The Report

I speak my friend’s email report aloud this evening, a tough sentence. Cancer. Surgery. Aggressive chemo.  Nausea.  Debilitating fatigue.   Mouth ulcers. 

 “You could fall to despair pretty quick in those shoes,” my husband says.

His invisible words hang in the air, dangling as if splashed across the front of a huge, imaginary supermarket tabloid.  They summon a response from me, and yet I am tongue-tied.  

He’s right, I tell myself.  I watched my childhood best friend fight a similar verdict for two years.  She suffered.  I helplessly watched her suffer.  It was hard to say good-bye.

His words.  They fill the room now. This is too much.  Too binding. Lord, have mercy! 

Another reality enters boldly - filling space, swelling like an emergency airbag expanding in a car.  The words surrender to it: HOPE.  I cling to it, to the Author of it.  We will persevere, we will not lose hope.

Hoeing Snow

Today I guess you could say we addressed a lofty, elevated situation. Not in the sense of being intellectually important, but rather tangibly high and critical, as in…an issue with our roof.

Twelve to eighteen inches of snow had settled in up there (think: packed), and rain is in the forecast for Thursday.  Consider the implications.  Rain soaking into snow = massive weight.  Several residential roofs in our general area have already collapsed recently because of snow poundage, without the added stress of additional load from rain.  Our roof is low-pitched and not particularly well supported.  We decided this afternoon we didn’t want to become the next cave-in statistic, so preventative measures needed to be taken.

Thankfully, our local son volunteered to come over and shed the roof of its white blanket. He dug from the ridge (peak of the roof) down as far down as he could reach with a shovel, while his dad scraped from below with our neighbor’s long-handled tool (think: hoe with a forty foot handle).  I wondered about the exertion levels involved, but decided to keep my girly opinions to myself. This was manly rescue work; I didn’t dare go out there with a finger-wagging womanly scowl.  Between them, the snow is now OFF the roof, and I am breathing a sigh of relief.

Afterwards, they took a short ice hike on the lake with our grandson, age nine.  I watched these ant-like figures from my vantage point inside the house, three generations of men I love striking out to conquer the desolate lake against the backdrop of a beautiful sunset, a rosy fire pit in the sky.

Heart Newsreel

Today we met a new physician on my husband’s growing heart failure team.  She oversees the cardiac rehabilitation program, working with the four nurses who monitor him during his treadmill sessions.

“You shouldn’t be doing so well, according to your earlier charts,” she told him, wide-eyed and incredulous as we entered the office.  “I couldn’t have expected you’d progress like this!”  

Really?  We didn’t know!

The visit was a breath of fresh air blown right smack dab into some serious business. We spoke with her for almost forty-five minutes, and were grateful she addressed aspects of his ongoing journey that had not yet been brought to light.

She optimistically touched on futuristic goals he’d assumed were gone forever: golf and water skiing.  If eyes are indeed the window of the soul, then I could see light shining down somewhere in my husband’s heart, pouring out like reflected sunlight and spilling into the room.  He was delighted to know she thought it not unrealistic to hope, and even plan, for such activities.

“You must learn to listen to your body, though.  "Your body will tell you when something is wrong.”  Throughout our discussion she repeated this at least half a dozen times, nose-to-nose and eye-to-eye like an old-fashioned schoolmarm driving home a lesson with a switch behind her back.  “Pay attention,” she told him.  “If you’re even slightly short-of-breath, your body is telling you to stop what you’re doing.  And you should let your cardiologist know.”  She looked right through him.  “You’ve got to pay attention.”

She also praised him, and applauded his disciplined approach to drug therapies and an almost-squeaky-clean diet.  “Your lifestyle is definitely helping, probably a lot,” she said. When we brought up concern over exercising regularly after cardiac rehab ends in April, she gestured emphatically and laughed.  “Whoever can go gluten-free, dairy-free, and sugar-free can surely get in some exercise somehow!”

At her suggestion, we will be purchasing a pulse oximeter (the little thing like a chip-bag-clip that pinches the tip of your finger to read oxygen levels) and a medical alert bracelet (a bracelet holding a tiny copy of his current medical records that can stay on his person at all times and be helpful in the case of an emergency). 

We were renewed and re-motivated by this appointment, ready to continue on doing our best. To celebrate, this afternoon I tried a new alternative cookie recipe and added it to our growing repertoire, a heart-happy, chocolate chip cookie made with almond flour, stevia, and ground bits of raw, unprocessed cocoa beans (cocoa nibs).  They’re not clones of the infamous Toll House cookies, but who needs those anyway?  Toll House cookies go down smooth, but they’re addictive; we eat too many and then feel sick and grumpy.  (Be honest now.  Isn't that the truth?)  The cookies I made today are soft, protein-and-antioxidant-packed, low-carb, and tasty in their own right.  They’re real food without so much addictive draw, but gorging on them (it’s always a possibility when they’re so delicious, right?) would be a lot more user-friendly than glutting on Toll House cookies.

While I’m on the topic of dessert, and who doesn’t like the topic of dessert, here’s more! Yesterday the heart patient complained that he oh-so-desperately craved just one measly slice of the big chocolate cake I made for our grandson’s Scout auction (see blog for 2-15 for a picture).  As the highest bidder, he purchased it for $50 and then gave it to the Scout and his family with his saliva flowing, tastebuds screaming, resolve wavering. 

After this noble act, I rewarded him by baking an allowed chocolate cake (almond flour and stevia again) lavished with a thick slab of alternative chocolate frosting made with raw cashews, coconut oil, dates, and cocoa.  It was incredible.  Something off the front cover of Southern Living or Taste of Home with taste-appeal that could equal that of recipes in the cookbook entitled, Death by Chocolate.  It was that good.

Touching Yarn Together

In mid-December I blogged about Lily, an organization inviting women around the globe to donate hand knitted or crocheted squares to be made into afghans for desperate Syrian refugee children. Amazingly, there is no overhead involved in operating Lily.  Volunteers on site in Turkey and Jordan assemble the squares and complete the finish work. Every bit of material and labor is freely gifted!

The women of our church participated in Lily as an Advent outreach project.  Because some of our ladies requested more time, we extended the cut-off to Valentine’s Day.  According to today’s count, we corporately fashioned 140+ squares that now await shipment.  These will be added to the 21,000+ that have been received to date by the main office in Turkey, or the collaborating branch in Jordan. 

Here’s the part of this project that gets me.  While it’s wonderful to monetarily support efforts to help needy people in any or all parts of the world (my husband and I donate to an organization that purchases a meal a day and provides schooling for a beautiful but impoverished young girl in India), most of us don’t have the joy of personal involvement - offering rice hand-to-hand to a hungry child, for example.  Connecting physically.  Binding relationally. In the case of Lily, however, we have crafted things with our own hands that will touch these children.  It seems a way to reach out in a more personal way. 

As I survey the stacks of squares, I see not only yarn, but also time and attention donated by each woman who participated.  These blessings will tangibly travel overseas and carry the love of women who wish they could do more, but are grateful to have at least touched the same strands that will be touched by a grateful child.

Lily web site: http://love-in-the-language-of-yarn.blogspot.com

Lily Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/LilyLoveInTheLanguageOfYarn

A Good Day

Tomorrow our grandson’s Cub Scout troop will sponsor a cake auction as a fund-raiser, and his mother will celebrate her forty-fourth birthday.  So today I baked.  Chocolate cake.  Lots of it.

My kitchen was already plenty busy, so adding the cake projects jacked up the pan-banging and general mayhem (I’m a messy cook, but redeem myself with speed). While the cakes were in the oven, I chopped everything fresh I could find in the vegetable drawer (well, almost everything, I skipped the fresh ginger root) and prepared a huge pot of vegetable soup to have on hand next week for quick lunches.  While the cakes cooled, I mixed up both gluten-free muffins and biscuits, and made chocolate buttercreme frosting for the cakes.  Lots of it. 

For the record, I didn’t snitch even one fingerful of frosting.  Not one.

In-between all of this I prepared the various components of our lovely Valentine dinner (yes, I know it’s a day late). At 7:00 we enjoyed dinner over candlelight with wine and soft music – an interlude from all the food prepping.  Then it was hi-ho, hi-ho, back to work I go to finish decorating cakes.

It’s now 9:30.  All of my projects are finished, including two cakes (one giant 12”, one 6”) and a platter of cupcakes.  The dishes are washed and put away. 

The red candle continues to burn in the center of the table. Piano music plays on. The house smells like, well, my old bakery.  My legs have turned to jello.  The back of my neck has that familiar crimp (think clothespins pinching from shoulder to shoulder) that I used to get when decorating cakes – a strange bit of nostalgia.

This morning’s devotional reading said, “Give yourself fully to the adventure of today.”  My kitchen adventures took all I had to give, and I gave it.  This was a good day.  A very good day.

Valentine Fancy Day

Today I simultaneously celebrated a traditional celebration and special event: Valentine’s Day and Fancy Day.  Valentine’s Day is special in itself, a day to express love and be loved with red hearts and flowers and words that sometimes forget to be said otherwise. But today my granddaughter and I also took off on a Fancy Day field trip to The City, eager to see the big wide world through 5-year-old eyes.  Our goal was to spend time together, but also to celebrate her family through the process of making special handmade Valentine cards.

First we ran an errand for her mother and purchased a few practical things, and one not-so-practical-but-cute night lite, at the “baby store” (Babies ‘R Us) for her one-month-old sister.  She oohed and aahed throughout the store, gasping with delight at every turn, coveting this tiny hat and the other ruffly dress and oh, those sparkly silver shoes!

After checking out, we drove down the street and scoured the “craft store” (Hobby Lobby), canvassing the aisles in pursuit of materials to make Valentine cards for each member of her family.  We investigated a few other interesting things while there, including pastels (could she draw with some, please?), sparkly beads (could she string some, please), and feathery masks and headbands (could she wear some – yes!).

Finally we drove to the “snack store” (Panera Bread) where we spent the next two hours.  She selected a carrot cupcake from the case and a carton of milk for a snack, and I ordered hot herbal tea.  We found a private corner booth, separated from the bulk of the store’s patronage, where we might get crafty without bothering others.  I explained how this was a public place, not our place, and how we needed to treat it with respect and keep our mess contained and cleaned up as we worked.  It was a teachable moment, and she rose to meet my expectations without complaint, but rather understanding and due regard.

Soon after we settled in, she devoured the buttercreme frosting from the top of her cupcake - but the fun had only begun.  There was a bonus: crème cheese filling!  WOW!  She scooped it out daintily with the end of a knife, quarter-teaspoonfuls at a time: uninhibited refinery.

With the mangled cupcake pushed to one side, she laid out papers, stickers, scissors, and sparkly plastic gems.  Then she patiently fashioned six Valentines, styling each one from our newly-selected papers (she’d purchased a different color for each person: her mother, father, two brothers, and two sisters). The project required unique customization, and she rose to the challenge eagerly, with an artist’s flair for design and color.  Each card sent an unspoken, unwritten message by virtue of her artwork.

A pleasant-looking woman about my age sat nearby eating soup and salad.  She congenially struck up a conversation as if she already belonged to our get-together, and I encouraged her kind involvement.  We learned she was a preschool teacher who simply couldn’t retire because, “The kids are so precious, and they need guidance more now than ever.” She saw right through my little granddaughter who loves elegance, and gave her a knowing wink.  “I can tell you’re a sparkly girl,” she said with surprising accuracy.  She offered to take a picture of us for posterity: the old and the young, both young-at-hearts, making hearts together.

Impatiens Centenarian

A plant flourishing by my picture window should have died long ago. When I purchased it at a greenhouse last spring, I couldn't know it had such ability to live long and live well.  But given plenty of TLC, water, and afternoon sunlight, it continues to thrive.

Typically impatiens, outdoor seasonal plants, bow out by the end of the summer.  Their annual performance ends when dark green leaves fade to anemic yellow and fall to the ground.  Flowers also wane and eventually disappear. As the defrocking continues, stalks eventually stand barren and spindly like the bony skeletons of old people whose flesh has also dropped away. The plants look sick and tired.  Old, used up.  It is not hard to release them, to say goodbye.

This particular plant hung in a basket at the edge of the house all summer, repeatedly wilting and reviving with the rhythm of my inconsistent watering.  As my care grew even more intermittent in September, it lacked the usual signs of aging displayed by my other impatiens. Eventually I rescued this hardy fellow from October’s impending frost and brought it inside.  Still, I expected it to die, just perhaps a little slower than the others.

In its new spot by the picture window, it continued to sporadically throw off half-a-dozen or so blooms at just the right times. It celebrated Christmas with us – new red blooms burst open just before December 25th.  After a season of rest, one striking red blossom fully opened today to usher in Valentine’s Day, with several more buds progressing toward that end.

It seems to have a voice, this plant.  I never expected it to last this long, but it persists with the insistence of a human centenarian.  If it could speak it might say, “I am what I am, and do what I do, without apology or explanation. I simply live the life I’ve been given, and if you think you see me accomplishing good in timely and atypical ways, it is only by reflecting the Giver of life.”

* * *

“We were made for good works to the glory and praise of our Maker, and to imitate God as far as might be.” – St. Gregory the Theologian (329-391 A.D. - intellectual theologian and eloquent writer who studied in Caesarea of Palestine, Alexandria, and Athens)