Fault Line

I have a friend who has fallen on hard times.  As in very hard times, the kind where he could lose everything.  He is a good person with a good heart that has made some remarkably bad decisions.

In speaking about him with another friend, we both shook our heads meaningfully and said unhelpful things like, "what was he thinking?" and "well, what did he expect would happen?" and "I really thought he was smarter than that" and other smug criticisms of how our mutual friend got himself in hot water in the first place.

We contemplated the various consequences that he is likely to face, and we arrived at the consummate cliche that everyone uses to sum up similar conversations:

"Well... it's his own fault.  He brought it on himself". 

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Think about it - it's so tempting, almost irresistible, to dismiss a bad outcome by determining fault or assigning blame.  He lost his car because he missed two payments;  she got pregnant because she doesn't take the pill;  they had to find a new church because he had an affair with the choir director;  she lost her job because she was always running late;  his liver is failing because he drank too much.

I gained 5 pounds because I ate too much pumpkin pie and didn't exercise.  It's my own damn fault.  I brought this on myself.  (Literally!)

This compulsion for fault-finding and blame-placing is a natural human response to negative outcomes.  We have an innate demand to know the "why" behind bad things.  While this is due in part to our desire for safety and control over outcomes, I generally want to know "why" for two reasons.  First, because I'm nosey, and second because I want to feel better about myself by judging you.  After all, it's your own damn fault.  I would never do what you did.

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Now I have given myself a little jolt of superiority (what can I say, my ego gets hungry), the buzz of being better than you. I can go on with my day with a spring in my step and a nearly palpable sense of relief that I'm not you.  What were you thinking, anyway?

I don't admit any of this, of course, to myself or to anyone else, because that would make me a really shitty person.  But secretly, inside the very core of my heart, I know that I'm being a jerk.  What kind of asshole is relieved - maybe even a little joyful - over someone else's pain?

The German word for this all-too-common experience is "schadenfreude". "Schaden" is the German word for harm, and "freude" means joy.  I hate to think about how many times I've danced a little jig of schadenfreude in my spirit because someone finally got what was coming to them.  Heck, even if it's someone I like, I still feel that little tingle of "better you than me, my friend!"

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But.

Where is the mercy?  Where is the grace?  Where is compassion, forgiveness, kindness?

These little comforts are candles in the darkness, warmth in spite of the cold.  They're not hard to muster up because they too are natural to us - after all, it's what we crave from one another.

We need it from ourselves as well - so what about the damn pie?  I can kick my ass about it all day long from here until next Labor Day and it won't change a thing other than make me feel worse.  How about a little kindness and forgiveness, from me to myself?  It's PIE, for heaven's sake.

And now a specific word to people of faith - cut it out already.  I get it, I do it too but we've got to stop it.  Today, as in right now.  I don't mean that we should forget wrongdoing, but we need to stop judging and criticizing the wrong-doer.  Besides, the rightness or wrongness of whatever was done is between that person and God and is none of my business or yours.  Judge not that ye be not judged and all that.

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Take just a minute and imagine that you have screwed up.  BIG TIME.  You've pulled a doozy (or doozies) and you are about to be up shit creek without a paddle.  Oh, and everyone at your office and in your neighborhood and at your church is going to hear about it.

Wouldn't it be nice if someone hugged you anyway?  Or stuck up for you when you weren't even around?  Or brought you a cookie?  Or just gave you a warm smile instead of a cold shoulder?

What if it didn't matter to anyone that you screwed up and you're facing some tough consequences - what if no one cared that you brought them on yourself?  

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What if we give it a try... the next time I hear myself say (or think), "he/she got what they deserved" or something along those lines, I'm going to TRY and come up with a warm thought and maybe a kind gesture instead.  Maybe I will break this ugly habit once and for all.

It's what I hope you'll do for me;  I will do my best to do it for you.

Goodbye, Little Goats

As children, we learn what love is (and what it isn't) from adults.  For most of us, it was our parents who modeled what love looks like in the way they cared for us and for each other.

This explains a lot.

Yet I believe we all come out of the womb with certain emotional hardwiring that sets the stage for how we will experience and demonstrate love, anger, fear, etc.  You know, the age old "nature vs. nurture" debate.

My own mother loved me with an unfair dependence - I grew up feeling responsible for her happiness or lack thereof.  As an adult, I came to understand that her own emotional hardwiring was distorted from the get-go, plus two concussive injuries in her childhood and a series of life's gut punches made her cling to her children like life preservers in a hurricane.

(I used to wonder if Dad left because she was crazy or she went crazy because he left.  Now I think it was both.  But I digress).

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Our firstborn, has been out of the house for a couple of years now, and his departure was not of his own volition.  I love him fiercely;  his own brain chemistry set the stage for some film-worthy family drama that shattered all of our hearts.  I used to get angry just thinking about the things he put us through, but it turns out that the anger was actually grief in a Halloween mask. It is a grief for the things that were lost in our relationship over the years.

Here's the confusingly wonderful thing about grief - you don't grieve people or things that don't matter to you.  The experience of grief is the most painful aspect of love, yet love is the best thing about living.  If you care about anything or anybody, then grief is inevitable.

Since we are generally averse to pain, physical or otherwise, one could conclude that this could all be avoided if we stop giving and receiving love.  Maybe we could freeze our hearts so that we're still reasonably nice people but we just don't really love anyone or anything anymore because the pain of it is too damn expensive.

I couldn't do it even if I wanted to - love is inherent to my nature, and I guess the only way I could stop showing and experiencing love would be to stop breathing.  Yet my sensation of love is definitely naive;  even here in my middle age, I am still sometimes slow and wounded to recognize when it's not reciprocal or at least not to the same degree.  I suspect I'm not alone here.

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I worry that I love my children too much.

My mother was crushed and furious when I left home and even now I have my own residual guilt and anger about that.  When my own children were just toddlers, I resolved that when it came time for them to leave the nest one day, I would be a supportive, loving encourager holding the door open for them to go.

Last Friday I took our daughter to college to start her freshman year.

I'd been emotionally prepping for this day for months;  not only is she a funny and charming little person, but she's also my best friend.  My grief began building the day we ordered her high school graduation announcements, but I steeled myself against any hand-wringing or overt displays of sadness.

We both talked about how much we would miss each other but we expressed sincere enthusiasm for this next chapter in her story.  In the last few weeks before the big move, we were intentional about spending quality time together and making great memories.

We live out in the country between Lincoln and Omaha, and a trip "into town" means passing by horses, cattle, donkeys, and goats.  Grace has never liked goats;  one took a little nip at her finger in a petting zoo when she was a toddler, plus she thinks they have cold crazy eyes and are emissaries from hell.  Sometimes when we'd pass by them, Grace would remark that they looked evil and remind me once again that she didn't like goats.

But the day before she moved, as we were returning from some last-minute shopping I heard her whisper "goodbye, little goats" as we passed them.  And I choked on a sob.

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The move-in itself was uneventful, emotionally speaking.  Her dorm room is on the third floor of a building with no elevators, so I was mostly focused on not embarrassing her by having a heart attack while hauling boxes up the stairs in the August heat.  I was sweating so profusely nobody would have seen any tears anyway, but it still wasn't entirely real yet.  Not yet.

The school had organized a luncheon in the cafeteria for families to join their freshmen for one more meal after the move-in and before saying goodbye.  Grace and I sat by ourselves, occasionally glancing at each other across the table.  I felt the train in my heart accelerate to a hundred miles an hour, whistle blasting a warning that I was in grave danger of being destroyed.

Tears pooled in my eyes and my nose reddened - I couldn't hold it back another second.  Of course she began weeping too and I remembered the other times that I'd left her in tears in places she didn't want to be;  kindergarten, first grade, third grade, freshman year in Iowa, sophomore year in Nebraska... in each instance, she'd pleaded with me not to leave her.  Yet each new experience helped her to grow and mature;   I know that college will further shape her into a confident, educated and capable young woman.

There was no choice but to leave her once more.  It was - it is - the right thing to do for her, regardless of how hard it is for me.

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We said our goodbyes, and I headed to the truck.  I watched other parents getting into their cars after saying their own goodbyes to their kids.  They all seemed so calm, to me anyway... perhaps there were a few random tears here and there, but for the most part they appeared cool and collected.  Time for Junior to start his college life!

I, on the other hand, sat rigidly gripping my steering wheel and trying not to scream or vomit.  Didn't they know?  Had they not yet realized that we were leaving our children, our BABIES, with strangers in a strange town?

My grief threatened to drown me right there in the parking lot.  

Leaving her behind;  leaving with an empty passenger seat and nobody but me to squeal in delight at all the newborn calves I would pass on the trip back home.

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Driving through the rural countryside, I sobbed like a madwoman.  Long and hysterical sobs, the kind that make you feel dizzy and at risk of hyperventilation.  The last time I'd cried that hard, I'd been resting my cheek on my dead father's chest before they took him away for cremation.

The voice of reason chided me for overreacting... "Good lord woman, she's just going off to college, for Pete's sake.  She's an hour from home, not in another time zone a thousand miles away.  Get your shit together already".

And then the still, small voice in my heart whispered, "You are a good momma, one that loves her enough to let her go - to learn who she is and how to live her own life. It's natural to grieve her physical presence... her hugs, the way she snuggled up on the couch for a nap with the dogs, the daily ritual of 'I love you more'... of course it is sad to see her go, but today you have done a good thing".
   
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And it IS a good thing!  She's called a few times to tell us about her classes and the new friends she's making.  She has been hanging out in the dorm lounge with other freshman who are away from home for the first time in their lives - she's even been comforting other girls who are trying to navigate being homesick.  I know she is homesick as well - she said so last night - but the tears of her new friends have helped her realize that she's stronger than she believed.

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I passed the goats on Friday and smiled.  Hello, little goats.

Say Cheese

I have loved photography for as long as I can recall.  I’ve had a camera in hand since elementary school.  I remember my first one; it was a Kodak Pocket Instamatic I got for either Christmas or my birthday.  Dad was also an aficionado of amateur photography; only later in life have I learned that he too inherited it from his father and grandfather.

Anyway… my Instamatic traveled with me to the zoo, to Washington D.C., to Disney World;  I captured wild animals, classmates on our Trailways bus trips (arguably wild animals ourselves), and everyday moments with my little group of friends, or my pets.  I arranged my Madame Alexander dolls having a tea party, and my Barbies living it up in the Dream Camper, and I took lots of pictures.  

Basically, I took hundreds of photos.

In the 70s, film processing for amateur photographers was a protracted exercise in patience.  Back then, there certainly was no such thing as one-hour processing at a local pharmacy, much less a home printer.  No, I would badger my parents until someone took me to drop off my little Kodachrome 110 film cartridges at the local Fotomat kiosk or at Thompson Photo.  And then I'd wait.  And wait.  And wait.  

(Side note:  “Honest Ed” Thompson was a friend of my dad’s and it wasn’t until high school that it occurred to me having Honest Ed develop my party pictures was both risky and short-sighted. But I digress).

Once I learned that it was an option, I started getting double prints of every roll I developed. After all, there were some real gems in there and surely people would want their own copies especially if they were the subject matter.  Triple prints were an option too!  Today I have shoeboxes filled with multiple copies of grainy, weak contrast pictures of my family, my pets, zoo animals, bedroom posters, friends, the Smokies – why, I even have a few copies of my first selfie!  I think everyone in my generation has one of these shots… a giant flash in the mirror and a kid’s body underneath it holding the camera.  

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I’ve wondered why we say we are “taking” a photo.  The verb implies that we are acquiring something – and as is the case with all things acquired, there is some degree of value attached thereto.  

Arguably, in this case the value is in limited to the eye of the amateur photographer unless you win some photo contest or you get an exceptionally great and likely rare photo that’s appreciated by other friends or family members. The pros have other incentives – while the technical composition and subject matter of their photographs are certainly important, the quality of their work correlates directly to their livelihood.  In other words, they have a whole other kind of skin in the game.

But at least in my case (and I suspect I’m not alone here), the taking of photographs for nearly 50 years gave me validation, documentation.  After all, if it looks good, then it is good… right?  

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I’m not talking so much about my own personal appearance (although if I’m honest, there have been many photos of me that I hope no one ever saw besides Honest Ed and me).

I’m talking about life. What did – does – my life look like? Was it as f*cked up as I remember or did it look fairly normal?  Was my mother crazy or not?  Did my friends truly like me or was I just tolerated in exchange for the free Double Bubble I bought on the way to school EVERY. DAY…

Wikipedia calls the camera an “image-forming device”, and a photographic plate, photographic film or a silicon electronic image sensor is the “capture medium”.  An image-forming device.  How about that - image-forming.  Since memory and imagination often inconsistent with factual reality, cameras made it possible to get just the facts, ma’am.

Yet it seems both naïve and unlikely that chemical emulsification of an image onto a special type of paper can ever provide an accurate depiction of what life was and is like.  We want our photos to be the best they can be – because if it looks good, it is good.

…. Right…?

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Thanks to American scientist Edwin Land’s daughter Jennifer, Land built and unveiled the first commercial instant camera in 1948.  Jennifer had repeatedly pestered her father about how tiresome it was to have to wait for film processing; she’s quoted as saying, “But Father, why can’t I see them now?” Dr. Land henceforth began assembling the solution to her complaint, no doubt to shut down the whining. 

The proliferation of instant-gratification Polaroid cameras in the mid-70s whetted my appetite for documenting a normal life, but the film itself was cost prohibitive for a pre-teen. This was a season of unprecedented f*cked-up-ness in our no-longer nuclear family, so capturing evidence of "normal" was more important than ever.  Mom had a Polaroid SX-70 that I hijacked and then annoyingly begged for film packs over and over.  

Such a thrill to seize a moment, push a button, hear the whirrrrrrr of machinery in my hand… and the immediate output of an initially unformed image on a square piece of film which included all the necessary components for development. The photo took a few minutes to process and I perhaps mistakenly believed that if I shook the film really hard, the picture would develop more quickly. 

Today, these photos are still among my collection, but time is no friend to Polaroid instant photos. The images contained therein are cracked and faded; no amount of Facetuning can sharpen features or provide a clearer image.  Maybe there are programs that would do a better job but I am too lazy to go look for them, at least at this point.

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I love my photo collection.  With the arrival of social media and digital photography, I've had the opportunity to share some of these treasures with a vast array of friends and family literally around the world.  I honestly don't care if they're "good" pictures or not;  they are like little boxes of memories that we can pass around and enjoy together.  

(But God help you if you post a bad picture of me.  Just sayin.)

What Was... and What Is

Just over a year ago... December of 2017 ranked in the top three worst months of my life.


Our beloved oldest child had been kicked out of the house in an effort to wake him up to his own self-destruction.  If you’ve ever had to make that decision yourself, then you will understand the exhaustion and terror and searing heartache that goes with it.


My better half was in the wound/burn unit at St. Elizabeth’s again with an indescribably horrible leg wound that refused to heal despite some mega-powerful IV antibiotics.  The wound care unit is a secure area where family members and visitors have to “scrub in” - meaning that you have to wash your hands vigorously with a special soap then don a mask and gown before you can enter the unit. After you’ve visited you have to remove the mask and gown and then re-wash your hands before you can leave.


My dad - my best friend - had died three months earlier from complications following a stroke.  I NEEDED to talk to him, dammit, I needed him to tell me what I should do next and that it was all going to be okay and that he was proud of his baby girl for being strong.  It was completely unfair that he was dead and I was pissed at God for his cruel timing.


Our brave sweet daughter was probably the strongest person in our family during this season;  she stayed close to me and we sort of held each other up.  She too would faithfully put on her mask and gown and we’d go visit Daddy and try to make each other laugh.  She said she wanted one of those ugly yellow gowns for her prom dress.


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My sister and her kids came to visit during this time which was a wonderful slice of home, a little oasis of normal.  Well, as normal as we can be, anyway.  We’ve always been oddly pleased with our own weirdness... “normal” is for lemmings.



Oh yes, and I was working full time as well. I brought my laptop to the hospital with me when I couldn’t be in the office, and I kept all the balls in the air to the best of my ability.  Thankfully I was also surrounded by capable individuals who kept the oars in the water even when the captain was absent or even just absent-minded.



In summary - I was a mess.  My throat felt constricted most of the time and I would cry at the drop of a hat.  I worried about our son constantly - Was he cold?  Was he eating?  Was he even alive?  I was worried sick about Dave - how much more can he possibly stand?  How much more can I possibly stand?


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Between Christmas and New Year’s, the inevitable decision was made to amputate Dave’s left leg below the knee.  He’s already lost his right leg back in April 2017; but in both situations, the infections his body tried to fight were otherwise fatal. Surgery was scheduled for the morning of New Year’s Eve.



I talked to my friend Tammy back in Tennessee... since June of 1994, she has been my primary counsel for rational distinction between what is self-pity versus self-care.  She is a tiny little person but her unwavering faith gives her an almost super human strength, especially when things feel like they’re blowing apart.  She’s really generous with that strength when someone else needs to borrow it.



Upon learning of Dave’s impending surgery, she dropped everything and came to Nebraska, to sit with me during the surgery and hand me Kleenex and listen to all of my troubles... and then told me she was proud of me and that everything would be ok.



Through what can only be described as a divine series of events, Tammy helped me make arrangements for our son’s admission to one of the country’s best rehab programs.  I was able to reach him, and he begrudgingly agreed to go.  And on New Year’s Day of 2018, my friend Tammy literally picked up my kid and took him to Atlanta where he caught another flight to California and started a new chapter in his own story.


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And now we've just celebrated New Year's 2019.  Dave is downstairs making brunch and balancing the checkbook;  he has gotten comfortable with his prostheses and is getting around on his own really well.  He’s had a couple of scary infections which have required additional hospitalizations in 2018...
But he's had a good long healthy stretch since November, and we’ve had a storybook Christmas.


Jamie came home for a week, clear-eyed and remarkably mature, and Grace is excited about her  last semester of high school because she has several classes with her bestie.


What's new with me?  Well, I mentioned earlier that I was working full time - I have since I was 22. Thirty-three years later, I can say that I’ve surprised myself and others with a long and successful career.


But you know that saying... nobody lies on their deathbed regretting that they didn’t work enough.  I haven’t done a great job of keeping all the balls in the air for a while now anyway, and I think we have a tough season ahead with Dave's health.


So I have formally resigned from what I’ve considered to be the best job of my life... and now I’m taking some time to just be Mrs. Rubel. To just be Mom.  To just be me, whoever the hell that is. Kind of looking forward to finding out.


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It’s been a minute since I’ve blogged.  That canyon business (see previous post) has been a hard thing to climb out of and I can’t say whether I’m out yet or not.  I honestly don’t know.



But it's 2019 - and by GOD I’m going to start writing every flipping day this year.  It may not always be a blog post, but I am going to write something every day.  EVERY DAY.



Who am I kidding?  I can’t promise what I’ll do tomorrow.  Let’s keep it reasonable - I will write today.

The Canyon

There’s a canyon in my chest, and I am afraid I will fall in it if I wander too close the edge.  There are some rickety steps that descend along the wall, but no handrail.

I wonder what’s down there, though.  It feels uncomfortably hot, like a humid Thursday in early August with no breeze.  My throat closes at the thought of trying to breathe in that atmosphere – it’s so different than the normal air up here.

So I’m not venturing down there.  Screw it, I’ll just live nearby but stay away from it.

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The excavation began back on August 3^rd, 2017, when I got one of those few calls that everyone gets at some point in their lives.  You know the calls I mean – where the caller hesitates for a few moments before delivering some news that they know you don’t want to hear, and they sure as hell don’t want to be the one to tell it to you.  My sister called to say that our father had a stroke and was being admitted to the same hospital where he was born and where all of our babies have been born for the last two generations.

She found him around 5 p.m., sitting where he always sits at his kitchen table, laptop open and cable news on the television.  He was barely conscious, mouth hanging slack, and no one will ever be able to tell us how long he’d been that way.  He’d spoken to his sister earlier that day to talk about plans for the day, but then he didn’t answer the phone when a friend called around 2 p.m.

So – my sister called to deliver the news and to get my agreement with the neurosurgeon’s recommendation to do an emergency embolectomy.  This is where they go into your brain and remove the offending blood clot.  Without the surgery, he would certainly die – but with it, he had a chance at some rehabilitation and recovery. 

Easy decision. 

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Between August 3^rd and early September, we had our dad.  Though the doctors said he’d lost 2/3 of his brain function, he seemed to be recovering.  I visited twice during these weeks and took turns with my sisters and aunt in sitting with him, keeping him company, and encouraging him during rehab sessions. 

He rambled and talked at length, with flashes of complete lucidity followed by a conversation with his long-departed parents.  His swallowing function never came back, and he would plead with anyone who would listen to get him a Diet Coke, sometimes demanding that somebody better get him a f*#king Diet Coke or else.

His dog Pete (a mixed breed but mostly Bichon Frise) had been certified as a service animal several months prior, so Pete came up to the hospital and spent hours sleeping at the foot of Dad’s bed or sitting in his lap.

He stood up and was able to take several assisted steps in physical therapy; he learned how to shave and brush his teeth again;  he played “bat the balloon” with the occupational therapist, never once letting the balloon hit the floor.  He told funny stories to visitors, flipped birds at his sister, complained about the tiny Asian therapist who he called Tokyo Rose and accused her of tormenting him.

He held my hand while I read Psalms to him for our own little Sunday service one morning, and he closed his eyes while I quietly sang “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” to him and to Pete.  I like to think he was enjoying it, although he may well have been thinking, “dear Jesus, please make her stop”.  

But he got pneumonia.  And diverticulitis.  And he fell out of bed.  And things generally went to hell in a handbasket from there.

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I won’t belabor the grim details of his last ten days or so.  I am going to leave them down there in that boiling canyon in my chest and hopefully they will be incinerated because I don’t ever want to think about them again.

On Monday morning, September 11^th, we decided to have him undergo a palliative care assessment.  This is where they weigh out the pros and cons of continuing rehabilitative and recovery efforts versus “comfort care” with lots of morphine and support for an easy departure.

It was (mostly) a straightforward decision.  I can never call it an “easy” decision, for there was nothing easy about it.  NOTHING.

The palliative care team said that it would probably be a few days before Daddy took his last breath.  So I booked a plane ticket for first thing Tuesday morning and made arrangements to stay in Tennessee for at least the next week.

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Daddy has been late for every appointment, every event, every meal, every everything for his entire life.  Years ago, we coined the phrase  “Morton Standard Time” to describe the alternative schedule by which he set his own clock (and sadly, many others of us seem to have inherited or adopted ourselves.)

But on Monday evening, September 11^th at 9 p.m. eastern, he left early.  After all, he had someplace to be.

Am I mad, or hurt, or disappointed that I wasn’t there to see him off?  Maybe, selfishly, a little disappointed… holding my mother’s hand when she drew her last breath is one of the most treasured memories I will ever have.  I thought I’d have a matching version when it was his time, too.

But alas, once again God’s timing is perfect and well-ordered and completely off-script from my game plan, and Dad’s suffering ended shortly after his third palliative dose of morphine.

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And so the augur was set, chewing through my sternum and organs and leaving the hot and miserable canyon initially described herein.  The next few days were incredibly busy what with planning and well-wishers and lots of food and others in need of comfort for their grief.  There was no time to contemplate my own grief.  So I shoved it down in the hole and kept moving.

Dad wanted to be cremated, but the funeral home allowed me a private visit with his body for a couple of hours on Wednesday afternoon. 

When they opened the door to the room where he lay in a plain casket, I gasped and literally took a step backwards.  There was that beak, sticking up from a pillow inside of a box.  Those big dopey Dumbo ears that he could wiggle on command (and I can, too!)  Longish gray and brown curls – we’d never managed to get his barber to visit him in the hospital.  Dismissing any thoughts of decorum, I put my head on his big barrel chest and sobbed on him and at him.

But the chest was silent, hard, cold – empty.  And I knew he wasn’t in there anyway.  This was just the package that the soul of my father occupied for 76 years.  Seventy-six years of good, full living with plenty of chaos and drama and love and heartbreak and fun.  Lots of fun.   Boxes can only take so much fun before they wear out.

My grief poured out all over that old box before they took it for cremation later that afternoon.  But grief doesn’t incinerate.

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I have done my share of crying in the 8 days since then.  I arrived at 9:59 before his 10 a.m. graveside service (Morton Standard Time, and it wasn’t on purpose), and I sat with my despair and my sisters and brothers on the front row of folding chairs in front of a small black box.  And I wept.  And wept, and wept and wept.  Then I wept some more.  Then it was time to go. I put a little Diet Coke next to the little black box and we all got up and left.

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I’d written his obituary earlier that week, and I’d decided that I’d like to say a few words at his memorial service.  I wrote out my thoughts in a couple of draft versions … but I didn’t finalize them until the last 15 minutes before the memorial service began.  After my earlier disintegrations, folks including myself were nervous that I wouldn’t be able to deliver a coherent message.

As many folks later said, that was the best funeral they’d ever attended.  Not so much because of what I said, but because there was so much love and joy filling the room.  If you were among the lucky friends and family who were there last Friday afternoon, then you’ll know what I mean.  God was present, offering comfort and peace… and when it was time for me to talk, I felt Daddy there, supporting me and cheering me on and saying, “you’ve got this, Baby Girl.”

And so for the last time on this side of heaven, I think I made my Dad proud.  Here is what I said:

How are you today?

I’m just fine, thanks for asking. 

How about you?  You fine?

Well, it certainly is a fine day to honor a fine man.

That’s what folks have always said to me about Dad… that he is a fine man. Not the “he’s so fine” sense (well maybe some of y’all did, but he’s my dad.  Don’t be gross.)    But more along the lines of a “fine, upstanding citizen”. 

These are not words that my father would use to describe himself.  Dad considered himself a rascal, a scalawag, a scoundrel.  And he thought that being a “fine upstanding citizen” was something that would always be just a little bit beyond his reach.

Now why is that?  After all, he’s from one of Knoxville’s finest families, and he grew up in this fine neighborhood, in this fine church.  He taught me to ride a bike in the parking lot of Reed’s Fine Foods right across the street.  He had many of the “finer things” growing up that others didn’t have, and his parents were truly fine, upstanding citizens themselves. 

But he made mistakes along the way – some little bitty ones, and some doozies.  Somehow he’d gotten the idea that fine people are perfect.  Fine people don’t have guilt, fine people don’t cuss or drink J&B or eat too much red meat.

I think Dad chased the notion of becoming a fine man his whole life – and I think most of us would agree that he got there a long time ago.  You see, my dad is absolutely with his Savior Jesus Christ right now.  I am not crying for poor old pitiful me anymore (you shoulda seen me this morning though).  I am celebrating that our Jan is hanging out with Buddy and P-tee and Normie and Fred and his mom and dad – and his sweet sweet Ruthie.  He’s probably even passed a kind word with Linda and Mildred.

If you ever went anywhere with Jan, you knew it was going to be a while before you got back.  He had to stop and talk to EVERYBODY.  It drove me crazy when I was little – what on earth did he have to talk about, and for heaven’s sake, why did it take so long?  As I got older, mid-teens maybe, I noticed that it really didn’t matter who he was talking to – it was going to take however long it was going to take, and it didn’t matter if he was talking to a Fortune 500 CEO or the kid bagging his groceries.  He was going to visit a minute, and maybe ask about their mom, and then he’d be ready to go on.

You see, our dad loved everyone for who they are, not what they have or do.  He just loved PEOPLE.  He loved all y’all. He loved us – he loves us still.

And that old rascal who thought he was always going to be a black sheep -  he has been white as snow for a long long time.  Rest high on that mountain, Dad.  There will never be one finer.

The canyon is still there, and I’m still afraid of looking too close and or falling in.
 

But it doesn’t look quite as deep as I thought it was yesterday.

No Guts, No Glory

Me, last Thursday morning, 6 a.m.:  "Yes, good grief, it's just a HERRneeyah repair, it's not like it's a major surgery.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know all about the risks of anesthesia and how I need to rest for a couple of weeks afterwards.  I've got it.  Duly noted, yes, I know you'll protect my personal health information blahdeblahdeeblah". 

Now just shove my guts back inside that hole behind my belly button, staple in a mesh screen door so they can't get out again, then sew the whole shebang closed.  End of story, no big deal.  I've been reading WebMD and I know what you're supposed to do here.  Heck, I'd do it my own damn self if I could, or I'd at least keep waiting until they're actually hanging outside of my body and ruining other peoples' supper.  I really don't have time for this.  But whatever.  Hurry up and bring me some drugs;  looking forward to getting a good nap this morning."

**********

Me, last Thursday around noon:  "Wha-a-ah...wherrre amm I? Oh hi Georgeanne, I remember now.  Thank you for bringing me for myyyyOHMYLORD MY BELLY IS KILLING ME!  I've been mauled by a wild animal or attacked by an axe murderer!  Oh sweet lord, has anyone here seen The Revenant?  Because that's what's been done to my belly.  Me and Leo, gutted and flayed.  Ow ow ow ow ow owOWW!!"

Enter Dr. Rivera, the axe murderer/wild animal who did the procedure. "Your hernia was a little bigger than we'd thought, about the size of my fist.  As you can see, I made an incision that crosses your navel from north to south, and because of the abdominal muscle incision, you are going to be in some pain for the rest of the day and then sore for the next few days.  I'd like for you to stay here tonight, then you can go home tomorrow."

Me:  "Dr. Rivera, did you see The Revenant?"

Dr. Rivera:  (smiles kindly and says, "there there".)

**********

Me, last Thursday night:  "What do you mean, I can't have any more morphine??  I was GUTTED like a fish today for God's sake, and it hurts to breathe.  Hell, it hurts to even ask you for pain medicine, so get going.  HAVE YOU SEEN THE REVENANT??  What's that?  I just had some 30 minutes ago??  Humph.  Your clock is broken, because I am dying here.  And no, I'm not going to cough or get up and walk around.  If you can't manage more drugs, sister, then don't come back until you can."

**********

Me, last Friday morning around 3 a.m.:  "Thank you, Jenn, you are the best nurse ever. (note:  Jenn wouldn't give me any more morphine either, but she sat with me in the dark for about an hour and we talked about our families while the Motrin kicked in and I forgot all about The Revenant.)

**********

Me, last Friday around noon:  "Yes, hell yes, I'm ready to go.  Get me out of here, it's like 90 degrees up in here."

**********

Me, last Friday afternoon, speaking to my family:  "Do you guys remember seeing The Revenant?  Well, yeah!  That!  Does anyone want to see my belly?  Cause it's gross and cool.  I probably won't ever be able to wear a bikini again (big sigh of relief from my teenagers here).  What?  No, well, no I haven't worn one since Reagan was president, but that's beside the point.  I'm scarred for life now.  This new scar, plus the C-section zip line I have for both of you, has ruined my Sports Illustrated modeling career.  I hope you're happy with yourselves."

**********

Me, yesterday at work:  "No, I'm not tired.  OK, well yes, maybe a little tired.  By the way - did you see The Revenant?"

:-)

On Humility

Remember the Disney chipmunks, Chip and Dale?  They had a wonderful routine:

Chip – You first.

Dale – No, you first.

Chip – Really, please, you go first

Dale – No, no, you first!

Not long ago, I spent a lot of time in airport lines and in Atlanta traffic, and I think we’ve forgotten this simple lesson from Chip and Dale.  We compete and jostle in our efforts to “be first”, whether in a line or in traffic or in our quiet judgments of each other.

My dad’s family was what is often referred to as “old money”. Circumstances stemming from a parental divorce and my own reprobate behavior reclassified me as a nearly penniless “black sheep” – I consoled myself that at least I wasn’t “white trash”, plus those old money people were “judgmental snobs” anyway.

Umm – who was being judgmental?

**************************** 

It’s common and sadly almost imperceptible in the mirror, this innate ranking system where we determine our own worth in comparison with our assessments of others.  It’s also not new – in Luke 14, Jesus taught the paradoxical lesson that the best prevention against humiliation is humility, which also yields the greatest rewards.

 

This story from Jesus' life takes place in the home of a prominent Pharisee who'd invited him to the Sabbath meal under false pretenses.  Beginning with verse 7: 

 

When he noticed how the guests picked the places of honor at the table, he told them this parable:  "When someone invites you to a wedding feast, do not take the place of honor, for a person more distinguished than you may have been invited.  If so, the host who invited both of you will come and say to you, 'Give this person your seat.'  Then, humiliated, you will have to take the least important place.  But when you are invited, take the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he will say to you, 'Friend, move up to a better place.'  Then you will be honored in the presence of all the other guests.  For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted."

 
Over the years, God in His boundless wisdom and love has given me a steady education on humility - the kind that breaks a judgmental, “me-first” spirit and draws me into His loving, forgiving embrace.  I don’t get it 100% right every day…but my “you-first” days are also my most joyous.