Move Over, June Cleaver

I'll confess. Life has been steamrolling right over the top of me lately. I've had anywhere from one to all three of our guest rooms occupied since the middle of December and the last folks left on Friday. I've been buried in details with family issues, work, volunteer stuff and just keeping up with the day to day stuff. Oh my goodness, but it makes my head spin. Sometimes I find myself wishing that my life was a little more June Cleaver-ish and a little less like a hamster doing double dutch on a wheel.

This past week was one such example. Our son spent a few days with us and then went with his friend, L, to her mother's home to learn Vietnamese cooking (he is a chef and he wanted to add Vietnamese cuisine to his repertoire). L's mom took him under her wing and taught him at her home in Hilton Head, and then ended the week's lessons by returning with them and cooking an amazing meal for us at our house. A survivor of the Vietnam War, she is a fascinating person who bears an uncanny resemblance to Yoko Ono and has an amazing way with food.

My son and his friend live in Los Angeles, and there is no end to the stories they can tell - my son, from the perspective of a new resident of the area, and L, as the former editor of an online magazine about Hollywood. My older daughter, a grad student in theological school, sat around the table with us as we listened to stories of a catfish trying to make its escape across the floor of the fish market, the nuances of Vietnamese cuisine, philosophies on relationships and how to make head cheese. Difficulties with language were acknowledged with laughter, we came away from the table as friends - and I realized that mothers the world over have the same dreams for their children. The Vietnamese expatriate, the editor, the chef, the theologian and the pastor's assistant sat around the table and truly enjoyed each other's company.

You never know who God will send into your life and you miss out if you're unwilling to open the door and invite them in. I'm thankful for the revolving door and even for the chaos that life throws at me, because it makes my life richer and lets me know that I'm alive.

June Cleaver knew pretty much how every day was going to go, and life seemed pretty orderly in her household. I'm sure that each day was placid and devoid of stress (how else would she have had time to dress up the way she did?). Life was predictable.

Oh, how mind-numbingly boring that would be.

Candles of Remembrance

I used to travel to Paris fairly often with R when he was with another company, and we always went to church on Sunday at Notre Dame. (Never mind that our French isn't very good and we aren't Catholic - we could still feel the connection with God as we sat in that beautiful, ancient building, listening to the musical cadence of the language as the mass took place). Afterward, we would go to one side of the cathedral where there was a huge bank of votive candles, and would light a candle of remembrance as we said a prayer for someone dear to us.

In the past three weeks I have celebrated my first Christmas without having our son at home with us, lost my mother 8 days later, then had a birthday the following week. And I've received several candles as gifts - one for Christmas and three for my birthday. As I sat down to have my devotional time this morning, I lit all of them and realized that each one holds a special significance. So I have decided that each day I will light a candle in remembrance of what each one represents.

The first is a delightful soy candle that smells like oatmeal raisin crumb cake - the sweet friend who gave it to me shares the midlife necessity of having to watch our weight and included a note that said that the candle would be a good way of enjoying a treat without the calories! So, I light this candle in remembrance that I must be mindful that my body is a gift from God and that I must care for it.

The second is a votive with a stained glass piece in front of it, bearing the message, "Bless You." I light this candle in remembrance that I must care for my soul in daily Bible study and prayer, and that I must never forget how blessed I am - and that I must be a blessing to others.

The third is a sweet-smelling candle in a beautiful holder that my daughter gave me for Christmas. As I light this candle I remember that I am blessed with a wonderful family and I will offer a prayer of thanksgiving for them as I also lift them in prayer.

The fourth is made of china and is in an intricate, snowflake shape. As I light this candle, I must remember that life is as fleeting as a snowflake, and that relationships are fragile and must be handled with care.

And so, I light these candles in remembrance of all in my life that is good, and I remember that I am blessed.

It's Snowing in Paris. . .

I'm sitting here tonight in a sort of melancholy mood. I suppose that isn't too unusual, given the fact that I buried my mother two days ago, and a couple of other personal challenges have presented themselves. I'm fighting the temptation to drift into a certifiable funk. I've been sitting idly at the computer, plugging different locations around the world into weather.com to see what the weather is like there. If that isn't a low point, I don't know what is.

But I'm fighting it.

As I was doing the dishes tonight, wallowing in a little puddle of self-pity, it occurred to me that I am not the only one going through "stuff." A good friend lost her sister yesterday; a sweet man on our staff has a wife who is facing surgery for breast cancer and another friend is going through chemo. I guess it's just human nature that, when we are beset by difficulties, we tend to focus only on the negatives, and we fail to look at the greater positives that are all around us. It's like looking at a dot drawn in the center of a sheet of paper and focusing on that instead of all the space around it.

These are light and momentary burdens and God is in control; so as I sit here in my kitchen, venting into my computer, focusing on my own little world, the Champs Elysee is blanketed in white, and the bare limbs of the chestnut trees stand in stark contrast as snow falls on the streets of Paris.

But it won't be long until spring.

Rest in Peace

My mom passed away and I just don't know how I feel.

I am an only child, and was much loved by my parents. My mother doted on me, cherished me, criticized me, pushed me and did all the things that parents do - at least those who love their kids and want them to turn out right.

Mom was a paradox. She was intelligent and attractive and I thought that there was nothing she couldn't do. She could quilt, crochet and sew anything, and she made the best jellies and apple butter you ever tasted. Yet there was always an underlying discontent in her soul and I don't think that she was ever truly happy; but she loved my dad, she loved me, she loved my husband and she absolutely adored our children.

In 2002 we learned that she had Alzheimer's disease and we watched her deteriorate before our very eyes. The mother who had loved me so much no longer recognized me; in fact, she reached the point where she hit and kicked at me when I came to visit because it just didn't make sense to her who I was or why I was there.

God gives us little gifts, though. On Tuesday, her caregiver (she lived in a personal care home) called and told me that Mom had suffered a seizure and that she suspected that she had pneumonia. I went over to see Mom; she was sitting on a sofa with an oxygen machine attached to her and I could see that she was very ill. She looked intently at me, then put one finger to her lips, kissed it, and blew it to me. That's the last real communication we had.

This afternoon, the caregiver called and said that Mom was declining rapidly and suggested that I gather the family together, which I did. Three hours after I arrived I was stroking her face and telling her how much I loved her when her breathing slowed, and then stopped. All I could say was, "She doesn't have Alzheimer's any more."

I know that she has reunited with my father and the rest of her family and that she is now standing in the presence of God. She is whole and she is sane and, at long last, she is happy.

Rest in peace Mom. I'll always love you and I look forward to the day when we will see each other again.

It's a Process. . .

We have now lived in this house for 7 years and we are still trying to get everything the way we want it. For some time now, we have debated on whether to make the move from a queen-sized to a king-sized bed and, as often happens in life, the decision was sort of made for us.

My husband works in the bedding industry and was gifted this Christmas with a king-sized mattress set of the variety that allows you to adjust each side to your own liking. They said that it would be easy to assemble - that should have been the first red flag.

Assembling the bed was very much like a scavenger hunt - we were told to open Foundation Box #1 and Foundation Box #2 completely and follow the directions for assembling the foundation (no box springs on this puppy). So, R and I strode confidently into the garage, only to see that there were 2 boxes of Foundation #1 and one box of Foundation #2; however, we are not ones to question. We hefted all three boxes inside and unpacked them. With great confidence, we followed the pictoral instructions on the lid of Box 2 (because there was NO instruction book). We put together the side rails, only to discover that there were four side rails and, because we are intelligent, college-educated people, we observed that a bed only has TWO sides. We began a philosophical discussion as to how the different elements might fit together and the only conclusion we came to was that we each had a different philosphy.

We decided that moment to take a break (not from our 34-year marriage, although we both were considering it). I left for an hour to visit my mother and R retreated to his recliner with a glass of iced tea. When I returned, we nodded curtly in each other's direction and returned to the scene of the crime.

Suddenly, a look of inspiration flashed across my husband's face and he began scrambling through the wreckage, pulling parts off here and inserting them into other parts with the deftness of a Swiss watchmaker. He had clearly received an epiphany. He calmly instructed me to assist him by handing him parts, one by one, until we had 2 perfectly formed twin beds. He then looked at me in wide-eyed wonder and said, "A king sized bed is the size of 2 twin beds." I knew that.

We then hauled in the remaining boxes, quickly covering the foundation and laying in the sides for the inflatable part of the mattress (contained in the final box). Guess what? There were written instructions contained in the SIXTH AND FINAL BOX.

So, we settled in for a long winter's nap in our new, king-sized bed. And now, if I get a little aggravated at him, I'll just grab that little remote and deflate his side.