Fences and Fear

Let me just preface this post with this unfortunate fact: I failed swimming lessons when I was a grade school child.  Dropped out before the session was even close to being complete.   The configuration of my body parts didn't lend itself to really being much of a swimmer. 😜   But I was able to float (on my back) and potentially avoid drowning. In my mind that was close enough to success. Mission accomplished.  Sort of.  The failure stayed with me and put a dent in my level of confidence around water.  

When our girls were really young we started an annual August tradition of vacationing near South Fork Colorado in a large campground there. A beautiful lazy river ran through the campground, and we rented inner tubes to float down the river every single year.  Often the water level wasn't high enough to keep us afloat and we'd end up walking a bit of the way carrying our tubes until we reached deeper water.  It was just that non-threatening.  Truly a relaxing way to spend time.  So what if I couldn't swim?

The river that ran through the campground.

And then came the year 1993 when we chose to vacation in June instead of August on the very first day they opened up the river for floats.  My husband DeWayne and I, as well as my sister Lois were first in line to rent our tubes and take the lazy float.  

But it wasn't lazy on that particular day.  The river was quite high and the typical float time of 45 minutes was reduced to around 7 minutes.  No fears, it was a fun fast ride and we were all three laughing and having a great time.  The exit area of the river required that you navigate yourself toward the right, in the shallow side and then stand up out of your tube and just walk right out onto the sandy shore area. DeWayne and Lois maneuvered themselves perfectly and waited on shore to watch me exit.  But I was way too far on the other side of the river to make it to the right side.  I was swept away in the swift current on my tube and ended up in some pretty wild whitewater quickly.  Before I knew it I was caught in a wire fence that stretched across the river but was submerged.  My life jacket immediately came off and washed quickly downstream.   I was suddenly pinned between the fence and the inner tube that had slipped out from under me and was now against my back, painfully pressing me into the fence in front of me.  I was able to keep my nose just barely above the rushing, powerful water and my hands were gripping the fence.  But my feet couldn't reach the bottom of the river, and the fence didn't reach the bottom of the river either.  The power of the water was attempting to pull me under the fence with impressive force.  And breathing wasn't all that easy either.  

 For several minutes I struggled there in the water, clinging to the fence, weakly crying out for help, and praying that God would keep me from drowning.  In desperation DeWayne got back in the water to try and rescue me.  Then we were both in the fence struggling to survive.  It wasn't long before I no longer had strength to hold onto the fence and my body was swept down into the rocky river under the fence, with DeWayne following me under.  He was able to grab hold of the fence on the other side, and I was able to grab hold of his foot as we were being whipped about in the whitewater while our bodies were beaten up by large submerged rocks.  By this time my sister was joined on the shore by a group of men who had brought ropes and climbed onto a small bridge which was above the fence area.  They dropped the rope down and I was able to grab hold of it while they dragged me to shore, and they repeated the procedure to get DeWayne out of the water too.  

Truly I did not expect to still be alive.  My mind had been fixed on the thought that I was not going to make it out alive.   I can't even begin to describe the relief I felt as I stood there on the dry shore,  bruised from head to toe. My heart was beating.  I was breathing. So very grateful that God spared our lives that day.  

You know what....I doubt that even superb swimming skills would have prevented this experience.  You don't really swim in whitewater.  Especially with a fence in the way.  (side note, the campground removed the fence from the river and shut down the area to floating until the river level went down some.  My near-drowning probably saved some lives of small children who would have floated the same route.)

That experience destroyed any desire I might ever have again to be in whitewater on a river.  

So this year, some 24 years later, our oldest daughter and her husband invited us to join them on a rafting trip in Colorado on the Arkansas river.  Without even thinking, I accepted the invitation.  They had rafted in that same area a few years before and there was no real whitewater involved, just a lazy float trip on a large raft.  I had watched them from the shore.  Seemed harmless.  Never mind that we were fixing to celebrate my 62nd birthday and I still couldn't really swim. 😅 

We arrived at the starting point for the trip and waited to board a bus.  I was pretty relieved to see several quite muscular strong looking men who would be piloting the rafts.  While we waited to leave, a tiny little young woman who appeared to be maybe 20 years old gave us a loud firm speech on just exactly what could go wrong on this rafting trip, just exactly what we would need to be able to do to keep from drowning, and probably many other frightening facts.  I zoned out pretty quickly and started re-thinking my decision to take this trip.  

But hey, my 9 and 11 year old grandkids would be on the raft too.  And one of those super strong capable men would be our trusty guide.  Surely it wouldn't be unsafe.

Right before we boarded the bus the various groups were divided up and assigned a guide for each raft.  Guess who our guide was?  The tiny little woman/child with the loud scary speech.  She looked like she didn't have the strength to lift a fork, and speaking of lifting forks -- she looked like she certainly didn't lift a forkful of food to her mouth nearly often enough.  Wee little woman I'm telling you.

I had serious second thoughts but got on the bus anyway.  Just a float trip.  Just floating.  I could float.  The little chick with her tough talk was exaggerating. There would be no peril.  Nothing to fear.  

On the way to the launching place on the river our bus was detained by road construction and we found ourselves sitting for several minutes alongside the river.  In plain sight of rafters taking the same trip we were fixing to embark upon.  So I watched as their rafts were being whipped this way and that, water pouring over them.  They were all using oars to keep their rafts upright.  And the water was whitewater rough.  

June 1993.  Inner tube.  Powerful whitewater.  Fence.  Panic. 

I tapped my daughter's shoulder and said "I cannot do this."  And to say I was gripped by fear is an understatement.  I was paralyzed by fear.  My chest was tight and I was terrified.  But the bus was in motion again.  My choices were few.  I could chicken out at the river launching area and ride the bus back or I could get on the raft and probably meet my Mom, Dad, and Jesus in heaven before the trip was over.  

We arrived at the launch and as we stood on the shore I looked back up just in time to see the bus driver shut the door and pull away.  

Then I looked at the raft in the water and listened to tiny little girl guide instruct us on where to sit.  So.  I got in the raft.  With my very young grandchildren who exhibited no fear whatsoever.  And their parents and my husband.  No discernible fear from them.  

Tiny little guide girl gave us specific instructions on what to do with our oars and I tried real hard to make my brain absorb what she was saying.  But all the time I was thinking "You know, it wouldn't be so bad to see my Mom and Dad and Jesus today."

As it turned out, tiny little guide girl was older and stronger than she appeared and quite capable of leading our raft through the whitewater.  Not without terror on my part, not without our raft becoming tangled in a tree while the guide shouted instructions, not without us doing a fast paced 360 degree turn (planned.  I think)  Not without waves washing over us from head to toe and water flooding my nose and ears.  But after we navigated our first of many big areas of whitewater I relaxed a bit.  Not a lot, but enough that I was able to actually come close to enjoying the trip. 

It was a two hour raft trip.  And at the end of the trip I felt like I'd accomplished something pretty significant.   I faced the residual fear of that horrible day 24 years earlier.  And survived.

Honestly,  I never need to take another whitewater rafting trip ever.  It was fun, and it served a purpose for me.  It's a healthy thing to face fears and trust God to help you through terrifying situations.    

Mom, Dad, Jesus?  Looking forward to seeing you all (and many others) one day.  I'll love that day.  And I love the day in the picture below.  Especially when my feet touched dry ground with my body still experiencing a pulse and respirations.   Ahhhhh.  

oddly enough, DeWayne & I are the only ones smiling. 

  

Small things

Starting at about age 30 or perhaps a year or two sooner, I began to dream about retirement.   You may relate.  Just looking forward to the day when the alarm clocks stop loudly interfering with our blissful sleep. Forcing us to put on happy faces and head off to work.  Day after day after day. Cruel behavior, those pesky alarm clocks.  

So here I am, approaching the long awaited birthday number 62.  I have already cut back on my work schedule drastically to babysit my grandson.    Grandson went off to all day kindergarten last fall which left me with millions of unoccupied minutes in my days to fill with....??? Hmmmm.  Whatever I want, right?  Retirement, the dream come true??? 

Let's just be honest and say it's an adjustment.  

My days have been filled.  But not with a particular schedule or routine tasks. Nothing I do is earning monetary wages, and that kind of requires an attitude adjustment.  I was a health care employee, I performed certain important tasks, and I got paid to do so.  And I enjoyed my job.  My identity was largely wrapped up in my title: Radiologic Technologist.  ARRT-M.   ASRT.  Licensed in the state of Kansas.   

So?  What's my new title? 

There seems to be no actual title for sleeping as late as I want to, reading as much as I want to, playing piano as much as I want to, traveling with the hubby some, writing a blog when inspired to, spending time with friends as much as I want to, camping and hiking and gardening and playing with my family (GRANDKIDS!!!).... all without punching a time clock.  Or....uh.... getting paid. 

Why, I've even started cleaning my house on a frequent basis.  Nobody saw that coming.  

This is clean, right?

But honestly it is tempting to be a little uneasy about this period of time that I've been waiting for my whole life.  Just kind of at loose ends.  I mean, what are the initials behind my name now??  

Silly thinking, huh?

Sometimes retirement seems like a screeching halt to everything that defined my life.  Going from what I considered to be significant activities to stuff that just appears to be merely small things.  But I really believe God is the designer of every "screeching halt"  we experience in our lifetime.  

 Life is peppered with periods of adjustments.  Lots of them.  Some exciting, some not so much.  Big plans reduced to small things.  Every age group gets in on these types of life events.  Not just us newly retired folks. 

There is a scripture that keeps coming to my mind.... "Who dares despise the day of small things?"  Written by the Old Testament prophet Zechariah, who was talking about the slow process of rebuilding the temple of God that had been destroyed by Babylon.  Big beautiful temple reduced to nothing.  

God designs these times to draw our attention back to Him.  Nothing to despise; no reason to despair.   He's right there with us in the small things.    In the quietness of our souls He can speak to us and mold us and make us who He needs us to be.  His temple.  1 Corinthians 3:16.   Something beautiful.  No initials required.  No title other than Child of God.  

One version of this scripture calls it "small beginnings".  I like that.  When our comfortable life is reduced to small things, it's really a new beginning.  Not the end. God isn't finished with me.  He will bring purpose to my days. 

And on that note, I hear the mountains calling and I must go.  Fixing to  lift my eyes to the hills where my help comes from. For a couple weeks....our first 2 week vacation ever.   

 Not gonna lie, I think I can do this retirement business.  Oh yeah.    

The littlest firecracker

There's this boy who occupies a big part of my heart.  His story is pretty miraculous, being born around 25 weeks gestation and weighing in at a tiny 1 pound 10 ounces.  

Sometimes I think his first three months of life in the NICU groomed his personality and demeanor in an extraordinary way.  Struggling to survive and  facing truly frightening life-threatening situations regularly.  He endured pain on a regular basis.  His medical records are filled with stuff that is absolutely terrifying to think about.  And he really was alone in the world, no visitors ever. Although he was blessed by the love of wonderful caring nurses in the absence of his birth parents or any other family.  

And.... I feel certain he had a constant round-the-clock Visitor, who had everything under control.

Not the typical start to one's life.  Not at all.

The little guy came to our family a survivor.  He has a unique way of accepting whatever.  Just being content with life.  Rolling with the punches.  Going with the flow.

The best example of his unique demeanor happened one year ago on the fourth of July.  Little J was 5 years old.  His mom and dad let him spend the night with Grandpa and Grammy B.  We hadn't bought any fireworks, just planning on enjoying the magnificent displays from our neighbors.  But J's folks had let him bring a couple things to shoot off.  And he was super excited to do so.

So the three of us sat side by side in our lawn chairs out on the driveway while the neighbors around us started their firework parties.  One neighbor boy noticed that little J was just sitting there with his old grandparents, not doing any fireworks. And he felt sorry for little J.   So he brought several sparklers over  and said, "Here are some fireworks for you to light!".  Little J excitedly said, "Oh I've brought my own fireworks that I'll light up after the sun goes down."  The neighbor boy kindly left the sparklers for J, which we quickly burned up.

Then we sat back in our chairs and watched the skies.  Our neighborhood really knows how to put on a show for the 4th.  Little J would watch one after another and repeatedly ask Grandpa "Is it dark enough yet for my fireworks?".  All the while keeping an eye on the sky in awe of the bright colors and lights and loud booms.  It was impressive.  Truly.

Finally the time had come.  J was over the top excited about his two fireworks and he proudly announced to the neighbors it was time for his fireworks. Grandpa helped him light the first one.  Then they ran fast back to the chairs to watch as it sprayed colors about two feet in the air.  Two feet.  24 inches.  And approximately 10 seconds duration.  No loud noise, just a little poof sound. Grandpa tried to pace the excitement 😁 and suggested we watch some more of the neighbors' show before we shot off the last one.  But it wasn't long before J was ready to set off his final firework.  

Same type fountain cone.  Same sad little pathetic result.  I was kind of bracing myself for tearful disappointment from the little guy.  Honestly, I was a bit tearful with disappointment for little J.  Wishing we'd bought more for him to shoot off.  

But not J.  Nope.  He was ecstatic about how beautiful his fireworks were.  No mention of how they were so very very different from the massive fireworks all the neighbors were shooting off.  No complaints about "I wish I had more to shoot off."  No begging grandpa to go buy some more at a nearby stand.  

Pretty sure I could learn some important life lessons from this young man.  

Like:  
          Be happy with what you have.
          Make your life fun.
          Comparison brings the death of contentment. 
          

Yes, he was only 5.  And he's only 6 this year.  But the contented attitude continues.   He's happy.  Just happy to be.  He came very close to not being.  I'm so very grateful he is.  So very grateful he is ours.  Thank you, God.  

       

Can I see your photo ID, please?

Do you simply adore the picture on your driver's license?  Is it pure joy to pull that precious picture out and show it to airport security, or at checkout counters, or to the police officer when you've been pulled over for traffic violations?  

I think I know your answer.  Me neither.  

A couple weeks ago I received the dreaded notice in the mail that once again it's time to renew my driver's license.  To say I wept with joy upon receiving the notification simply isn't true.  Quite the opposite.  Memories of my last ID picture experience haunt me.   

Six years ago when I last renewed my license I determined that my new picture would be my best ID picture ever.  There were no large zits on my nose, and I hadn't recently fallen off my bicycle resulting in a black eye.  Been there, done that.  

The mirror and I were tolerating each other relatively well and I believed this was the year for photo success.  

As usual, I waited until the last day possible to renew before paying a penalty. It's kind of embarrassing to admit, but I actually spent the entire evening prior to going in for license renewal planning for my picture.  I styled my hair, I put on make-up, I wore what I would wear the next day.  Then I practiced taking pictures of myself until I figured out how to have the best smile.  Totally uncharacteristic of me when you consider I didn't spend nearly as much time preparing for my wedding.  Or job interviews.  Or professional photos of our family. 

This was different....I was determined.  Fixated.  Obsessed.  Best ID pic ever coming right up.  

The next day my hair still looked decent and I was able to reproduce the previous night's look.  I.  Was.  Ready.  My husband was off work and agreed to drive me to the driver's license place and drop me right at the door in an attempt to preserve my stunning appearance.  Boom. This was going to be so easy.  

Even though it was early in the day the temperature was already over 100 degrees with intense humidity and the winds were blowing at record speeds. We arrived at the specified location where there was a long waiting line out the door.  So we waited  in the air conditioned car for the line to shorten a bit.  Not to happen.  I finally just bit the bullet and got out of the car to wait in line.  The front of the building was fairly sheltered from the wind, so it was just a matter of the high temps and humidity.  It was just a short little wait before I could enter the door into air conditioned comfort.  No problem.  

Except there really was a problem.  

The air conditioning had malfunctioned inside the building.  They were leaving the front door open to attempt to keep it cooler inside.  Yes, the outside air temp of over 100 degrees was considerably cooler than it was inside with every square inch of that little office packed with people waiting.  No exaggeration. The place was wall to wall people.  Of the sweaty variety.  

But I kept a positive attitude.   Surely it wouldn't take long to make it to the front of the line. Surely I still looked as stunning as when I left the house.   Surely the sweat that was now pouring (POURING) from my hairline down across my face, filtered by my mascara-laden eyelashes, and saturating my cute top would only serve to give me a dewy glistening youthful appearance. 

Uh, surely I was deluded.

And then, in an attempt to make the room cooler one of the employees set up an industrial strength garage-type high speed fan to move the air.   On a stand. Set to the highest speed possible.  Pointed right in my direction.  My wet sweaty hair was being restyled while I waited.  How convenient.

If I'd had a mirror at the time perhaps I would have bolted out the door, and come back another day.  And paid the late renewal penalty.  But I didn't.  

Have you seen that famous scraggly-haired, icky-faced mug shot picture of Nick Nolte? Yeah, my ID picture turned out nowhere near that good.  

But it is indeed a picture of me.  Yes.  No denying that fact.  It confirms my identity.    Sadly.  

I looked up the definition of the word "vanity".   Interesting.  

   1.  Excessive attention to one's own appearance

   2.  Futility.  (for scripture reference, read pretty much the entire book of Ecclesiastes)

Lesson learned.  It is futile to give excessive attention to your appearance.  

Never again.

From party lines to selfies

Do you ever think about how much telephone technology has changed over the years?  Even over the past decade with all the smart phone advances.... simply mind boggling.  

Growing up in the 50's and 60's most every home had a stationary telephone.  Attached to the wall by a long cord.  I remember a time when we merely lifted the handset and waited for the operator to answer:  "Operator",  and then we'd give her the name of the person we wanted to talk to. "Connect me to so and so".  Just that simple.

My sister was actually a telephone operator back in the day.  It was a very cool job.  Being a phone operator probably required strong vocal cords and a pleasant speaking voice. And at times nerves of steel.  My sister tells a story of the time she took a call from someone reporting that our home was in flames.  So I guess phone operators were the original 911 dispatchers, too.  

And then, wonder of wonders, along came the rotary dial.  The beginning of a technological explosion for Ma Bell. And the beginning of the end for telephone operators, I would imagine. 

During my grade school years the Bell Telephone Company would periodically send out a rep to our little town's elementary school.   The rep would do an in-class presentation on how to operate the fancy new rotary telephone.  He would set up phones that would actually ring and each student would practice answering the call politely.  "Always say Hello when answering a phone call" "The caller always needs to give their name once someone answers."   Phone etiquette.  We learned about phone etiquette in grade school, but it was actually pretty elusive in daily life.  

Party lines were a definite factor in the demise of phone etiquette.  

Regularly you would pick up the phone to make a call and hear conversations of the other folks on your line.  I think we shared a party line with two other homes.  You could hear a conversation and quickly/quietly hang up.  And you could find yourself repeatedly clicking the hang-up button on a party line conversation after you'd picked up the phone several times trying to make a call.    And.....you could, if you were brave, interrupt the conversation with something like "I need to make a call, how much longer are you going to be on this line?".   The word  politely may or may not describe this whole party line scenario.  It wasn't much of a "party" most of the time. Well, unless you could get by with listening in on a really interesting private conversation.  Not that I know from experience.  😇  

I remember a day when hearing the phone ring was really exciting and we might even race across the room to see who could reach the phone first.  Wow. Fast forward a few years. Our phone rings and even though it's probably right there in our hand, we often choose not to answer at all unless we recognize the number on caller ID.  Just let it go to voice mail. Or send a text, for crying out loud. The mystique and appeal of Alexander Graham Bell's marvelous invention has worn thin I guess.  

And now, our phones are smarter than we are.  

My folks passed away before cell phones were even a gleam in Dr Martin Cooper's eyes.  (yes, I googled "inventor of cell phones" just now....on my smart phone).  Often I try to imagine what my folks would think of phones in this day and age. "Well, Mom, first thing I do when I wake up is pick up my phone and look at it intently for several minutes before I even get out of bed."  (Of course she's picturing a rotary phone like in the above picture and wondering why I would ever want to pick it up and look at it)  "And then of course I carry it with me wherever I go throughout the day.  And sometimes I'll use it to take pictures of myself on Snapchat looking like a puppy with its tongue hanging out, then I'll send that picture to my hubby while he's at work."  "How old am I, you ask?  Oh, I'm in my 60's.  All grown up.  I guess."

Oh what you started, Mr. Bell and Mr Cooper.  What could possibly be next in the evolution of the telephone? Google and Siri probably already know.    That's just how smart they are  

Three words

Every living person will have, is having, or has had a chapter in their life story that can only be described as a dark valley of sadness and despair.  Broken chapters. There’s no way around it.  No way to skip over them and hurry on to the good part. Brokenness can show up in many different forms. Death, addictions, abandonment, on and on. The list of possible scenarios really is endless.

Brokenness happens. To every one of us. Hasn't happened to you yet? Well hang on. It will at some point.

Having lived as many decades as I have, of course there have been plenty of broken chapters in my life story. Life in real form. None of these chapters were pretty and none of the details are necessary to share. Just think of your own broken chapters and read on.

During a broken chapter many years ago I had one very close friend who was aware of my situation. I was able to talk with her through my tears. She would listen and she would cry along with me.  Always I did most of the talking, and she just listened.  But one particular conversation before church she said three words to me that stopped me short.  It was really the only advice she gave me, and it sure didn’t seem like the profound help I might need.  She said:  “Just praise Him”.  Really?  I’m at my lowest point ever in the history of my life story.  Praise Him?  When I can barely make it through an hour without weeping, how on earth can I offer anything close to real praise?  

But I learned that there is power in praise.   Praise through brokenness forces us to spend time thinking until we come up with something to genuinely thank Him for.  The sacrifice of praise involves finding the good.  Whatever is good, pure, true, honorable, lovely, excellent, just, commendable -- think on these things.  Philippians 4:8.  Find the good.  There is ALWAYS good to find.

Broken chapters don't get much more difficult than losing a child. My niece recently watched her precious little 8 year old girl spend the last year of her life battling stage 4 cancer. I watched her and her husband suffer through indescribably difficult days and nights. The word "difficult" doesn't even begin to define. Her strength amazed and inspired me, though. During some of the darkest days of her life I heard her say "I'm a firm believer that there is always something to be thankful for in every single day." She chose to praise Him. Even while her heart was broken and her life shattered.

Broken praise takes our mind off of our problems and helps us focus on the One who has the answers.

Eloquence not needed. No minimum number of words required for Him to process your message of praise. Even through a flood of tears when all you can say is "thank you Jesus". Just. Praise. Him.

 He is worthy of our praise.  He works through those who praise Him. There is power in praise.  Especially broken praise.  Broken praise is precious to the heart of our Father.  Offer up your broken hallelujah. Watch him use your broken praise to change your heart.

The beautiful thing about broken chapters? They're just chapters. They're not the whole story. The page will turn, your story will improve. Praise God. Just Praise Him!!!

Chance encounters of the Grocery Store kind. The power of kindness.

Sometimes grocery store shopping can be irritating, almost a torture.  

But sometimes it can be quite the opposite.

I was at Dillons the other day and  found myself next to a young female customer in the produce department.  As I reached up to select a container of fresh pico de gallo she asked me my opinion of the pico.  We had a really nice conversation and she was so friendly.  We visited for quite a while.   She once operated a restaurant.  And she actually enjoys chopping up jalapenos and onions by hand!   At the end of the conversation she gave me a warm smile and said, "I hope you have a very blessed day."  I reciprocated with "I hope you do, too."

Had we ever met before?  No.  

Were we in the same age group?  No.  She was young.  I am....not.

Was she trying to sell me something?  No.  

Was this the first time I've had a pleasant conversation with a stranger in a public place?  Certainly not, but it's not an everyday thing for sure.

Grocery shopping isn't my favorite experience, and usually I try to get in, buy my stuff, get out.  I must admit, I've succumbed to complacency and avoidance when it comes to being outgoing and friendly at times.  Fear of unfriendly reactions.  Or blatant rudeness.  Honestly, you can walk away from some encounters feeling pretty low about yourself and everyone around you.  

But on that particular day I walked from the produce section with a smile on my face and something more.  I can't put my finger on how to describe the "something more", but it was a very good feeling.   

This young woman fed my soul.  She made me feel worthy of her time.  She reached out to me. She valued talking to me.  She even valued listening to me. (That's kind of a rare thing as you get older)   

Maybe you've noticed:  The world in general has become offish, unfriendly, harsh, dismissive. Borderline hateful.   Sometimes even crosses the border right into mean and ugly.

 Check your social media outlets.  Mean and ugly is significantly more prevalent than simple kindness.  And it spreads like wildfire.  Like a killing virus.  Destroying every person in its path.  Yes, it destroys.  I'm not over-reacting.  Meanness destroys relationships, community, the tender hearts and spirits of children....and adults.  

It's an epidemic.  Needs to be stopped, in my humble opinion.  

Kindness generates kindness.  As I left the produce department that day, my heart was light and I found myself looking for ways to reach out with similar friendliness to others in the store.  Kindness begins with friendliness.

When the effects of kindness are so positively powerful, why are we so reluctant to be reach out with friendliness?  What are we afraid of? 

It's such a simple act.  Be nice.  See what happens.  Your kindness might just spread like wildfire.  Your kindness might just change the world. 

Or  it might change the world for just one person.  You!

P.S.  please check out the caption to the picture below....kindness can be found in amazing places.

New York City, in front of the Metropolitan Art Museum.  We actually found kindness in large quantities in this city last year when our little niece was a cancer patient at a hospital there.  

One last I love you...

"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." That's  one  line from an old song written in 1970.   And like a lot of songs, it's the only line I remember.  

This one line brings one person in particular to my mind.  My mother.  

My mom lived and breathed for her children.  There just was not anything she wouldn't do for her four daughters.  I was her baby, born when she was 40. Born when her other daughters were teenagers.  And I was the living definition of what it means to take a parent for granted. The word "spoiled" comes to mind.  Although I prefer the words "deeply loved."  Because that's how it came across to me.  

She didn't have  money, so it wasn't a matter of spoiling me with frills and unnecessary purchases.  No, she gave herself.  She was there.  I expected nothing less from her.  

One time I spilled hot water on my hand while mixing up formula for my youngest baby girl.  Nothing life threatening, but of course it didn't feel the best.   Mom  worked downtown Minneapolis (Ks) in an auto parts store.  When she found out what happened, she left work and came to the house to check on me. She discovered that I didn't have any topical treatments for burns and neither did she.  So she got in her car and drove 36 miles round trip to her sister's house in Tescott.  Her sister Gladys had a greenhouse and several aloe vera plants.  I'm not sure how fast she drove but in a flash she was back at my house with some aloe vera to put on my hand. (and a plant of her own from Gladys) Ordinary burn ointment that she could have purchased downtown wasn't good enough for her Bunny.  And, side note, the aloe vera did indeed ease the pain and speed up the healing process.  

Mom was a loyal and well loved employee, but if one of her girls needed something she was out the door. She would drop everything to help us. Without complaining. When I returned to work after my youngest was born, Mom went ahead and retired so she could babysit for me.   Without pay.

I came to just expect this sort of care from my Mom.  I just expected it.  No big deal, Mom was Mom.   I just counted on her.  She would be there for me.  No matter what.

Until she wasn't.  

When I was 37 and my two girls were teenagers Mom suffered a broken hip.  Her underlying heart issues, though well-maintained up to that point, complicated the treatment plan. As a result surgery was delayed for several days.  One of those days I walked into her hospital room and bent over the bed to greet her.  She looked at me with vacant eyes and it was clear she did not know me.  Even when I called her "Mom".  She asked me my name.  That hurt.  I said, "Don't you recognize me, I'm Bunny, your baby".  But she didn't.  That really hurt.    

I eventually left her room, accompanied by my husband, and as we entered the elevator I looked at him and said "I'm going to cry, I can't keep from crying."  And the flood of tears began. The entire trip home and for 8 or so hours after I couldn't stop crying. While I was crying it was as if the past 37 years were replaying in my mind.  On constant replay.  All the times I'd been abrupt with her, all the times I had been impatient with her, all the times I'd just expected her to be there for me.  And I felt like one pathetic ungrateful daughter.  It was justifiable emotion.  I deserved to hurt so badly.  

Through the tears I wrote her a letter.  To apologize.  To express my love.  To let her know how valued she was and that I finally understood her value.  Hoping as I wrote that she would be able to actually understand my apology and know how much I loved her.  Hoping she would be able to actually read the letter I was writing to her.

 Happily, the next time I went to the hospital she was back to her self mentally and she did recognize me.  She had the hip repair surgery, returned to her home and over the next 3 months recovered orthopedically.  However, her heart was permanently affected and 4 months after her surgery she passed away.  Part of my heart went with her. A big part of my heart.

She was my last living parent and I felt like an orphan.  A 37 year old orphan.  

I'm so grateful that God gave me the opportunity to write her that letter and apologize before it was too late.  I gave it to her to read a few days after she returned home from the hospital.  As she  read the letter, in true Mom fashion, she didn't see that I had any cause to apologize.  And she apologized for not being able to recognize me that one day when she was in the hospital.  She said, "Oh Bunny that must have hurt you so badly."  And then, we both said "I love you" to each other. It's a moment I will treasure in my heart forever.  

That was 1993.  

My broken heart has healed, but one thing above all others still bothers me immensely.  I listen to the words of those around me.   Moms are easy targets. For some reason, most people just feel entitled to bash their moms.  And I'd  love to just even be able to hug mine again.  Do you find yourself annoyed with your mom?  Critical of things she says or does?  Speaking hateful words to her?  Speaking mean things about her?  Please stop. Please.  

" Love them while you can.  Time just seems to hurry by and the days slip into years, and the moments that we have will disappear. So love them while you can."    (from another 1970's  song) 

Who? What? I thought I knew. And a bonus recipe for you.

A couple weeks ago I was on a walk and ran into someone I hadn't seen for some time.  I waved and loudly called out "Well hello there how are you?  Haven't seen you in years."  As the distance between us lessened I was faced with the unfortunate reality that not only had I not seen her in years, I'd actually never seen this person.  Ever.  Did not know her.  She just kind of looked at me and kind of awkwardly said "Hi.  Fine." Looked a little frightened as she walked on by.  And I just kind of awkwardly moseyed out of her range of vision.  Man, I really don't enjoy those moments of mistaken identity.  

Of course I've also had the reverse situation where someone calls out to me and upon looking closely at my face they retract their "Hello" with something like, "never mind, you're not who I thought you were."  Accompanied by a frown.  You've probably been in similar situations.  No big deal really, just kind of awkward.  I would advise that you don't ask the person "Who did you think I was?"  The answer can be a blow to your psyche.  In my case they've almost always mistaken me for someone considerably older than me.  Could it just once be someone young and gorgeous?  Never mind.  I'll abandon that dream.

Then there are times when you might find yourself in a restaurant with an exotic type menu where you cannot determine the exact identity of what you are about to consume.  Mistaken identity of this nature can be pretty distressing, too.  In our younger years my beloved husband and I ordered "sweet breads", thinking we would be indulging in a delightful pastry-ish dessert.  Oh my.  Do you know what sweet breads are? Unfortunately we did not.  We took a bite though.  Just one.  Was not sweet, nor was it a pastry of any sort. According to Wikipedia, it's either the thymus gland or pancreas from beef, lamb, or sometimes pork.  Be warned.  Learn from our ignorance. Protect your digestive tract.  Just say no to sweet breads.  

A few years ago we went to a Christmas party at our friends Lori, Tom & Bobbi Jo's.  They really know how to prepare a banquet of delectable food.  And none of it was unidentifiable or exotic, well the pumpkin soup bordered on exotic (and quite delicious).  Anyway, I of course took some of everything.  I piled a large amount of what I thought was a  salad on my plate.  And I later learned it was a dip for chips or crackers.  

No big deal really, I could have eaten two bowls of it and called it salad and been quite happy.  It.  Was.  Fabulous.  Just say yes to anything served at the home of these three folks.  No need to confirm the identity of what you're about to consume at their parties.  

I asked Bobbi Jo for the recipe and she gave me a list of the ingredients and advised to just add or subtract whatever you want.  As you like.  Very delicious. Especially with those "scoop" tortilla chips.  You know, like tiny little salad bowls. To fill up with tiny little salads.  I'm giving you my version of her recipe, as I like it.

 Cucumber Pico/Salsa

   5 medium cucumbers, or 2 of those big seedless cucumbers, peeled & diced 

   1 can original Rotel undrained (or 2 cans if you like)

   1/4 cup vinegar, any kind.  I've used apple cider vinegar or rice vinegar

   1 pkg of dry ranch dressing mix (or 2 packages if you like)

   1 large (pint-size) container of fresh pico de gallo (like from the produce section at Dillons often on the very top shelf out of eyesight)  Or, you can chop up onion, tomatoes, jalapenos and cilantro in the same quantity.  I am lazy.  I buy the pico.  It works well.

   Garlic salt to taste

   Lemon pepper to taste.

Put the cucumbers, Rotel, pico de gallo (or chopped veggies) in a large bowl.  Sprinkle the dry ranch over and add the vinegar.  Stir it all up well then add garlic salt and lemon pepper to taste.  

Simple and delicious.  Nice alternative to traditional tomato salsa.  As a dip.  Or be like me and just go crazy and eat a whole bowl of the stuff.  Mmmmm good. Here's a pic.  (I drained off some of the liquid for this pic).  It's really wonderful with crackers or chips.  Amazing how something as mild tasting as cucumbers can enhance a recipe. And they smell so good when you're dicing them!  

Mmmmm  good. 

Beside the still waters and bicycling against the wind. It's all good

Camping season began for us last week.  Took our first trip to the lake for a few days.  The weather cooperated magnificently.  

During a conversation with a friend of mine I mentioned that we were planning to camp at a nearby lake.  He said "Why in the world would you drag your camper 25 miles away when you could just stay at your house and enjoy your lovely back yard?".  That's a valid question from a non-camper.  But if you're a seasoned camper, you know the answer.  I don't need to explain.  

Our daughter gave us a sign for decor in our RV that has the words "....He leads me beside quiet waters."  Ps 23:2.  

Quiet waters.  The peaceful presence of the Creator.  Taking long walks through the woods surrounded by evidence of His glory and majesty.  Lord of all creation, of water, earth and sky.... Leaving the cares of life behind and just hanging out with the One who has it all under control.  

It's how we recharge our batteries.  Time of renewal.  

No leaves on the trees and brown surroundings might make you think there's no beauty to be seen.  Check out what was visible because of the lack of foliage and greenery:  

Note the cool looking plate-like fungi formations on this tree.  Don't you think it looks like a place setting for squirrels?  We might not have seen this dining room for rodents if the trees and bushes were dressed in their summer greenery.

Speaking of rodents, we came across this trapped rodent.  Identification, anyone?       

So, what else do non-fisher people like us do when we camp?  It was too early in the season for riding our jet ski or swimming.  

We hooked up an old TV outside our camper, utilized our Verizon hotspot, and....did what all college basketball junkies do.  We watched Wichita State and KU basketball play in the Big Dance.  (The Cats had already left the dance or we would have watched them too)   It was a perfect setting for watching the games. 

And.  We rode our bicycles.  Last year while camping in Oklahoma, it seemed like a good idea to purchase el-cheapo bikes from a Walmart nearby.  Here is mine:

When I'm riding it, the hubby and my son-in-law immediately start humming the Wizard of Oz tune that goes along with the witch riding her bike.  Which doesn't necessarily amuse me.   The bike is cute, and it was cheap.  Little basket on the handlebars, cup holder, even has a cellphone holder!!   Those are its only redeeming qualities.  It is only designed for flat-lands and non-windy days.  I think the tires are too fat.  Uh, perhaps it's really ME that's too fat.  Whatever, it is ridiculously difficult to pedal.  Even my quite athletic daughter had trouble with it.  My friend Georgia has recommended that I get some sort of battery operated pedal assist gadget that will help move the pedals on slopes and in high wind.  She's thinking of getting one.  Sounds tempting. 

we were blessed with such gorgeous sunsets!!

The worst part of camping is always packing up and returning home.  The best part of coming back home is planning our next camping trip.  

We have camping fever and I have no intention of looking for a cure.  

Camping is the cure.  It takes us away from everyday stresses and adjusts our perspective in a way that makes life much better.   Therapy by none other than the One who designed us in the first place.   Good medicine.   

  

Employment Enjoyment

What was your first job?  Mine was probably babysitting my cousins.  But my first real job was the summer between my 8th and 9th grade years of school, if memory serves  me.  

Pioneer Seeds came to our fair little city of Minneapolis Kansas towards the end of the school year offering a gold mine opportunity for those wanting a summer job.  $1.40 per hour.  Boys and/or girls, equal pay.  I couldn't suppress my excitement at making that kind of cash and I eagerly signed up, along with many classmates. We were going to own Minneapolis by the time summer ended.  

The appeal of cash was more important than the details of the job, and with that kind of money dangled in front of me I just signed up without reading the fine print.  Day one arrived and we were loaded up in school buses and hauled out into the countryside where they unloaded us into massive fields of corn. Too far from town to run home.  

Turns out we were hired to walk down rows of corn and reach to the top of every  corn stalk and pull out the tassels.  I'm pretty vague on all things agricultural but it seems like this is some sort of plant life reproductive system deal. Involving pollination perhaps? The word hybrid comes to mind, but I may be way off. 

 Money.  I was there for the money.  

 Anywho, I found myself in a field of corn with about 20 of my closest friends. There I was, all of 5 foot tall, peering up at the top of corn stalks and wondering exactly how to reach those tassels.  I think maybe we chopped sucker stalks away from the base of the corn stalks too and with my vertical challenge that may have been my main task.  But I know I pulled some tassels out also.  On the shorter stalks.

The rows were often muddy from the irrigation system.  It seems like maybe the irrigation system even started up once while we were walking the rows.   There was always the threat of seeing rats or snakes although I don't recall seeing either.  We girls tried to make the job more fun by singing at the top of our lungs as we worked the rows.  And laughing hysterically at the lyrics we could make up.  It was kind of fun. 

I don't recall how many weeks we were hired on to work, but I do recall that well before the intended duration of the job was completed I developed allergies.  Either to corn pollen or work.  Either way, the checking account I opened prior to starting the job seemed pretty pointless.  I used the money I earned to buy a purse.  Not to carry money... probably just kleenex.  I did have allergies, after all.  Allergies, and no money.  And later that summer on a shopping trip I actually left that purse unattended in a Salina department store where it was quickly stolen.  Never to be seen again.  

Oh what a gold mine that cornfield job turned out to be.  

That was my first job.  And now I'm sort of semi-retired from my long career as a radiologic technologist.  Taking x-rays in a hospital and/or clinic setting for over 40 years.  I have no regrets.   It's been a rewarding and fulfilling career though not without occasional ickiness and challenges, of course. Every job has challenges and ickiness.    Attitude is everything, though.  

We live in a new housing development with lots of construction going on.  Last summer I went for a walk through the neighborhood and was greeted by a happy smiling young man driving a truck slowly to a construction site.  He smiled, waved and said "Hello, how are you today?"  We didn't have a long conversation but I was impressed with how pleasant and friendly he was. Clearly a happy employee.  Probably using his skills to build beautiful homes for happy families.

I assumed he was a carpenter on a new home, but then I looked closer at the truck he was driving.  It was a tank truck.  The writing on the tank indicated it was a septic cleaning service.  For porta potties.  Of which there were several at the various construction sites.  

This friendly, pleasant man was removing human waste from portable toilets.  

And happy to do so.

I think I heard him singing funny songs with made-up lyrics as he drove off.  😁

Yes, attitude is everything.  

And the corn is as high as an elephant's eye.  🎵   🎵

Oh what a beautiful morning.... sing it, people!  

"Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men,"  Colossians 3:23