to her or what she's eating. I count about ten residents around the tables. When she's all done eating I watch as she leaves the table, turns her back, and returns to her room down the hall.

My heart is torn. Compared to last year when she sat at her own table with her head literally laying on her chest because she was too weak to lift it following two weeks in the hospital after a fall that nearly took her life, she's far better off. Compared to two years ago when she was alone on Christmas because she wouldn't let Mark come for dinner because she had shingles on her face, she's far better off.

Tomorrow morning, Christmas Eve day, I'll watch as one of the nurses helps her and the other residents open their Christmas presents. I sent her a lap desk and books with crossword puzzles to try to keep her brain engaged. Somehow, opening Christmas presents should always happen with family. She's safer and healthier, and better off where she lives now, but I expect that watching her open my presents with a stranger will be tough. It's been a long, hard year with decisions and changes made in her best interest. It ends with her in a better space with trained professionals providing her daily care.

The camera angle is one way and there's no zoom capacity. I think this might be best. If I could see close ups of her face, my heart would be torn more than it already has been this year.

Gun Rights vs. Gun Control

As you read this, please remember where I sit as I write -- in the reddest state in the nation. Following the horrible shooting at Sandy Hook School in Newtown, CT, last week I decided to write my two Senators: Hatch and Lee. As I was sitting at the dining room table searching for their addresses the local newscast included a story about how upset gun owners in Utah are because their right to purchase semi-automatic, military style weapons might be in jeopardy  High volumes of semi-automatic assault rifles were flying out the doors of gun stores in this state. One man said defiantly to the reporter, "They can't take away my Second Amendment right to own an assault rifle!" I don't believe the Second Amendment says anything about assault weapons, but I don't believe either that he (or any of his friends or family) is interested in constitutional definitions.

In the simple task of trying to write to my Senators I gained a valuable insight. On Senator Hatch's list of email topics that I was asked to choose from there was "gun control" and Senator Lee's  list had "gun rights." My choice was to have an opinion on rights or control. People either have the right to carry any kind of weapon they can get their hands on or the same weapons need to be controlled. I don't believe anyone has the right to carry a weapon that, in the wrong hands, can kill twenty children in a matter of minutes. Back in 1993, on July 1st, the law firm shooting that inspired Senator Feinstein to write the original assault weapons ban legislation, tragically occurred in the halls of my former employer. I knew some of the people gunned down in their offices. I know what assault weapons can do. I know how they take life within a matter of seconds. No one has the right to carry a weapon that can cause this kind of irrevocable, devastating damage. No one.

Faith-Anne

A few weeks ago my friends, Jim and Sandy, started sending urgent text messages asking people to pray for a 13 year-old Cystic Fibrosis patient in the ICU of Colorado's Children's Hospital. The young teen was the granddaughter of Sandy's cousin and her health situation was quite serious. I shared her need with my church and signed up on CarePages to receive updates on her condition. I'd never met Faith-Anne or her family, but her story touched me. She was only 13 years old with her entire life ahead of her. Today the prayer requests took on a new urgency. Her family had to make the gut-wrenching decision to remove her from life support. The last text just came in, "Just heard that Faith has passed away," Sunday, Dec. 23, 7:50 pm. People across the globe die everyday, but I want to note that this particular young lady has left us tonight. Her family, no doubt, held her close as she slipped the bonds of her very ill body. Many people prayed for her healing and God's wisdom has healed her in this way. I don't know if Christmas is celebrated in Heaven, but if it is I believe a new angel has been added to the choir tonight singing with clean, healthy, clear lungs. 

My Centurion

It's not really a centurion. It's not mine, either. But, each time I drive into the valley to the city there it stands on the north side of the road. In the Spring it sprouts beautiful green buds. In the Summer it holds a gorgeous green canopy aloft for any cow or horse who might happen beneath it. In the Fall it gracefully changes into outfits of orange, gold, and red. Finally, as Winter approaches it releases all of its leaves in elegant acceptance of storms to come. It never bows and it never bends. It's too tall, too strong, and too old. Some of its branches have given their all, but remain erect, empty and connected to those of health and hope all around them. It's the contrast of the two - the bountiful and the barren - that speaks profound eloquence. My Centurion reminds me of the same within me, within all of us. The bountiful and the barren live together in celebration of the present with arms reaching skyward towards the Creator of All.

THAT question

In my 20's and 30's THAT question always bothered me and I did everything I could to avoid it. My "no" answer frequently created an uncomfortable silence between the person asking and myself. Neither one of us knew what to say or do next. Now, in my, ahem -well, not in my 20's, 30's, or even my 40's (heavy sigh), THAT question has taken a new shape. This is how it happened today ---- I was sitting cross-legged on the livingroom floor of the family I was visiting for my job. My icky shoes and snowy coat were on the floor behind me. The 12-month-old was trying to hold the spoon and the cube at the same time, but it wasn't as much fun as dropping one for the other. While I was playing with him with the secret intent of evaluating his fine motor skills his mom asked, "And how many grandchildren do you have?" My reply of , "None right now," put an end to her questioning, but only served to raise my shock. Are you kidding me? My grandmas never sat on the floor cross-legged. They never sat on the floor at all! Mind you, I am here in Utah where the average age of the first-time grandmother is around 43, but still, it was frankly shocking to hear that my not-so-flat stomach, my getting-more-wrinkly neck, and my hair color didn't convince her that I'm really just 32. Like I said, THAT question used to really hurt when I was younger, but now it just shocks me. Later in the day Rod and I were checking in over the phone when he asked, "How's your day going?" "Oh, fine. Did anyone ask you today how many grandchildren you have?" "WHAT?" That's exactly what I thought "WHAT?"

"Susan is better this evening."

Five generations ago, one hundred and fifty-nine years ago a journal was kept by pioneers headed west across the American south. The entry on April 21, 1852 was short: "Came 10 miles. Susan was sick today, taken unwell yesterday. Camped on an open prairie - 4 wagons together. Harris Rowland sold his odd steer to Benjamin Wills. He run off from the drove today and is lost, and no hope of regaining him." The next day the journal reads, "Came 15 miles. Camped on the Dry Fork of Elm Creek, a beautiful stream. Three miles back we passed the last house in Texas where whites live. We are past the lower Cross Timbers and near the upper ones. The part of Texas we have passed is very beautiful farming country, well calculated to be a rich country some time. We are now 47 miles from Ft. Preston. Susan is feeling better this evening." What made Susan ill? How did she manage being sick and riding in the back of the wagon for 25 miles? How did she feel when the last house was passed and hostile territory was ahead? She was only 16 years old and had already been married for almost two years to Harris Rowland, 24 years old. Earlier in the journal, on April 9th the writer noted: "The Indians on the route are generally poor and have nothing to sell. H. Rowland bought a cow from an Indian. She is quite wild and unruly, I hardly think he will get her there." Harris Rowland was part of a much larger wagon train heading west, but the writer of this journal used valuable space and ink to note Mr. Rowland's poor cattle choices between unruly cows and odd steers. Why did the writer care so much about this young man's cattle choices? That's an easy question to answer. Mr. Rowland was the son-in-law of John Boyd Hammond, the writer of the journal and my great-great-great grandfather. Susan was one of his children and he obviously was concerned for her welfare. Susan and Harris were only married 21 years before his death in California in 1871. They had five sons and three daughters. Their oldest son, Lloyd Hammond Rowland was my great-grandfather. Lloyd and Katharine (Morrissey) had two sons and three daughters. Their oldest son was was my grandfather, James Morrissey Rowland. Grandpa had three sons and one daughter. His oldest son was my Dad, George. This is where I stop tonight with our family tree. I'm just glad that 16 year old Susan, Mrs. Harris Rowland, recovered her health on the Texas prairie during the six-month wagon train from Arkansas to California. If she hadn't gotten better, well, I wouldn't be writing tonight in the spirit of my great-great-great grandfather, the wagon train scribe.

"What is Truth?"

Coming from a long line of farmers and ranchers I frequently do my best interior thinking when I'm digging in the dirt, pulling weeds, or, like an hour ago -- engaging in hazmat clean-up in the backyard. Hazmat is an important service to render to the yard when two really big dogs do their thing many times a day, day in and day out. So, in the middle of collecting all of their bio gifts to the rocks, bark, and grass Tahoe kept dropping one or two tennis balls right in the middle of all the, well, bio stuff. I got into the rhythm of alternating throwing balls and picking up his stuff. Shasta sat in her regal pose observing the mayhem and claimed no involvement in any of the activity. I was only out there today because it's going to rain later and some of my neighbors were also out doing their fast yard work. They can only come out between 12 and 2 today because their church's general annual conference is being televised from Salt Lake and they all need to be front and center at their TVs most of this weekend. I think this is the only time of year when they can watch TV on a Sunday, as they will tomorrow. In any case, I wanted to join the neighborhood energy surge so I went out there. And, having not done said hazmat control recently I was out there for a long time! So, believe it or not, the concept/definition/understanding/meaning of truth started filling my head. Yes, I had the truth of the crap I was picking up and I also had the truth of Tahoe insisting I pay more attention to having fun with him. We have the truth this weekend of millions of people around the world, not just my neighbors, watching the LDS conference to receive instruction from their leaders. We have the truth about the disaster in Japan and war in Libya. But, sometimes thinking we have the truth really just means we know a little something about something. We might know about the tsunami in Japan, but we don't really know the truth of what the workers inside the reactors are trying to achieve. We know people are being shot and killed in Libya, but we don't know the full truth of what will really help those in such dire straights. A man in his eighties in our weekly Sunday morning class frequently asks this question, "How can we know for sure that Christianity is true?" Several people are always quick to provide their answers, but he's obviously not satisfied because he keeps asking the same question. As we approach Passion Week later this month the quote from Pilate in two of the Gospels is important. He asks Jesus, "What is truth?" The Gospel writers don't record an answer from Jesus, but that doesn't mean the question shouldn't be asked. Today Tahoe's truth was chasing tennis balls. Mine was picking up solid waste. My neighbors are listening to their leaders with the goal of perfection so God will take them back when they die. The truth of the outcomes in Japan and Libya are still to be revealed. Maybe that's the key -- the truth, in any circumstance, will always make itself known. Truth is a life force that might be held down for a brief period, but it will, I've found, always find it's way to the light, to the air, out into the open. A line from a recent U-2 song re-works Pilate's ancient question into "How can you stand next to the truth and not see it?" Good question. We frequently stand next to things, people, truths, beliefs, lies, stories, and atrocities that we don't see. It takes courage to open our eyes to see the truth standing right next to us. Maybe that's why Jesus didn't answer Pilate - he already knew Pilate didn't have the courage to open his eyes. Do we?