Blessings still outweigh the Challenges

I woke with a start; I was being kicked in my bed! Coming to instant awareness, I realized it was Tom kicking me hard under the covers. In disbelief I yelled, "Tom, stop it!" His kicks landed directly on my left leg and although I was only kicked for a moment, it hurt! Tom woke up when I yelled at him to stop and became aware that he had been kicking me. He asked if I was ok and then explained details of a nightmare where I was kicking him, so in this dream, he was fighting back. He explained the dream was like a black cloud or ghost over his head and that I was kicking him! He claimed he was defending himself (in his dream) and apologized a number of times. He went back to sleep right away, I didn't. By the morning, after a mostly sleepless night, I was worried and scared. 

Why would this happen? He was sleeping. Is he capable of doing it again? Punching me? What about the weapons we have in our house? Would he reach for a gun or bat and use it in his sleep? I pondered these unthinkable thoughts on Sunday morning while my left leg ached from the thrashing it took in the night. I was hurt, mad, and scared. I showered and got ready for church. He walked the dog super early and got ready for his mid-morning nap. He asked me how I was feeling and apologized again. I told him my left leg hurt and I was very concerned. I expressed my thoughts about this kicking happening again, or maybe something worse. I told him I was scared, we argued, and I walked out the door for church at 8:20 am. 

We're getting older and there are issues we face, but we will face them together and do whatever we must. Tom is serious about his health and fending off the aging process. He rides his bike on his stationary trainer every day, with very few exceptions. He eats very healthy and documents all his food intake. He enjoys his bourbon, scotch, whiskey and wine, but rarely in excess. He's lean, strong and weighs nearly the same as when we got married. I can't claim that. But, I'm back on a "live it" style diet, walking everyday and much more motivated than I've been in ages. It's Sober October too, so there aren't any wine calories to report in my food diary. We know what to do, I just need to do it.

Later. on Sunday afternoon, I researched why someone would strike out in their sleep and found an illness called REM sleep behavior disorder. Although I sent Tom three links describing this disorder he didn't check them out. This restless (or should I say combative) sleeping is probably the least of our worries and I can happily say, of the issues we face, the blessings still outweigh the challenges. 

 

Our Bill Andrews Rose

When our landscaping project called for removing trees in our front yard, we planted a rose garden with one yellow rose bush among the red, white and pink roses. The yellow rose didn't thrive like the others. It shamelessly took its sweet time and stubbornly didn't produce roses. We watched and waited for it to bloom for many years, but it didn't.

A few years later we were struggling with the battle Tom's friend Bill Andrews was losing to cancer. While his health declined, we visited, we baked and delivered food, we shared books, cards, and conversations, but he was dying, and our sadness was overwhelming. On Sunday morning June 7th, 2015, Bill's wife called us with the grim news that if we wanted to see Bill one more time, we'd need to be there that day. We set our sights on getting out of the house quickly and driving the hour to Bill's home, where hospice was keeping him comfortable. We wanted to bring something to Bill and Stacy, something meaningful and lovely, something precious and comforting, but we didn't know what. While Tom finished getting ready, I walked to the rose garden and was greeted by one spectacular yellow rose. At that moment, I knew it was meant for Bill and Stacy. I clipped the rose, put it in a small vase and brought it to them as a gift of life in the midst of the sorrow. Now the yellow rose continues to bloom almost always near the time of Bill's death on June 8th. 

Willaim F Andrews was a true American hero and a man of great faith. His Air Force experiences are well documented, and he has been rightly honored in many ways. He was a great friend to Tom and incredible human being. I hope he's always remembered.  We'll always remember Bill and enjoy our Bill Andrews Rose. 

Hi Beautiful!

After a rough weekend and an old argument that resurfaced in our marriage, my husband and I were moving around our house like repelling magnets. When Sunday morning came, I wanted God to fix our troubles and fix me, starting with my heart. I wanted to be reminded how to love, forgive, and reconcile. I knew if I could just get to church, I’d be on the right track. So, I woke early, slipped on the clothes I’d left in a pile the night before along with the previous day's socks and tennis shoes. I ran a comb through my slightly greasy hair, brushed my teeth and cleaned last night’s mascara from around my eyes. I drove to church before 8 am and suddenly, there they were, the whole passel of overzealous, smiling greeters shaking all the church goers' hands too enthusiastically right outside the main entrance. I snickered sarcastically inside and imperceptibly shook my head. I wasn't finding a lot to be happy about and didn't feel like being greeted. Even in my grumpiness, the loud Christian music and the cheerful atmosphere started to soften my heart. I was beginning to feel the positive effects of the environment, but I purposely slipped behind the front door greeters near the main entrance and continued to walk the gauntlet towards the sanctuary reluctantly accepting well-meaning greetings and smiles.  I even shook a few outstretched hands. Inside of me there was deep sadness but inside the church there was palpable joy.  Although I was looking for healing, I was entrenched in my anger and actively resisting joy. But somehow among the many cheerful greeters, there was this one guy. He was maybe my age or a little younger, medium height, not necessarily in peak physical condition, but wearing a huge smile. He saw me coming and in a very ordinary, uncomplicated way, said, “Hi Beautiful!” I laughed out loud! He couldn’t be talking to me.

As I got closer, he reached his hand out to me. I tried to squelch my smirky grin, still amused at his "beautiful" comment. I was un-showered, unfriendly and uninterested in being greeted, but he had a sense of humor. I accepted his handshake and said, “You’re very funny, and thanks, I needed that this morning.” You see I was not and didn't feel beautiful in any capacity, but he was the hand of God reaching out to me. I don’t know who he is and couldn’t pick him out of a lineup, but he offered me exactly what I needed. Old age, marriage challenges, greasy hair, last night’s makeup and clothes, and my bitter attitude didn’t stop the love of God from reaching me this morning through a greeter who dared to say, “Hi Beautiful” to an older woman who felt unlovable and anything but beautiful. He was seeing each person who entered church as a child of God, fearfully and wonderfully made. Psalms 139:14 He was bringing God’s love to the church attendees and reaching people far from God. I’m so grateful.

 

The Ring

While it seemed we were always in a hurry, this particular morning, we were on schedule. Zach was safely in his car seat and our arrival in the drop off line of his 4-year-old pre-school would be right on time. I strapped myself in, started the Honda, put my hands on the steering wheel and prepared to back down the driveway. But something was off. Pausing to think, I looked at my hands and realized my wedding rings and birthstone ring were still on the kitchen windowsill where I left them after scrubbing the sink while our two sons ate breakfast. Andy was a second grader and had already joined his walking group to make his way to second grade at Orange Hunt Elementary School three blocks up the hill. Tom had left early that morning for the Johns’ Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies where he was working on his PhD. I needed to go get my rings.

I turned off the car and explained to Zach I was going to run back in the house and get my wedding ring. He said, “Okey Dokey” which was his normal affirmative response at the time. I was back in less than a minute with my rings on my hands and began again to back down the driveway. From the back seat I heard Zach’s sweet little voice say, “Good thing you got your rings, Mommy.” Curious about his thinking on the whole marriage concept I asked, “Why is that honey?” He said, “Without them, people wouldn’t know I was yours!”

At that moment I understood that his concept of marriage and family included permanence, ownership, belonging, safety, security, stability, and love. He wanted to be associated with me and I with him. My heart swelled. His little voice and big heart offered insight into his love for us as his family. That wedding ring connected us all for now and forever.

Just a Half Mile West of the Farm

When our sons were young, we would drive to the farm in North Dakota and spend a couple of weeks living the fabulous farm life each summer. My parents would put us up and we'd enjoy outdoor fun, tractor rides, combine rides, golf cart driving, go cart driving, picnics, family, cousins, reunions, and church. We puddle stomped on rainy days, we rode rafts on the coulee, we made forts in the trees, we walked fields, we packed lunches to take on hikes through the "time tunnel" and tall grass to magical places while our imaginations ran wild. I was inexorably compelled to make the trip each year and we made terrific memories.

My memories started early as a little girl growing up on that farm. My respect for my Dad, Uncle, Grandpas, Brother and other farmers steered me into agriculture as a career. My fascination with the beauty, productivity, and miracle of seeds developing into harvestable crops remains. The chemistry of the soils, the joy of the seasons, the dependence on the weather, the demands of technology, the teamwork, and the intuitive "art of farming" still hold me captive. 

For 25 years, while our family grew, I reserved two weeks in the fall to help with sugar beet harvest on the farm. I'd drive my truck from midnight to noon loading and unloading as many times as I could as a part of the harvest crew. It was invigorating! It was scary, fun, difficult, challenging and magical. Being on the harvest team filled me and thrilled me, and my Mom, who loved the farm even more than me, noticed.

When I'd get off my 12 hour shift at noon, Mom and I would review the progress of the crew and scout the next field that would be harvested paying special attention to the crossings where the large trucks would enter and exit. This was important as I'd be coming back to work in the dark, and loaded trucks on narrow crossings had to be managed with care. Seeing the approaches to the fields in the daylight would help me navigate my loaded semi on those crossings at night. Then Mom and I would drive on and share our stories of our truck driving and farm experiences and we'd grow even closer. One day as we came back to the farm she pointed at the beautiful cottonwood trees just a half mile west of the farm and remarked how appropriate it was that I loved the farm so much. Then her face softened even more, she smiled, almost shyly, and gently shared the following story.

When my parents were 25 years old, they had three little children (Laurie - 4 1/2, Rob - 3, and Pam 2 months) and lived on the Green Farm. They earned the right to live there as the oldest children of George and Johanna Green. They managed the farm along with Dad's sister Carol and her husband Ralph Tucker. They were young, fun and extremely busy. On a pretty evening in late May of 1957, they arranged for a baby sitter and went on their first "date" since bringing their newest baby home. The date plan was actually just a "crop tour" into St. Thomas, ND (6.5 miles away) by way of the fields they were farming, a visit with friends at the American Legion Club, a few adult beverages, and a quiet drive home. They knew that once they got home they'd need to take the baby sitter home, deal with any little ones who might still be up, clean, organize and plan for the next day. They were a little reluctant to hurry right home. The evening was delightful, warm and starry, and one of them had a twinkle in his eye. 

Mom says they stopped the car and threw a blanket onto the soft green grass under the cottonwood trees that rustled in the light evening breeze. They were just a half mile west of the farm. She said they felt like irresponsible kids, smugly delighted with their growing family, the beautiful crops, and the love they shared. She knew she couldn't get pregnant because she was still nursing her 2 month old baby Pamela. But she was wrong.

Nine months later my parents welcomed their fourth child. My sister Pam and I are Irish Twins (no offense intended to the Irish!) and proud of it. All of us kids know we were conceived in love and I appreciate (and am quite amazed) that Mom shared this story with me. 

Someday, I hope someone will toss some of my ashes out... just a half mile west of the farm. 

 

Belief

When I was in elementary school, I was a big fan of anything gymnastics. I learned to do cartwheels, back walkovers, and handstands at home with the help of my sister and Hollywood Palace, a tv talent show that featured a wide variety of performers. We would watch the show and try to imitate the gymnastics skills of the performers. We'd also sing our hearts out to be like the singers, but the gymnasts motivated me.

On one of the shows I saw a woman do a cartwheel without using her hands. I called it a "no-hand cartwheel" and would later learn that gymnasts called it an aerial. After seeing this gymnastics move performed on tv, I was determined to learn to do it. I began practicing in earnest. 

My technique was to do a cartwheel and use my hands less and less each time. I'd speed up my efforts and touch and release my hands. I'd do cartwheels over and over using my hands less and less. I'd push off harder from my supporting leg and fling my legs over my head to touch down again with out the use of my hands, if possible. I was marginally successful but believed I was making progress. I worked and worked without any coaching or a clue as to how to make it happen. 

I did all my gymnastics training in the living room and adjoining dining room of the old farm house in the evenings where I grew up. My Mom was usually in the kitchen and my Dad was often in the living room either reading the paper or watching the tv at the end of the day. He tolerated me flying by with these cartwheels landing right in front of his chair for days on end because winter in North Dakota on a farm doesn't offer a lot of options. 

On one night in the winter in my 10th year, with Dad sitting in his chair, I did it! I did the "no-hand cartwheel" without my hands! My dad looked up just in time to see it happen and gave me a big smile as I beamed with my success. I had done it! I would do it again. 

I was sweaty and tired, I had used the short carpeted runway in the living room over and over again and I had done an aerial and my Dad had witnessed it. Then Dad sent me to bed. Not sure if he was tired of watching the Tasmanian devil spin past him all night or not, but he said, "Well done, now its time for bed." 

Naturally, I fussed and whined, but I went to bed fully tired and fully pleased. 

The next day and many following days I worked at my "no-hand cartwheel." I had marginal success, but it seemed when Dad was in the room I had more success. His presence, even when he wasn't paying attention, made me try harder. I believed more in myself when he was watching and I had greater success when he was in the room. So, I began to believe that I could do the aerial if he was watching. He continued to give me positive feedback when I'd accomplish the objective. It happened more often, in fact almost always, when he was in the room. 

When my Aunt Lorraine (Mom's sister) was visiting, my Mom mentioned that I was wearing out the carpet with my attempts at a "no-hand cartwheel" and had finally learned to do it. My Aunt said, "Let's see her do it!" They called me in from playing with my cousins and asked me to show this skill. I was hopeful but lacked confidence that I'd actually be able to demonstrate this new feat. I made a couple of attempts without success. Then I got a break. 

Dad was working at the farm shop that day and at that moment he came in the back door. I was struggling to perform the aerial and said, "If Dad watches, I can do it." He smiled at me and instantly gave me confidence. The others in attendance (my cousins had come inside to see this aerial cartwheel too) were not as convinced as I had failed in a number of attempts. But as soon as I saw my Dad I knew with him watching, it would be easy for me. 

I lined up at the far end of the dining room and looked at my Dad. He gave me the look that I knew meant I was his little girl and nothing was impossible. I took the four quick steps, pushed off with my supporting right leg and made it happen! My Aunt Lorraine and cousins cheered. It was a success. Dad smiled at me, grabbed a cookie, some coffee and went back to work at the shop. 

It happened a few other times where I wanted to perform this aerial. If I had trouble, even when I was just practicing, I'd ask Dad to come watch, and I'd do it to perfection. His presence was all I needed. His presence was the manifestation of my confidence. He believed in me more than I believed in myself. He never took credit for my success, he just believed in me. I borrowed his belief and knew that his confidence in me made anything possible. 

Did I make her proud?

I could tell when she wasn't happy, I could tell when she didn't like my decisions.  I could tell when she was disappointed, but over all, did I make her proud?

When Tom and I announced our engagement, I think we shocked her a bit.  She suddenly saw what I didn't even know enough to see.  She knew that a military husband would take me away, away from everything I knew and her.  I was too in love to see that.  She saw that clearly, and in hindsight, I saw the realization in her eyes.

But she loved me and wanted me to be happy, follow my dreams and follow my love. After all, she did.  She followed her military man to Fort Knox, Kentucky during the Korean war and I know she was the sweetest little military wife in the world.  She washed and ironed his shirts to perfection, learned the ways of the Army and gave birth to my brother in a military hospital without any "help" for the pain of childbirth.  She joined her neighbors for social fun, cared for her baby girl Laurie and supported Dad.

As a military wife I didn't iron shirts.  We had a baby in a military hospital and I did it without medication, just like Mom.  We did the whole socializing bit and she loved to hear about our adventures.  I love to tell her about my military volunteer efforts and I think that made her proud. We shared the military wife gig.  She was a military wife. She was my Mom. She was. She was. I am so proud and I love because she loved me and taught me to love.
She loved with the joy of the Lord.

She loved without apology. 
She loved with the knowledge of salvation.
We shared a faith born of Love.