Tag: Love

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Anna – an Easter story

Easter is a season about what really matters: life out of death. My grandparents would credit Jesus for bringing life out of death for humanity at Easter. But for their own marriage, they would credit Miller Lite beer.

Each year they swore off beer for Lent. Their marriage would then be stress tested for the next 40 days. When they got home after the Easter service they would line up a 6-pack of cold ones on the kitchen counter. The moment the clock struck noon they would each shotgun a couple of beers. Marital bliss restored: life out of death. Thank you Miller Lite.

My friend Carl’s much more substantive experience with this mystery involves his daughter Anna. She was born in 1974 more than three months premature. Brain-injured at birth, she had cerebral palsy and was unable to walk, talk, or do much of anything for herself.  But she was smart, strong and charismatic – with a big smile and infectious laugh that drew people to her. Carl says, “She was my anchor and touchstone and I like to think that I was hers.”  Anna died unexpectedly and much too soon in 2006, back when Carl and I worked together.

Last year, Anna was honored at a neighborhood Day of the Dead party in Oakland. The party was held in an old speakeasy where the evening’s pass phrase was: “The Veil is Thin.” Anna’s photo (enclosed) was placed with those of the other departed on an elaborate, makeshift shrine behind the bar.  According to Carl, “It was an evening to remember with lots of laughter and tears flowing from the audience to accompany the beautiful, haunting music and storytelling.”

Days later, the host of the party contacted Carl to tell him how drawn he had been to Anna’s photo during the party, coming back to it again and again: “I want to know that woman,” he said. “I’m not sure what it was about Anna’s picture and the way that she looked at me, but it was captivating in a way that words cannot define . . . it was more of a feeling that touched my soul. Viewing her just captivated me . . .I wish I knew her.” Carl remarked that Anna still has that kind of presence more than 11 years after her death “. . . shining through the darkness and bringing light to our lives still”.

Carl is a real writer. He shared with me the following poem about Anna. I believe it is an Easter poem:

hungry we are hungry for connection

let me tell you about Anna

brain broken at birth

who had no stops

 

inhabiting a body that didn’t

work where words went in

and didn’t come out and all

was said with feelings

 

that shook you awake how

can you not open yourself to that

not hiding from the love revealed

in no words not capturing you

 

in her arms but penetrating

your defences with a look

insisting on your presence

her feelings like knives

 

cutting away half measures

to what you thought you knew

you never knew or imagined

that your time on earth could be

 

so simple and joyful for even just this

one moment in her presence eyes lit up

seeing you in a way never seen

or thought possible who are you

 

who are you now when will you see

yourself through her eyes

exposed revealed redeemed

in the touch that she could only give

 

if touched first what if you too

could put words aside

fiercely surrendering to her

hard-won state of grace

 

that would be something to celebrate. 

Such a hard-won state of grace and something to celebrate indeed. Happy Easter friends!

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Birthday Girl

A bolt of electricity went through me the first time I held her. I didn’t know it was possible to love anyone so much. Then I saw my wife’s open abdomen from the c-section and I nearly fainted.

Her difficult arrival did come with some levity.  During the labor, a nurse asked my wife if she would like to have a mirror wheeled into the delivery room.

“Why would she want a mirror?” I asked naïvely.

“Some mothers want to witness the miracle of birth”, the nurse replied.

At this point, mid-contraction, my wife sat up and hissed “Listen! If God wanted me to see that miracle He would have put my head on my butt!” So many reasons to love my wife.

I have clear memories of calling my parents with the watershed news. This was our first child, and the first of a new generation for the entire family.

Our daughter spent her first four years in Africa. She learned to be flexible. Passed around the market by delighted African mothers? No problem. Carried into the kitchen to be spoiled by African restaurant staff? No problem. Hippo pooping just outside her front door on safari? No problem.

She became resilient in our move from Africa to Belgium. Overnight she went from being outside every day, speaking English, and running with a pack of African children to being indoors, hearing French, and being alone. She would collect rocks on our various outings and pile them by the door. I asked her about it and she said, “Oh dad, these are my friends”. Thankfully, once she made some real friends, the pile reverted to being mere rocks.

Her heart is tender and open. During our years in Washington, DC she became the steady guidance system for her ballistic younger brother and his friends. She loved being close to our extended family, and being friends with people of all stripes and differences.  She enjoys horses, but thankfully she never became a weird horsey girl. Mostly, I think she liked the overnight stay at her aunt’s house beside the horse farm.

Our move to Switzerland has been the hardest for her. But it has propelled her towards adventure and independence. And it has revealed deep courage in her character. In the recent week leading up to her beloved grandfather’s death, she sat at his bedside for long periods just holding his hand. As I watched her do so I asked myself once again: how is it possible to love anyone so much?

[This story is for our daughter on her 17th birthday. Love you, birthday girl.]

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Dad

My dad died peacefully last week. I miss him terribly. His death, and indeed his entire life, is a powerful testament to the Words for the Weary spirit of “lighthearted stories about everyday things”.

Two weeks ago we arrived at his home to find him in an armchair. He was connected to oxygen and wearing slippers shaped like hamburgers. He cheerily engaged with everyone while consuming vast amounts of ice cream. His faith and humor and grace remained intact despite the cancer. This was no stoic façade: it’s how dad was hardwired from a lifetime of love.

On one occasion during the ensuing days, as I reconnected his oxygen, he took a deep breath and said “Ah, oxygen. Great stuff. They should put more of it in the air…”.

After moving to narcotic pain medication he quipped “My first drug trip. So this is what all the fuss was about in the 1970s. I suppose I must be hip now with the younger generation.”

We returned one night from the hospital to find a neighbor’s note: “Tater-tot hot dish in the refrigerator”.  I love Midwestern neighbors. And I love tater-tots.

Dad was never strong on administration. His account passwords are kept on little yellow sticky notes that absolutely cover his desk. Each note contains a complex mathematical formula which, when solved, reveals a password. I asked him how I was ever to sort out his affairs. He smiled and suggested that if I took a step back and looked at the sticky notes with the correct perspective, they were artfully arranged in the shape of an iguana. Thanks dad.

We prayed together. When speech left him, we prayed for him. Or we simply held hands and gazed upon one another with such love that words were not required.

His decline was remarkably fast – a week before he died he was playing the piano. His final days and the moments of his death were profound. You could squeegee the love out of the air, it was so saturated with grace and light.  He died surrounded by his closest loved ones, utterly at peace with his life and with God.

He was the greatest man I have ever known. He also happened to be my dad. No amount of thanks seems sufficient for such a gift.

[This post is dedicated to my late father. His obituary, written by my sister late one night in just a few minutes, can be found here]

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The Anniversary

We knew we would get married the first time we met.  Still, it’s not the sort of thing you discuss on a first date. And it almost didn’t happen.

We met at a Christmas party in Canada. My job was to greet guests at the door. I was resplendent in a pair of yuletide green jeans and two oven mitts shaped like moose heads. I used the oven mitts like puppets, welcoming new guests to the house in my best moose voice. The moose slurred a bit, since I had been “sampling” egg nog most of the afternoon. But most of the guests spoke French, so they had no idea what the moose was saying anyways.

I opened the door and there she was. The moose slurred Merry Christmas. She smiled, greeted me, and glanced down at my green jeans. It was not altogether a look of approval.

As it so often does during Canadian parties in winter, talk soon turned to hockey. I overheard her say to someone that her sports interest was not actually hockey, but American football. She instantly had my respect because you NEVER say that in Canada. She overheard me laugh at myself as I slopped egg nog on my green jeans. She was amused. Those first moments – respect, humour, and slopped food – formed a pattern for what was to become our relationship.

I switched to drinking tea in an effort to actually engage her in meaningful conversation. We talked for hours about family, faith, our previous work in Africa, and other matters of the heart. We exchanged numbers. As the party ended the moose bade her farewell. I watched her walk away, and I knew.

The next day I called. She was abrupt. She hung up quickly. My heart sank. How could I have gotten it that wrong? I hadn’t drunk that much egg nog! But then she called back. “Sorry about that”, she said sheepishly. “It was 4th and inches with Dallas inside the ten yard line and the game on the line. I just couldn’t talk. Kansas City and Oakland play in an hour, do you want to come over to watch?” And so it was to be.

Two short weeks later we went on separate trips to opposite corners of the world. We were going to see very close friends who happened to be of the opposite sex. During our respective trips our friends disclosed to each of us their preference to be more than friends. These expressions came from people we cared for deeply and had known for years. She and I still barely knew each other. What to do?

When we returned home I asked her how she had responded. She smiled and said, “I said thank you, but I can’t. Because a few weeks ago I met the man I am supposed to marry.” And so it was to be, 20 years ago this week.

This story is dedicated to the love of my life. Happy Anniversary, my dear.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Love – 12/03/2018

Dementia is horrific not only because it robs loved ones of their faculties, but because the rest of us watch loved ones fade away in slow motion. But even in such darkness there can be light and laughter. Such is the case with my father.

The care that he has provided for my mother for over a decade, and the tender constancy with which he has done so, is simply awe inspiring. The doctors, home care, facilities, paperwork and expenses are relentless. He honors birthdays and anniversaries that mom can no longer recall. He participates in care facility activities with unselfconscious enthusiasm, even when she is asleep.

There are, of course, moments of exasperation, fear, despair, and exhaustion. But not once, in all this time, has he ever complained. On the contrary. He maintains that caring for my mother has been the privilege of a lifetime. Awe. Inspiring. Grace.

Of course, being the family that we are, we also treasure the moments of absurdity as they come along.

One such occasion took place one winter morning. Dad was making coffee. My mother has mild hearing loss, so dad asked her in a rather loud voice if SHE WANTED ANY COFFEE? In her state of confusion, she was indignant at being addressed in an inappropriately loud voice. Uncharacteristically, she threatened to walk out (!). Dad just smiled and went into the kitchen to fetch the coffee. But when he returned to the living room, she was gone. The front door was open and there was mom, steaming down the street in her flannel night gown and bathrobe.

Dad took off after her in hot pursuit in his own night clothes that consist of: two slippers shaped like moose paddling a canoe, red flannel pants, and a t-shirt several sizes too small bearing the skyline of his hometown and the tagline: “Des Moines: Let us Exceed Your Already Low Expectations”.

He caught up with her. She was of course totally surprised to see him. He casually asked if she would like to join him at home for some coffee. Of course she was happy to. And so back they went, arm in arm, through a winter’s morning in all their flannel glory.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[Image credit to Slifka Sales Co].