Psalm 104--"How Manifold are Your Works, Oh Lord-- In wisdom you have made them all. The earth is full of Your creatures..."

Easter Sunday 2011

What a great day we had!

From Church to Freedom Park

Come, Saturday!

Come Saturday morning, I'm going away with my friends, we'll laugh and we'll smile in our Saturday style...

Today we went "away" with Victor Borga. {Thanks to the magic of Youtube, or "the utubes", as I affectionately call it} We sat around the computer, as families used to do, around the radio and enjoyed and laughed to the humor of Victor Borga. Just I and my friends, my children wrapped around my shoulders, we laughed and listened. I realized that this is Saturday morning in our house. We are living in an elongated Saturday morning of loving and living under one roof and learning to laugh together and cry together, at some of the same things. We are a community. We are a family. It was so much fun and joy.
One day they will be gone, but we will remember, long after Saturday’s gone.

A Tennis Monday!

What a delight to see the band of Walkers descending on Jetton Park after work and school? I was more than grateful that my dear, sweet husband took upon himself the initiative to overcome the inertia of his wife to guide us into (what I like to call) Spring Training. A little too much Winter Hibernation was indulged in. We have no excuse to hibernate, down here, there really is no Winter, to speak of. But, we got out there. Some hiked some picnicked and some played tennis. I am learning to negotiate my vision, these days. I find that my shoulder is looser and my serve more fluid, but my eyes misguage the distance to the net, when trying to accomodate the softer hits. I could blame it on the bifocals. I do think that is it, but I can't be sure. More than a few times, I was sure that the ball was going over and that I had put enough pressure to carry it just over to my youngster, and it was not even at the net. I haven't had that happen to me before, my vision deceiving me to that extent. It is interesting negotiating the changes that aging brings.

There is a balm, in Gilead!

This is the anniversary of my greatest loss, in life. Every loss is huge, at the time. I did think that Grandma Mon was worst, at that time and then others, but there was nothing like the loss of my infant to me. I truly hope that no other mother would ever go through that loss. I don't say this to minimize anyone else's losses, but to note, to my children the reason my mouth speaks of my griefs so often is the depth of this. I often go to God, in the light of the enormous comforts that he has showered upon me to lift me from my sorrows. I know that His Balm of Grace is the healing to my soul, but there is part of my soul, at least that will not understand until I get to Glory.
There are no words to describe how my mind replays those, most precious 21 days of my life, every March; with no audience, who can hear it.
For years, I poured out my sorrow, in a dramatic presentation of the book of Esther, to my children. Now, they are beyond that presentation. "Not again mother!", they say, with eyes rolling back in their heads.
Truly "there is a balm in Gilead, who heals the sinsick soul". My Jesus hears my cries, in March. Cries for my sad state. Cries that there is little comfort, in life, when a child is gone from your maternal grasp. Cries, that unbelief blooms, so rampantly, in my soul, through this season. Cries, that mothers don't appreciate the blessing of childbirth. Cries, that abortion is still so prevalent a part of our country's economic system. Cries, that I have done so little of the commitments to impress my remaining children of the importance of the things that God impressed upon me, through my griefs.
Every comfort seems to go deeply into my soul, as deeply as the cries are sobbed.

cries from my bubbles of grief...

22 years later, I can still remember, 22 cars at a 21 day old’s funeral. I remember the men who took the mantle of leadership and helps. I remember loved ones, from home, held me up. I was numb. I remember the blurr of hands that they had to guide me from one station to another. I couldn’t believe that the love of my life was gone. His birth was like Christmas,"Mother, it's a boy!" When I looked into his eyes at birth, I was his. Maternal love is like that. Nobody else matters. "I am sorry, mommy, I am afraid your baby has died." 21 days of love and life between. Spinal meningitis had taken him from my maternal grasp.
Engorged and in pain and in fevers and in grief, all of those sensorious things to remind me that something had happened completely outside of my realm of imagination. Even my dad said “everything that we do our whole lives is to keep us from standing at the graveside of our children. I don’t know how you can stand it?” I didn’t see him cry, but he sat with me in the front of the church, without a smirk at all. That, could have been one of my earliest comforts. I would have medicated me, looking back. I was definitely sick. Everything was like a dream, from the moment Dr. Bacha looked into my face, maybe until, well, I don’t know until when. It was dream like. Pain like nothing else, physical, mental smell pain, heart pain. I felt angels protect me from negatives. Some people said things that didn’t even penetrate the fog and others said nothing and it comforted. It was as though the angels themselves only stood aside when it was something useful for comfort, otherwise they stood in front of me. Ty and Sharon were constant comfort. They were the human angels.

I simply cannot tell how the comforts were magnified because the pain was so great. I closed my eyes and all I could see was his face. White and then blue and then the needles in his skull that they put. I couldn’t help anymore by the time we got to the hospital. The nurses talking in letters and codes and getting me out of the room to care for my 2 year old. Everybody trying to focus me away from the death. He’s gone. What else is there?

You have another child! You will have other children. Does that comfort? NO! not at that moment. He is gone. I can’t go home. I will just walk the streets looking for him, for the rest of my life. He must be there somewhere? That is irrational, but that is the sentiment. I will walk and look for him. I will cry until I cry my heart out. There is nothing else.

Thank God for Good messages!

Pastor Sam, brought some comforts, this morning that are like salve on a sorry soul. He pointed to the fact that God considers our frame and knows that we are dust. God, as it were, "shows up", in Christ to comfort us in our woes.
Just like 22 years ago today was the last time I saw my smiling baby's face. A little grin a gurgling embrace and then, he was gone. Jesus knows!

Goodbye Aunt Lorraine,

I loved Auntie. I loved her because of the look in my father's eye, when he looked at her. I loved her because of how we looked at eachother. She was my alterego. I will miss her.

Jack Lalanne passing reminds me of my Grandma Ruth!

I do miss her, in spite of myself.
I was a little girl and my grandma was running around the house with weights and talking about living to one hundred, and...Jack Lalanne.
It is really amazing what one influential man can do.
Gram bought gadgets and juicers and every healthfood item she could find. Whatever damage she had done to her body, by the time she was 45, {when I met her}; she was intent on undoing in the rest of her life. She really did, too.
I really didn't like my grandma and was determined to stay away from her, but love made me watch her. We made peace, in the end, but she was so determined to be healthy and I think that this should be her legacy in our family {along with the use of cliches}.
Healthy habits kept my parents together in the tough times and kept Gram {a single mom with 3 growing teens}sane. Thank you Jack Lalanne, I think is in order, for the fact that Gram wasn't more cranky than she was?:)

Flu symptoms and fever?

All of that play in the snow and what was the result? A sick house. 2 of the 3 boys are down with fevers. What is a mother to do?
We are remembering the fun of last week and nursing sick children, at the same time. Oh dear:).

the snowy day