Delaware Grammy

We are home from a wonderful family vacation in West Virginia.  It was just the best time ever!

I came  home to the flowers blooming, and so many vivid colors.

 

 

The roses are phenomenal!  Daniel weathered two climbing Joseph’s Coats over the winter in containers.  They are in almost total shade but are blooming their hearts out.  A friend of his from work gave him three climbers from her late mother’s garden.  They are blooming, too, and are covered with buds.  I want to train them through the railing that is around the north side deck.  

Some of you know that Daniel is partial to peonies.  We have light pink that are like a single flower, and then deep red and white that are gorgeous double flowers. The deep red are not out yet, but the white and the light pink are.  I picked a bouquet of those for the dining room table.

 

 Their fragrance reminds me of a very old story.  I decided to repost it here for what it is worth.

Springtime Musings, 1992

Her Daddy loves growing things.  Along our walk and and lane and hither and yon, he has planted peonies.  They grow on his mother’s grave and he loves their lavish colors and extravagant fragrance.

She is our youngest;  twenty months of energy, smiles and personality.  Like her daddy, she loves growing things.  She has just discovered that peonies have flowers and flowers have smell.  I am working in the flower bed beside the house tonight, and she is fighting a losing battle with wanting to pick the posies.

The buds are nearly ready to burst.  The plants are loaded.  “One flower more or less won’t matter,”  I tell myself as her little fingers begin to dismantle a bud.  She works industriously to free some petals and beaming, toddles over to me.  Proudly, she shows me her handful of crumpled flower petals, smells them with long, effusive breaths and then holds them up for me to smell.

At first, I smell but sweaty baby hand, but then the haunting, lingering smell of spring peonies comes bravely through.

I watch her glowing face, think of our delight in this child and think of my own Heavenly Father.  Far better than I is He at seeing the beauty and smelling the fragrance in the broken petals that I bring to Him.  Some of it has been done in innocence, as my toddler’s joyous enjoyment of life reminds me.

But some of it has not been so innocent or carefree.  Yet still, this Father of love can take what has been lost beyond repair and accept what brokenness I offer Him, and loves me and gives me hope.  His love for me transforms something totally worthless and ruined into a thing of great treasure.

 

It was true twenty-one years ago.  It is true now.
My heart gives grateful praise.

 

 

I remember the Mother’s Days all those many years ago.  The years when I lost our first baby, then our second, then our third. (13 years later, a fourth.) I remember how, when they were giving out some memento to the mothers of the congregation during one of the early years after we had lost our babies, when we were foster parents but not adoptive parents yet, that there was some question as to whether or not it was okay for me to get one.  I remember not even thinking about whether I got one or not.  I got in line and went right on up there and got it.  I was a Mama to (I think) three little ones at the time, had been a foster parent for over two years and it never occurred to me that some of the people maybe thought it wasn’t quite right somehow.

A little old lady came up to me after the service.  “Did you go and get one, too?” she queried.  “Because you should.  I think you are just as much a mother as anyone else!”

It was the first I had even thought that maybe some of the people in our congregation didn’t really consider me a mother.  But when there was some discussion about whether there would “be enough to go around if she took one,” I felt suddenly insecure about my status.

What is it that makes a woman a mother?  I was a foster parent to over twenty children, adoptive mother of one when I gave birth to Deborah.  “Well,” said another old crone at our church some months later, “I guess you are finding out that there is a whole lot more to babies than ribbons and bows!”  This was another older lady that had always been kind and supportive of me, and my astonishment must have showed on my face, because she quickly said, “Oh, well.  I guess you did already know that!”

I guess I did.  And I would like to venture that maybe I knew even more the cost of motherhood than some of my peers.  Even without the physical giving of birth (And YES!  That is a very REAL experience of mothering that I in no way want to detract from!) mothering is a whole lot more than ribbons and bows.  I remember that one of my friends from Community Bible Study years ago said that over the doors of the delivery room in the hospital where she gave birth was this adage:  “All who enter here leave self behind.”  I remember thinking, as a young mom, how wonderful it would be if that was an automatic transformation.  That somehow, passing through the doors of a delivery room would make an unselfish mother of all females giving birth.  

When I say that I felt that I knew the cost of motherhood more keenly than some of my peers, I am not bragging.  It’s just that I knew loss — as two babies died in early pregnancy and then our little boy died mid-term.  Well meaning people said things like, “You are young.  You can have another one.” (This was especially difficult after the doctor told us that my chances of carrying a pregnancy were about 1 in 20)  Or the one that made me go home and weep quietly into my pillow;  “It was probably a blessing.  There must have been something wrong with it.”  (Believe me, you learn not to say or do the first thing that comes into your head in response to this sort of thing.  And people really do mean well.  They just don’t think!)

Also, speaking of loss, we had foster babies that we loved for long periods of time — two in particular that came to us, one at eight months, one at 11 weeks, that we had for almost two years before they went on to adoptive homes.  “Well, you knew all along that you might not keep them,”  people would say, like that somehow made it easier for us to give them up.  What do you say to something like that?  The grief of knowing that a child you loved so intently was somewhere living, laughing, growing up and you had no say, no input into their lives, no contact, no pictures, no anything was sometimes beyond what I could bear.  But there was no one to tell, no one whom I felt I could be honest about how raw the feelings were.  

I remember going into the room where our toddler had slept to strip the bed after he left.  I tugged the corner free, and as the sheet and mattress pad came loose, the smell of Joseph came faintly up.  At first, I felt paralyzed, then I pulled the other corners free almost in a frenzy and buried my face in the smell of his now gone little person and muffled the screams and tears until I was spent.  Then plunked those tear stained sheets and mattress pad into the washer and washed it all away.  Sometimes it feels like I wrapped that grief up somewhere inside, too.  I knew it was real.  I never denied it, never pretended that I didn’t feel it.  But it was very, very private, something I felt that no one would really understand. I would have to say that it was in those days that I truly discovered that I had a Heavenly Father who loved me, carried me, and would walk with me even when I was misunderstood, or people were uncomfortable with my grief or felt that I shouldn’t feel it somehow — at least not so acutely.  And Jesus never failed me.  Never turned aside from the incredible avalanche of emotions that I dumped on Him.

Another lesson I learned from those days was that I would never, never, never take the time I had with a child for granted.  “How long are you going to have him?” asked one couple when we brought our first foster child to a church gathering.  I looked at Daniel.  He looked at me.  “We don’t know,” he said quietly, “it all depends.”  In my heart, I was screaming, “How long are you going to have your child?  How can any of us be promised tomorrow?”  And I was so defensive and angry inside.  The years have passed, and I have to own the fact that it ISN’T the same.  There is a whole lot more uncertainty with the future of a foster child than there is with a biological or adopted child.  

Except for one thing:  Our times are in HIS hands.  And there came a day when all of this settled into a kind of peace for me.  I choose to believe that the times of our foster children, the times of our four babies that never breathed, the times of the wonderful five young adults who call me “Mama” or “Momma” or “Mom” or even just “Hey!” are all in HIS hands and this day and every day heretofore and every day future is a gift that makes me a mother.

My heart gives grateful praise.

 

I saw the neurologist yesterday.  It was to scope out the results of that fateful MRI of last week.   

“All normal!” He announced in his heavy accent.  He tries very hard to be specific and it isn’t too hard to understand him.  (I just can’t understand, though, why the “BEST” Neurologists are these dark, scholarly looking Jordanians or even “Persian” — that really got me, when a new doctor in one of the towns I lived was introduced as “Persian.”  The early 1980’s were not a time to be from Iran.  And so, he conveniently came from Persia, established his practice, and eventually dropped out of sight.  I wonder what happened to him . . .)

But I digress.

After looking at the report, and then relooking at the MRI on the screen in front of him, Dr. Kofahi determined that it wasn’t actually my MRI in front of him, so he cast about in the bowels of the computer until he found what he wanted and quickly flickered through the files.

“H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m . . . ”  He looked thoughtful, relooked, flashing through the thousand images in a split second.  I looked at the record that was my brain and wondered what in the world he could see.  It all looked sinister and creepy to me.  Some of the images showed my skull.  That was really freaky, looking at how my skull would look without my skin on.  Yikes!  But it is comforting to know that under the skin, there is commonality.  I mean, the man had someone else’s MRI up there and didn’t even know until he read the report and realized that what he was seeing wasn’t what was in the report.

“You have a cyst,” he said, “right in the middle of your brain.  It is common for people to have this.  You’ve probably had it since you were born.  It is of no consequence.  It wouldn’t be making your facial problems.”  He kept looking and looking and suddenly said to the nurse, “Is Dr. Davé here?  Did he read this MRI? I am going to go get him.”  And he disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with the other neurologist.

They brought up the MRI and discussed it and I heard things like “empty cellar” and “sagging lower lobe” and other unflattering descriptions of things that caused me increasing alarm.  Then Dr. Davé left and Dr. Kofahi began a battery of questions.

“Do you have headache?”  (No.)  “Do you have pressure in your head when coughing or straining or bending over?”  (No.)  “Do you have difficulty swallowing?”  (No.)  “Do you have episodes of fainting or dizziness?”  (No.)  “Do you have changes in your vision or difficulty seeing?”  (No.)  “H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m.  None of these?”  (No.)   Then he shined a light in my eyes while his nurse tried to keep my attention on a far wall with various tactics.  He took so long that she couldn’t hold her arm up any longer and finally taped a picture on the wall.  But he couldn’t find any evidence of what he was looking for in the back of my eyes.

He concluded anyhow that the (very slightly) sagging lower lobe of my brain (!!!) must be pressing against that nerve and causing the problem.  And that there was nothing he could do about it since it wasn’t serious enough for surgery and that he was going to treat it symptomatically for now and recheck in a month, repeat the MRI in three months and sent me home.

And so, when people ask me what I found out, I really don’t know what to say.  I can’t remember the terminology for what this ailment is.  I’m a bit amused by this diagnosis.  I mean, there’s a LOT of things sagging on me these days, why wouldn’t my brain?  I’m a bit aggravated by it all, because it feels more like an “Aha!!!  This is what it must be since I can’t find anything else, and maybe she will go away and it will get better on its own and I hope it does because I really have no idea what is going on here” kind of diagnosis.  That isn’t very nice of me, because he has a reputation as a great neurologist.  

I just don’t know what that business is about an empty cellar in the middle of my head, and it isn’t nice to say someone’s brain is sagging.  But the most overriding opinion that it isn’t life threatening or terribly serious.  Inconvenient?  Yes.  Uncomfortable?  Yes.  Make me want to cry from the weariness of it all?  Yes. 

But today, Certain Man and I made a joyous trip to Jeff’s Greenhouses in Bethel, Delaware, and had a wonderful time choosing some beautiful plants for the plant hangers in our pavilion, and bought a few incidental for my front barrel.  Spring has come to Shady Acres, and I think I can be distracted from this strange feeling in my face that makes me feel like “Old Lady Half-face” enough to get some planting done.

There are so many wonderful things right now to celebrate.  Some are not mine to share; most are just the everyday glory of living.

Like a springy, small bouquet on a kitchen window sill:

 

 

Cheery flowers at the front door:

A pretty hanging bag beside the garage door:

 

A wren house that was a gift from Youngest Son and his Girl With a Beautiful Heart
that Certain Man placed at the top of this hanging bag to discourage the resident wren
from appropriating the new flowering bag for her nest again this year.

 

And the pretty New Guinea Impatiens in the pavilion:

 

So much to celebrate . . .  

My heart gives grateful praise.

 

This morning I went for my MRI.  The scheduling had been carefully done because of Daniel needing to go to to Physical Therapy while I was getting the MRI.  I asked how long it took to get an MRI of the brain, and had been cheerfully informed that it wouldn’t take more than 20 minutes, half an hour at most.  So, after double checking on all the issues (what about hair pins, is there any dietary considerations, can I drive myself, did the authorization come through, and again, how long should it take?) it seemed like everything was in order.

I dropped Daniel at Southern Delaware Physical Therapy Group and went about three doors down to the CNMRI office that is on the same street.  When I walked in the door at 10:30, I was so pleased to have made it exactly when they told me to be there.  I know the gals at the desk in this establishment, because one of my Sweet Mama’s doctors shares the building.  I told them that I needed to pick up my husband in an hour, and signed in and began to wait.

And proceeded to wait and wait and wait.  I had been told that I had been allotted the half hour increment between 10:30 and 11:00, so I began to be increasingly concerned as the minutes passed and no one called me.  I am often amazed at the way God works in our lives at times like this.  He provided a most unattractively vocal woman who was waiting on a ride who was cussing and calling the ride provider and in general being obnoxious.  People like this tend to make me want to wait peacefully and quietly and make me want to smile sweetly (even though I may be clenching my teeth behind the grimace.)  And so, I sat and tried not to be irritated and tired to engage her in conversation about her life and to listen sympathetically to her complaints about life and non-husband father of her 15 year old daughter, and why didn’t that ride come, and on and on.  

Along about eleven o’clock, when I was supposed to be finishing the test, I decided to check on what was going on.  Daniel was going to be done in another half hour and, at least at this rate, no one was going to be there to pick him up.  I sidled up to the window and peered across the divide.  The receptionist looked up from her work, surprised.

“I’m sorry,” I began, “But I’m just wondering.  Are you running behind on your MRI’s this morning?”

She looked at me, dumbfounded.  “You haven’t been called back?  What time was your appointment?”

“10:30,” I said.  “And I’m beginning to wonder if I am going to be done before I need to pick up my husband.”

She went into her computer screen and I saw a shadow cross her face.  “It says here that you are finished,” she said.  “You’ve been signed out as all done.”

“But I haven’t even gone back,” I protested.  “No one ever called me!”

“I don’t know,” she said, again, guardedly, “We will have to find out what is going on.”

I went back and sat in my chair and waited again.

After about 15 more minutes, I went back again.  “Can you tell me anything?” I asked.  “Do you know what is going on?

“No,” she said, somewhat busy with something or other.  “We still do not know anything.”

“Do you think that I should call someone to pick up my husband?” I asked. “He’s going to be done really soon, and I don’t want him to have to wait around after physical therapy because I don’t know how much pain he is going to have.”

She looked up briefly and said, quite emphatically, “You need to call someone to get him because we don’t know what is going on!”

And so, I got off and called Middle Daughter.  She wasn’t dressed or combed yet.  She had worked all night and was not her lucid self.  So I called Oldest Daughter, who carefully and cheerfully put everything on hold  and went and fetched her Daddy from PT and deposited him safely home.

By now it was 11:30, and I was increasingly upset.  I went back to the window and said, “I’m getting irritated!”

The one receptionist at this office is a “cackler!”  She has the most obnoxious voice — to the point that both Sweet Mama and I make comment betweenst ourselves at almost every visit.  Often she uses it to snort off laughter or exclamations.  It comes across raucous in conversation.  But it’s all she has, at least I guess so, so I try not to be too affronted by it.

She looked up again from her computer.  “I don’t blame you,” she squawked.  “I’d be irritated, too!”

“What is going on?”  I asked.  “Can you tell me anything?”

“Something got mixed up,” she said.  “We’re trying to figure it out.”  And then went back to her task.  I went to the ladies’ room, and then sat briefly back in the waiting room.  Away from the other disgruntled waiting person.  But then I decided that an hour was long enough to wait without any answers. So I got up again and went to the window.

“I’m sorry,” I said, with a little heat in my voice.  “But I’m not leaving this window until someone tells me what is going on.  If I could have an explanation, a time frame or something!  But I feel like I need to know something.  I am going to stand right here until someone tells me something.”

Things started to happen then.  A nurse from another section went and peered into the MRI room, and it was empty.  No one was there.  She said, “I’m going to go look for (the receptionist from that side).”  I noticed then that the second receptionist (not the squawky one) was missing.  I had assumed that maybe she had gone out for a smoke break, but she suddenly came around the corner and down the hall and sat down at the desk.  She looked up at me and her eyes were begging.

“I’m here,” I felt the need to re-announce, “and I’m not leaving my perch until someone gives me some answers.”

She had a long string of checkouts waiting at her side desk, and she looked sympathetically at me, and lowered her voice.

“Mrs. Yutzy,” she said, “I am SO sorry.  There has been a big mistake.  You were checked out as done, and our technician saw that she had no more patients until 12:30 and she left.  We’ve gotten ahold of her and she is coming back to do your MRI.  I spoke to her about 5 minutes ago and she said she would be here in 15.  So she should be here in 10.  I am so sorry.  I don’t know how this happened.  We didn’t check you out here, so she must have accidentally checked you out back there, but we don’t know.  I’m so sorry.”

So I sat back down again.  I was so incredibly frustrated.  My face was aching, and it just seemed so “wrong.”  I started to cry. The tears slid out of my numb eye and my numb right nostril started to run.  I thought briefly how I wished that I could be pretty when I cried.  And I thought about how stupid it was of me to be so upset.  And then I thought about the fact that I was on prednisone and probably couldn’t help it, and then I started to think about what God thought about His Daughter, and about how there are words that I live by and they weren’t doing me much practical good in this moment of need.

And suddenly, I felt like God was saying to me, “Mary Ann.  Hold on.  This story isn’t finished yet.  This won’t be wasted if you just trust me.”

Now if you think that this is my first reaction, or if you think this was easy for me, you can think again.  I heard someone address my neurologist somewhere in the labyrinth of the office and I even thought briefly of going and complaining to him about the mismanagement going on in his office.  But I again felt that I was to restrain my tongue — yes, but even more that I was to restrain my heart.

So I finished out those minutes by praying hard for a work of grace in my heart.  I prayed that I would not do or say anything that would discredit the Lord Jesus.

And then the door opened, and there was this fragile gal, probably in her late forties, and she looked like she had been crying, too.  She was talking to the receptionists as she called my name.

“Mary Ann — ” she didn’t look at me.  “– I did my last patient, and then I didn’t have any more scheduled until 12:30,” she was saying, with more than a little frustration.  “I didn’t know that I had another patient.  They were all signed out.”

I followed her back to the room, and she was clearly agitated.  “I just don’t understand what happened!”

“I don’t understand it, either,” I said.  “I was scheduled for 10:30 and that was when I got here.  When I checked at 11 why they weren’t taking me, they said that I was already checked out, that I was marked as finished.”

“I don’t know what happened,” she said again.  

“Don’t worry about it, girlie,” I said.  “Mistakes can happen so quickly.  It will be alright.”

Then, with tears gathering in the corners of her eyes she said that she had a family problem and it had upset her.

“. . . and it felt like a good chance to run home and check on it, didn’t it?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.  “I felt like I had to check things out.”  And then she told me about her hurt in the situation without being too specific, and finished explaining the procedure to me while she strapped me in and down and got everything ready.  My heart began to ache for her.  She was clearly fighting tears, and she was feeling so confused about what had happened.  

The first part of the MRI was over before I knew it.  She was suddenly standing by my side, her gentle hands starting the IV and caressing my hand.  

Then she said, “I just want to tell you how sorry I am.  We did a clerical audit and discovered that it was my mistake this morning.  Instead of checking out my patient just before you, I checked you out instead.  I am just so sorry.  It was my mistake.”

I had just spent some time praying for this gal while I was in the MRI machine, and suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore.

“It’s okay, girlie,” I said.  “I have found that when things like this happen that are out of my control that seem to complicate my life, that God has a reason.  It isn’t by accident, and I believe this was somehow meant to be.”

She thanked me, but then was quiet.  The MRI finished, and she helped me off the table.  We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I told her that I hoped that her day would go better.  I could tell that she was still fighting those tears and on impulse, I asked her, “Do you believe in the power of prayer?”

“Oh, yes!” she breathed.  “I do, I do!”

“Would you mind if I prayed for you?”  I asked.

She turned and shut the door leading out into the hall.  “I would love for you to pray for me,” she said.  “Please.”

She came over to where I was standing, and came into my arms and melted against my chest.  She felt so vulnerable and broken.

And so, I prayed.  I prayed for her broken heart.  I prayed for repentance on the part of her family member.  I prayed for forgiveness and restoration and peace.  I prayed that the rest of this day would be so touched with Grace that she could not miss it.  And I whispered a quiet heart prayer of thankfulness to my Heavenly Father that He had not allowed me to miss these Holy Moments in an MRI room of a doctor’s office.

Strange how the Holy can transform the irritating into glory.

My heart gives grateful praise.

 

 

 

It’s been a good day at Shady Acres.  The taxes, though late, are finally done and to the accountant.  

It rained most of the day.  Tonight, I wanted to go out and see if there was any asparagus for the taking.  The row was so weedy.  I decided that it would be good therapy for me to try to at least get the weeds away from the few brave shoots of asparagus.

I don’t think that weeds and grass would really stop asparagus from growing, though.  I remember seeing it grow wild along the ditch banks of Delaware when I was a little girl.  If you got to the right place, you could harvest enough for supper along the road.  But I was having difficulty finding mine among the weeds, and Certain Man, usually the best weeder ever, just isn’t up to it.  Yet.

The cows, in the field beside the garden, caught sight of me weeding away, and trekked over to see what was going on.

They happily chomped on the chickweed I threw over the fence, and fought over the lonely thistle that I found growing, green and still tender.  Then suddenly,:

“Mo-o-o-o-o-o!   Mo-o-o-o-o–o-o!!!”  There was a great commotion from the six steers in the pasture.  I couldn’t figure out what was going on, until I looked across the yard towards the chicken house lane, and here came Friend Gary in his old blue truck.  

It doesn’t hold much for looks for me, but the cows sure thought it was beautiful.  It meant supper was coming!  They abandoned me and the tender chickweed, and headed for the barn for supper.  Gary has been filling in with the chores at Shady Acres the last few weeks.  My heart goes out to him.  His back hurts, his legs hurt, he doesn’t know if he can hardly make it.  But the chickens go out tomorrow, and then he shall have a rest.  And we wouldn’t have been able to make it without his good help.  I am so grateful for good friends.

I picked all the asparagus that I could see.  Literally.  And then cut a bowl of lettuce.  

Our first.  It is sweet and crunchy and good.  Part of the crunch is the sand that seems to have invaded everything after the inch and a half of rain we’ve had over the last few days, but the lettuce is a whole lot better than last year’s bitter batch!

 The spinach is doing well, too, as are the potatoes and peas

And even onions.  

Daniel is embarrassed at how weedy his garden is, but is gratified to see how well things are growing.

Besides, he has offers for help for the weeding that would have materialized tonight if it hadn’t been for the rain.  It will be okay.

Another thing that has brightened his day is that he has had several inquiries about “Them Thar Tomato Thingies” and his idea is being utilized in several gardens around the country.  How famous is that?  I am so proud of my man.  He has been doing so well, working so hard at Rehab, being cheerful and optimistic and upbeat.  He even preached on Sunday — one of his best sermons ever, if I do say so myself.  Full of vision and hope and specifics.  I am so glad that this surgery is behind him.  After the way he put it off for so long, I am truly waiting for the day when he admits, “I don’t know why I waited so long . . .”

And that is the news from our little corner of the world.  

My heart gives grateful praise.

 

Just discovered that the Quanson/Kwansan Cherry tree pictures that I took earlier couldn’t be prettier.

 

The tree is loaded with blossoms:

 

Certain Man made a trip to the upper deck in the afternoon yesterday
And I followed with my camera:

This is the Cherry, growing up over the railings of the upper deck.

 

And then there is the little Amish Buggy Bird House,
Made by Certain Man’s Uncle Lewis Kauffman, of Missouri.

It hangs in the lower branches of the tree.
We’ve been hoping for a Wrenter, but so far, no takers!

 

And this is the peaceful, shaded and beautiful yard
beneath the tree.  I could spend many a happy hour here:

 

When the Cherry is blooming and the grass is growing,
I know that spring is truly here.

If I had any doubts, a short interlude at my back deck door
with the birds singing a thousand morning songs
quickly reminds me.

My heart gives grateful praise!

 

 

 

It’s been a long week at the piece of land we call Shady Acres.  Daniel has continued to do very well, with lots of people in and out to either visit or check on and assist his progress.  Daniel’s wife has had a week of unrelenting “backwards-going” things, and some of the little things make me laugh because there is nothing else to do.  Like being almost late for a dentist appointment, and having an SUV pull onto my lane from the side of the road, acting like he never saw me at all, causing me to have to brake so that I didn’t hit him, and then going 48 mph all the way from Milford to Greenwood and Route 13.  Or picking up an order at McDonalds and having the gal at the window say, “Sorry.  There is no ice.  As in we don’t have any.  At all.”  or the pharmacist saying about a prescription for Daniel’s Pain meds, “I’m sorry.  I don’t have it.  I will have to call the doctor and see if I can get a different strength, but I don’t know if I can get it today.”  When Daniel was OUT.  (Those were the small things.)

One of the biggest things has been this numb face of mine.  I finally called my good doctor and asked to come back in.  The result is another two weeks of serious meds, and an appointment next week with a neurologist.  Dr. Wilson has pretty much decided that it isn’t internal shingles (relieved).  He doesn’t think it is a brain tumor (comforting).  And he seems confident that it isn’t Bell’s Palsy.  He seems to think it is a deep seated, chronic sinus infection that has affected a nerve. I don’t have a strong opinion about it, but it seems like it is somehow connected with the sinus cavity or something dental.  I’m getting tired of it, I do know that.  Because it was noted that it could have something to do with stress, I’ve been mentally calling upon myself to smile whenever I find it troublesome, or to sing lots of songs when the smile just doesn’t cut it.

Maybe it is the songs I’ve chosen to sing.  Maybe it is just the mood I’m in.  Maybe it is all the funerals in our lives recently, but I am so incredibly homesick for the people I love who have gone home to Heaven.  It seems like forever since I’ve seen my Daddy’s face and heard his voice, felt his hug.  I have a dear uncle who has been scanning old pictures onto our Wert family google group, and my Daddy and Sweet Mama are on so many of them.  I search that face of my Daddy to see the man that I remember, and it seems almost as if it is a sweet, sweet dream that he was here, living and breathing, loving us, praying for us, doing all he could to encourage and help us.  I can sometimes forget that if he had lived, he wouldn’t be young and vibrant, and that the memories we have are better than they would have been if he had lingered and suffered.  

When I let myself dwell on the “If only’s” it feels to me that I am somehow grasping for an eternity here instead of remembering that “here, we have no abiding city.”  I don’t ever want to let go of a conscious awareness of the “forever part” of who I am, and the life hereafter.  But sometimes, in the rush and bustle of the day and the acute missing of those voices and faces so familiar, they feel so gone.  So forever gone.  I know they are in Heaven.  I’ve never been more confident of that than I am today, but where is Heaven?  I’m trusting Jesus to take me there, but if it is a real place, with real people, then somewhere, in this galaxy or the one next over, there is a place, a real place and they are there.  How does this translate into hope?  I am glad for them — there, together, and forever with the Lord, but I also want this to translate into something real for me, here, left behind, and yet to make that journey.  

This is a good day to remember something that came over our Wert Family google group in early April.

That journey.  At the passing of my Uncle Harold a few weeks back, there was something shared on our Wert family google group that gave me cause to consider.

My Sweet Mama’s youngest borther, Uncle Lloyd posted:

Our cousin Nelson Wert, the retired Veterinarian who sold his Montana ranch and built a new home near Raystown Lake, wrote about death and his near death experience as a result of the cousins discussion of Harold’s passing. 

Nelson wrote:

–(This was in response to a former letter) I just had to say “Amen” to your last sentence concerning facing our own mortality (“Let us encounter it with courage, grace , hope and trust”), but may I take the liberty of adding one more word…and JOY! and that word comes solely from my near death experience which I shared with some of you. The approach to Heaven is such a warm wonderful JOYOUS experience that every ounce of energy of your soul strains to run, to push, to struggle to get in as quickly as possible. The JOY I experienced was indescribable, but an arm around my chest held me from going futher, and a voice simply said, “Look, But it is not yet your time. There is work for you to do.” I guess there was work for an old rancher to do because it was after that experience that I felt called to start Trailhead Church. But that experience changed me dramatically in how I will face my mortality and also the passing of dear friends and family members. When I see the passing of friends, I envision the JOY they experience as they approach that wonderful indescribable scene. Yes, I mourn, but I probably view the passing of friends in a manner that may be difficult for those who could not see or share my experience. To all who love the Lord, you have no idea of the JOY you shall experience. You won’t even think about lying on your back, rubbing your stomach, and singing the Doxology! Didn’t mean for this to be a “sermon” of any kind, just have to share that the journey of our loved ones will be of indescribable JOY. Do you hear them singing now? Love you all, Nelson (Wert)

Isn’t that some perspective? 

Lord Jesus, grant that I would remember the JOY.  May I believe that it is a good time to remember eternity and the fleeting nature of our earthly disappointments, concerns and anxieties.  It will be worth it.  Forever with you.  That is worth everything.  May I not forget.  May I not forget.  May I NEVER forget.

 

 

Today, another friend went home to Heaven.

Marilyn Showalter,

I know that this is Glory for you and that you are safely home.

But the people who love you are bereft.

And the rest of this old world,

Though some may not consciously note your absence

Is so very much the poorer.

 

The weekend at Shady Acres has held so many happy moments.  The table is down now, and the chairs are back to where they belong.  I took every chance I got to grab a wink of sleep this weekend, and we made it through!  What a blessing our adult children are to Certain Man and me.

And now, for a story from the weekend.

On Saturday, I realized that I needed to pick up a prescription for Certain Man and then grab some lemons for lemonade.  It was the middle of the afternoon, and people were pretty much scattered, doing what they wanted to do.  We had company coming for supper at 6:30, and I realized very late that I also needed to order the refills for Nettie and Cecilia so that I could pick them up by 3:00 when the trusty Pill Box Pharmacy closed.  I called the six scripts in, speaking to the pharmacist himself, just to be clear on what was expected, and then flew about the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, ordering the usual Saturday lunch for the ladies since the rest of the family had brunch and were not expecting me to provide it.

I procured the lunch, quickly fed the ladies, and then saw, to my dismay, that Certain Man was traversing around the deck and front lawn with his walker.  At my gentle remonstrance, he said that he was just fine, in fact did better when he could do something.  Since it looked like he was going to work on some issues with his one bird feeder, and I was seriously running out of time, I decided to leave him to his folly and grabbed the stuff I needed and headed out to my trusty mini van.

Certain Man had bought a lovely new wagon for his beloved granddaughter for her fourth birthday, and it had been greatly exclaimed over and brought into the house (even though it was too large an outdoor toy for indoor use!) and then it had been returned to the garage where it had been lodged in the rainstorm that passed through the night before.  Before I left to pick up the ladies’ lunches, I had carefully taken the wagon and parked it out in the pavilion so that no one would run over it. When I came back home from that, I had carefully closed the garage door, as is Certain Man’s expressed desire for all persons to do every single time.  This is because the barn cats like to come inside when the door is up to “mark territory” causing no end of loud protests, not only from Certain Man, but also all the inhabitants of the house.  When a male feline decides that the garage is included in his domain, it is not a welcoming aura that rises up to greet arriving family and friends.  Therefore, I truly make it a practice to close the door. 

With everything going on, the time had been slipping away, and it was almost 2:30 when I finally was in our mini-van, ready to go.  I pushed the button to open the garage door, fastened the seat belt and started the engine, turned on the headlights, adjusted the seat and began easing the van out of the garage.

CRUNCH!!!   Rumble, rumble!!!  I stopped immediately, but something continued to rumble a bit.  I eased forward and leaped out of the driver’s seat, certain that someone had decided to ride the wagon during my short venture inside.  I was positive that I would see Love Bug’s beautiful new wagon, crumpled upon the driveway directly behind the garage door.

There was nothing there.  At all!

I knew that I had hit something.  I couldn’t figure out.  I peered about, puzzled, even tried to see if something was under the van.  Wait!  What was wrong with my garage door?  It was hanging at a very strange angle.  Oh, no!  I must have caught the garage door with the luggage carrier on top of the mini-van.  My heart sank as I saw that it looked pretty out of commission.  It was up, though, so I backed the van out of the garage and tried to close it.  It went about a foot, caught on something, ground away and jiggled and shook, so I quickly stopped it, and put it back up.  Then tried again, just to make sure that it hadn’t fixed itself.  It hadn’t.

For crying out loud.  I was late, my garage door was broken, my husband was gallivanting around the front yard with his walker and I was so irritated with myself.  I HAD to go get the meds, but I also had to tell Certain Man why the garage door wouldn’t go down.  And then he was going to try to fix it.  I know this man.  I was sure he was going to try to fix it.  And I should help him.  But I was late.  I looked at that miserable old garage door and I felt like my spirit was wailing.  But I had to tell him.

I stopped the car. I climbed out, and went back into the garage, up the ramp, through the entryway and out the back door to the side deck.  I saw Certain Man working on his bird feeder.

“Uh, Sweetheart, I kinda broke the garage door.”

“You did what?”

“The garage door.  I kinda backed into it.  It seems like it’s been going up slower and slower, and I guess I just didn’t think and backed out before it was all the way up.”

Now that sounds really lame when I read it, but the truth is, the garage door HAS been going up slower and slower for some reason.  Usually I remember, and give it some time, but I just didn’t think this time.  

Certain Man didn’t shout or anything.  He got that grin on his face that he gets sometimes when his wife does something really stupid. He took his walker around the end of the deck that is towards the road, and came through the sun room, out the other side, and then into the entryway, out into the garage, and down the ramp.  Grinning the whole time.

I went out and got back into my van.  I shut the door, but I rolled down the window.

“Sweetheart,” I said, and I heard the pleading in my voice.  “I really need to go, but do you want me to do something?”

He stood under the door and looked it up and down, then said, “Yeah, just try to put it down.”

So I pushed the button and it went about a foot, caught on something, ground away and jiggled and shook, and he waved his hand in my direction that meant “stop it” so I stopped it, and then put it back up.  “Do it again,” he said, so I did, and he grabbed ahold of the one side and pulled it down past where it was catching.  When it was about half way down he waved his hand under the descending door to indicate that I was to stop it again, and when I did, he leaned his weight upon it and gave it a mighty shove.  I was almost frantic, because I was sure all that jarring about couldn’t be good for his poor knee, but he did it another time or two and then waved under the door again that I was to put it back up.  So I did, and went right up almost as good as new.

“Put it down again,” he ordered.  So I put it down again, and there was a few more banging noises where he put some convincing pressure upon something, and then said, “Try it again.”

And this time it went up, pretty as you please, and then down again, pretty as you please.  He grinned at me through the windows in the door and made motions that made me know that I was to get on my way.

And so I did.  Flew into the pharmacy with his prescription, went down to Pill Box, where my prescriptions weren’t ready and they offered to deliver them, then scrambled over to Wal-Mart to get the lemons I needed, stopped at Wal-Greens for Certain Man’s now finished prescription, and then went hurriedly back to Shawnee Road, where my garage door opened smoothly up to receive me safely home less than an hour after I had left.

And I got ready for supper guests with lots of good help from my family, and we had a lovely evening together.

And believe me, when I went to bed last night, I slept the slumber of the very, very tired.  But even that is a blessing, I’ve discovered.  It is far better than restless insomnia.  

And that’s the news from Shady Acres, where the quietness tonight feels peaceful, yes, but it is not without a sad missing of the many feet that have pounded through this house the last four days.  

My heart gives grateful praise for the beloved family that God has given Certain man and me.  How very blessed we are!

Our whole family  — as in every. single. one. of. us.  
Is home for the weekend.  Because of legal ramifications
there are lots of pictures that I cannot post.
Pictures that would melt your heart, and make you laugh.
Pictures that make a familiar burning behind my eyes.
Our family has been enjoying three little guys
from the bottom to the top of our brimming hearts.

Certain Man,  
whose faithful friend, Gary, took yesterday off,
was blessed by the offers of
Beloved Son in Law and Youngest Son
to do the evening “Chicken Run.”

Aren’t they the handsomest pair you’ve ever seen?
Their wives thought so, too!  (NOT!!!!)

They went out and together made short work
of picking up the dead and combining the results for composting.

 

Lem carries a dead chicken bucket to the composter

 

And Jesse fetched the tractor and loader
to top off one of the composter bins.
Another job, well done.
(I don’t think either of them is hankering
to give up their jobs for farming in Slower, Lower DE!)

Lem insists that this is what
he and Jessica
would look like if they had stayed home to farm:

Yes, well . . .
(I honestly never thought that was a possibility!)

Charis is enjoying cousins and fun times.
(Sometimes we can’t go straight to “enjoy”.)
We decided to celebrate her birthday as a Yutzy clan last night.

What fun!
Our love bug is growing up.