Road Trip

Have you ever heard someone say, "we're taking a road trip"?  For Jed and me, the road trip took us.  It took us almost 1700 miles up, over, and through this beautiful country.  "Alone?"  People would say.  "You're going alone!  What if something happens?"  Well, something happened.  We cuddled two great grandchildren, watched a banjo be passed to a new generation, laughed and played with the three Colorado grandsons, and got hugged by our sons.  Something happened alright.  For almost 10 days we left therapy and schedules and lived somewhat normal.  We studied maps, planned routes and sometimes even took the road less traveled. 

 At each major juncture we evaluated whether we had the strength and fortitude to move on.  Each stop, each goal,  presented challenges that we faced and then enjoyed.  There was nothing easy about this trip and being home feels good, but we got out there and lived.  These memories will not fade quickly.  The smells of the mountain rains, the beauty of a brewing storm as the clouds stir and dance, the thrill of a road almost impassable as the rain poured part of the mountain itself in our path...these and the gondola ride to the mountain top...these were therapy, perhaps not for the strength of the legs, but for the strength of the spirit. 

When you live a sheltered life in a therapy/caregiver world, the handicap becomes the norm.  But when you venture out, when the trip take you beyond your comfort, everywhere you are reminded that you're different.  Sometimes that brings sadness and tears, but mostly it reinforces internal strength.  As we strolled up and down Fremont street in Las Vegas,  I couldn't help but wonder how it must feel to be on wheels in a walking world. 

One of my facebook friends posted "21 pictures" to reinforce your belief in humanity.  They were beautiful and made me cry.  They were picture of people offering help to others.  We experienced a great deal of that on our journey.  Kindness over and over.  Offers of help and gestures of understanding.  Caught in a sudden freezing downpour on the mountain top, a young man ran to meet us with his umbrella.  That picture would have made the "21 pictures"  had it been taken. 

The many twists and turns and climbs and falls reminded us of the very life we live.  Sometimes the climb was so steep it seemed impossible, sometime the twists and turns monotonous, and then suddenly there would be a beautiful valley, a phenomenal stone structure or a vista that echoed breathtaking hope.  Perhaps that's why I love a road trip so much.  Each journey is a mini life well lived. 

God is Far Away

Sometimes God seems very far away.  So far away that sometime, just sometimes, God doesn't seem possible.  Times like this are lonely times.  So lonely that God doesn't even seem to be part of the life I live.  Seems like a nice fairy tale that children can believe, and then one day, "poof"  it's gone.  There is no tooth fairy.  Santa Claus is a big hoax and God, too went over the bridge with the Billy Goats.  Sometimes it's just too hard to believe.  I mean, really, He came back to life, He's three things all at the same time, He exits everywhere and is in everything.  Come on!

 I remember the day I discovered there was no Santa Claus.  My brother and I were minding the truck that was there to receive the fresh harvested wheat.  It was summer and we were goofing around waiting for the combine to come with a fresh load of new wheat.  For some reason Santa Claus became the topic.  The bomb dropped and I lost a little bit of childhood magic.  My brother said things like, "come on, sis, how could he be over the whole world on the same night?  How could he come down the chimeny?  Think about it."   I cried.  It was so lovely to believe.   

Faith in God starts out a little bit like faith in Santa Claus.  It's perfect and simple and magic.  At least that was how it was for me.  I was a teenager at a youth rally.  I was called, (at the same time quite remarkably, as my best friend), to the alter.  There, we were anointed with faith and the journey began. 

Since then, and probably even before then, I've never not believed.  I just get so screwed up.  What does this mean?  What does that mean?  Does that mean I have to behave like that?  Faith has really screwed up a lot of people.  Wars and terrible terribles have happened because of Faith.  And, guess what?  It's all been because of faith in God.  Everybody seems to have a different God than I do and everybody seems to understand their God way better than I. 

Sometimes I get this overwhelming peace that "passeth understanding," and I recognize it as God.  But other times, when I really need it.  When I really, really need it.    I get nothing.  Nothing at all.  No peace, no promise, no comfort.  Nothing.  I wait and I listen.   Nothing.  Then I wonder.  Do I really believe?  Am I just an imposter?  Am I just hoping for my stocking to be filled when I already know the truth about Santa Claus?

It's been a long time.  Jed as a quadriplegic.  Many prayers, many anointments, many everythings, trying to get him better, but he's really no better.  He still can't.  I get tired.  Ubaldo gets tired.  But, oh, how Jed must get tired of being who he isn't.   He isn't a man who can't.  He isn't a man who needs to ask.  He isn't a man who cries out in pain.  But right now he is. 

This is the time when we need God.  We need to know God is with us, but sometimes, when it gets especially dark and painful, that's when God seems very far away.  It seems like we're doing this alone and damn it, God.  That just doesn't seem fair. 

So, here we are, him quite well medicated, sleeping soundly, me, pondering the reality of faith while at the same time sipping Brandy and dreaming about slot machines.  I heard a song once that went something like this, "God, I wanna have a beer with you....."  It went on an on about the one day when the singer and God would sit down and have a chat about, "life and the way things are...," but the chat would be with an unjudgemental beer and a friendly exchange.  That's the God I want.  I want God to be my friend.  I want Him to love me in spite of all my weaknesses and doubts.  I want him to be my friend. 

He is.  He is my friend, because even now, as I ponder His nonexistence, drink brandy and dream of slot machines, He comforts me because I need it.  Friends are like that. 

What We Do Matters

Today was a remarkable day. 

Teachers wonder often if what we do makes a difference.  Probably most people do.  Today we got validated.  Both of us, Jed and I. 

Teachers spend their lives opening up to hundreds, if not thousands of children during a long career.  Day after day trying to see into a child and know their needs.  Day after day knowing that with just a little more effort, a little more understanding, a little more patience, a little more encouragement, a little more faith...a child might grasp. 

Through the years the faces and the stories begin to blurr, and then only a few stand out in that weary teacher's mind.  They're remembered because they are remarkable.  My handful of memories are the boys, the ones who didn't fit, the ones who wanted to sing, but were forbidden, the ones who screamed and thrashed in a world only they were in, the ones who loved trains more than lunch.  I tried to make their lives mold.  I tried to mold to them.  I sang with them, and restrained them when the world around them was too ugly.  Never knowing if it mattered. 

But today, one of those boys walked up to me as a man and told me I made a difference.  I hugged him, even though he resisted, and we talked ever so briefly about from whence we've both come and to where we hope to go.  I felt rich.  He left behind a note, "thank you, from the bottom of my heart."  I was validated.  The validating moment was brief, and life went on, but I will always be different because of that visit. 

The work day was over and I came home to our life.  On my desk was a small package from our neice who has recently graduated.  I didn't open it right away, because I was quite sure it would be a picture, and even though I would enjoy that, there seemed no hurry. 

As the day wore on, I opened the letter and package.  My brother's granddaughter, who we have seen only at family reunions, had written a book!  Really, a real book!  Stuff I dream of!  A book.  And she acknowledged her Uncle Jed.  I mean, even her dad or grandparents weren't officially acknowledged, but Jed was.  I cried.  Rachael remembered.  Family reunions would be wrought with many a memory, but Rachael's included Jed's remarkable stories he would tell to the gathered clan.  She remembered his character and gave him printed credit as the. "storyteller."   He too, was validated today. 

What we do does make a difference.  We don't know when, or with who, or even how.  I suppose if we did we'd become terribly hard to live with, but as long as we're doing the stuff that good people do, we will make a difference.  And, if we a lucky, one day, we will learn just what it was. 

Bores and Baptism

Father's day is upon us.  Warm thoughts of daddys are swarming, and neckties are selling at a greater rate than other times of the year.  Giving dad a gift is way harder than giving one to mom.  I mean, who sends flowers or candy to their dad?

 My dad died two years ago.  I wasn't sad that he died.  It was time.  I was washed with joy that he was mine and I was his.  It probably sounds crass, but I don't even miss him.  I don't miss him, because I feel his presence with me every day.  Every day.  Sometimes when I'm planting, or making a decision, or watching a storm or knowing what is right.  Sometimes when I see my messy hair in the mirror or hear a brass band.   Dad is always there, right there beside my mom.  Both of them continue to speak to me and guide me through life. 

Dad grew up with five sisters.  He was the second in line.  Five sisters and his German speaking grandparents on a timber claim in central Nebraska.  The stories are rich and wonderful.  Dad somehow managed to gain the gentle side from all the sisters, but what was required of him was grit, competence and self sustaining fortitude.  He was the only son on a farm that needed men to make it work.  He was the only brother in a world of sisters who needed him to teach them about life. 

So my father grew up a gentle bear, a killer and carer of things and people. 

By the time I came along he had lots of practice.  He had three sons of his own, his own farm, and was still helping out his dad on the "home" farm.  My "dad" memories include frozen winter nights when he would walk into the house with an almost dead calf on his shoulders, the hours of handing him tools while he repaired the tractor, or the wagon rides to the corn fields where we were all given hoes and told to get the weeds and "then we could eat the watermelon."  Thousands of memories which have become my own words and thoughts.  Dad watched storms.  His livelihood depended upon the weather and the decisions he would make related to them.  We would watch them together and he would point out the significance of each cloud and wind.  Now, when weather comes upon us, I feel dad breathing and I see him dancing his grandbabies to sleep.   Each one the most important.  Each the precious gift.   

Dad didn't like church much.  At least that's the message I got as a child.  Mom would say, "daddy is just too busy."  I knew better.  He just didn't like church, but he loved hymns.  Mom would play, and we would all sing.  Dad's eyes would tear up at, "Just A Closer Walk With Thee" and "Amazing Grace."  But he would go to "another place" with, "How Great Thou Art."

But the things church teaches us, like loving your neighbor as yourself, and pretty much all the commandments, except taking the Lord's name in vain, were just naturals to him.  The Lord's name in vain was a tough one, especially while repairing tractors and racing a storm for wet hay.  

Farmers need help sometimes.  Through the years I was protected from the realities of farm reproducing techniques, until one day I asked why Archie was bringing over that very big pig.  I was told some story about how Archie wanted to share his big pig for a while because Archie was nice like that, but the reality was that these two farmers had purchased a male hog, a bore, to share. A little while in Archie's pen, a little while in dad's pen.  Very happy bore.  That's what it was like for Archie and dad.  They shared work loads, they shared the stuff of farming in a way to benefit them both.  They trusted one another and made no big deal about it.  Both were gentle bears.  Both were killers and carers of things and people.  They were each other's other. 

The work never went away.  Farming is like that.  It's always there.  They helped each other through every possible storm a farm could bring a man.  But they both grew old.  And when it was time to resettle to town they found homes across the street from one another.  They continued helped each other colored with a fresh cup of coffee and one another's house each morning.   They were neighbors of the first order.  Storms come in many forms, and the one that almost killed these hearty men, were the storms that took their loves.  First mom and several years later, Betty. 

One day Archie came over for coffee with a serious question on his mind.  Archie had never been a church man either, but he had great concerns.  He wanted to be baptized so that he could, "go where Betty was."  But this gentle bear was afraid.  He just wasn't sure he could do it alone.  He asked my dad to be baptized with him.  Only the two of them know what really went on that day as these two men, who had battled everything life could give them, wondered about their eternity together.  I like to imagine I was there watching the akwardness, and the love, and the reluctance, and the amazing beauty in these men. 

Then, one wonderful day,  two gentle bears, who were killers and carers of things and people, submitted to the unknown and gave in to the magic.  Separately, but together they offered their lives to God.  Does it matter why?  Maybe to support a friend, maybe to guarantee a future with a lost spouse, maybe because it felt right.  Does it matter why?  Not.   

I sang, "How Great Thou Art" at Dad's funeral. That was my gift to him.  No flowers, just a song.    He had already gone to that "other place,"  but I know he was there with me, smiling with open arms for all the grandchildren.

So this Father's day, I think of these amazing men, one my father, one his chosen friend and I thank God for the power they have given me. 

Dad and Archie's story is rich.  Maleness, power, skill, confidence, friendship, practicallity, and acknowledgement of the unknown.  Somewhere, they are together, in some form, spreading  goodness and practicallity to the ones who have arrived.  God brings people together in life and for eternity.  Pay attention to the people He has given you now.  They just might be with you forever. 

Treasures

What makes something a treasure?  Or a better way to ask is, what makes a treasure?  Implying of course that it doesn't need to be a "something."  I live and breathe other people's treasures.  People come in the shop, some walk around sort of creepy, and eventually they ask..."Do you ever see anything, or hear anything around all this old stuff?"  I stare at them like I don't know what there're getting to and they finally say it.  "Like ghosts or spirits or stuff..."  Many of them proceed to tell me that it's a little creepy, but cool, looking at all this stuff that somebody once thought a treasure. 

See, a treasure doen't have to be expensive.  Doesn't have to be pretty, valuable or even be understood by anyone else.  The only thing that a treasure needs to be one, is the ability to touch you, take you somewhere.  That somewhere doesn't always have to been warm and fuzzy.  One of my treasures, is dried roses from my mother's funeral.  Not warm, not fuzzy, just vivid. 

It's hard to hang on to treasures.  We move, we downsize, we clean out.  We can't keep it all.  That's what antique stores are for.  We're just full of all the treasures that somebody couldn't keep.  I'm rather pragmatic so I don't get all sappy about stuff coming into the store that looks rich in memory.  I feel rather honored.  Honored that I can be the keeper of the treasure until someone walks in, is stricken by  memory or hope and takes a much loved treasure home. 

I love the story of the stuff.  Sometimes when I don't know the story, I make one up.  Recently a bonnet was passed from one treasure keeper to another.  The new owner and I made up the young woman who wore it, made it, crossed the prairie with it, carried her children wearing it, probably even burried one with it neatly bound to her head.  We loved the story we created and became in love with the woman who wore it. Treasures have a way of touching you to others.  That's probably what  the people who ask about ghosts are feeling.  They too love the story, they just don't know they can make them up. 

The Bible has lots to say about treasure.  Bottom line is, don't hang on to any of it too tightly, because you want to keep your heart open for the Great Treasure that lies ahead.  Treasure the love that a thing brings, treasure the friend that it reminds you of, treasure the memory and then make up a story.  I treasure being the keeper of other people's treasures, and sometimes I fantasize that people who have passed are happy knowing their special treasure is being temporarily cared for by me until it's new owner passes by and feels the calling to come in. 

Tea and Memeories

My daughter recently said to me, "I don't know what I would do if I couldn't drink my tea!"  She really loves her tea.  Just any ole tea won't do.  Has to be special leaves, special brews, soy with raw honey, green tea.  She drinks it hot, cold, and all day long.  Sometimes those who love her have to wait.  We wait while she fixes or finds the perfect tea. 

I have lots of tea memeories.  Iced tea was and absolute in the summer on the farm.  Iced tea and Kool Aid.  No sugar in the iced tea.  Salt on the watermelon, but no sugar in the iced tea.  Now in the winter, lots of sugar in the hot tea.  Those were just the tea rules.  We didn't have fancy stuff, but I remember when mom first brought home Lipton tea bags.  We thought we had gotten real modern. 

In the summer, during my childhood, most nights, we had dinner out on the front yard.  The colorful aluminum pitcher was always full of iced tea. And we all had our special color aluminum glass from the set.  We would take the food out to the picnic table and enjoy the summer nights. The farmwork was done for the day.  Hay and been mown, or corn picked.  It smelled like a job well done.   It's a bit of a stretch to say that we had dinner together, because my brothers and I were almost immediately up in the big cottonwood tree, swinging on ropes high enough to kill us quick if we had fallen, and grabbing a bite to eat with each swoop from the top.  My parents sat on the big white wooden chairs looking proud and amazingly enough not yelling things like, "be careful," "don't go too high," or any of the many warnings a parent would surely be thinking.  I've wondered how they kept their restraint.  "Me Tarzan, You Jane" was the game of summer choice.  Funny how thinking about iced tea can bring out those memories. 

I don't drink much tea.  My drink of choice is coffee or water.  But, I'm starting to get into it.  Watching my daughter's delight when it's the perfect brew and hearing her talk of the health benefits in her green tea mixture.  I'm starting to get it.  Part of the joy of a perfect brew is just taking time to enjoy it.  Sipping it slowly, talking about how wonderful it is, breathing in the warm air it creates and letting the body slip, every so slowly, into another moment, maybe a memory, maybe a dream, but a moment that can be savored, if only briefly.  No wonder my daughter just can't imagine a day without her tea.