Room In the Inn

                                        

I’ve known the story as long as I can remember. Every Christmas Eve I’d hear it again. As a child my family gathered in the living room after a candlelit dinner. Basking in the warmth of family, Christmas lights twinkling, and anticipating opening gifts under the tree, we’d listen as the family patriarch read the second chapter of Luke’s Gospel from the Bible. “And it came to pass in those days…”. Joseph travels with “Mary, his betrothed wife who was with child,” to Bethlehem to be counted in the required census. On the way pregnant Mary goes into labor. Her Son is born, wrapped in swaddling cloth, and laid in a manger because “there was no room for them in the inn".

In my imagination, fueled by Christmas pageants and nativity scenes, I see Joseph frantically knocking on doors while full-term Mary sits on a donkey. Finally a reluctant innkeeper is awakened, comes to the door, and agrees to let them stay in the stable. That night the angels sing and shepherds come, for the Savior is born, bringing “glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!” 2000+ years later, lights still twinkle, music fills the air, and followers of the Child come.

In the wee hours of the night I lay in bed pondering my life today, December 18, 2013. Our children have listened to the same Story, heard the same Scripture, adopted the same traditions. However, I wasn’t much thinking about the Story. Instead I was feeling sorry for myself. Thinking of what I’d be missing this year. Home and hearth. Laughter from the kitchen as we make tea time tassies and fudge. Squeals of delight as grandchildren scamper through the house. The Christmas tree we cut down the day after Thanksgiving. I played out different scenarios, mentally trying to finagle a way around circumstances to re-create the Christmas of my dreams. Searching for ways to “make it the same,” a place for family to gather and laugh and love and celebrate and make memories together.

Lee’s been in rehab for double knee replacements. Great! We planned that. He’ll be discharged today. He's doing well. In time for Christmas. Wonderful! What we didn’t plan was icy weather and spewing water pipes at home in our absence. No kitchen right now, and significant damage in the family room. We won’t be “home for the holidays” in the ways I had imagined. Although our homeowner’s insurance is providing accommodations, it’s not the same. Christmas in a motel? Right now we’re in a Residence Inn. We drove up in my Toyota Highlander and were cheerfully greeted by the hospitality team. We didn’t have to beg for a place to stay. Though I’ve been pregnant several times, those times are past. No pressing need for immediate care. Our Inn has nine floors with elevators. Clean rooms. Tastefully decorated. Comfortable. Even a refrigerator and small kitchen. Someone else changes the sheets, washes the towels, empties the garbage. There’s even a nice breakfast buffet. A swimming pool and hot tub. A place we might even dream of being under other circumstances. But it’s Christmas. Time to be home. Time to celebrate. Where will we gather?

As I lay pondering these thoughts a sudden revelation came. There’s room in this Inn! That night long ago, the reason for the season, there was NO ROOM in the Inn! I suspect the travelers on that moonlit night long ago had other plans for welcoming the Child. Plans of which we know nothing. Those plans don’t even get a note in His-Story. For the Child was born that night in a manger, and nothing else mattered. The world’s never been the same.

The Story tells nothing of despair over barnyard accommodations. It tells nothing of failed birthing plans, or plans at all, except the plan to bring peace, joy, and love to a hurting world. It tells nothing of loss and disappointment. It tells nothing of shepherds grumbling about conditions around the manger. It tell nothing of cranky angels singing in the cold night air. Instead, all eyes focus, all ears hear, all hearts worship, the Child.

Where will we gather this Christmas? My plans failed. But I know there's room in the Inn. For some, it’s a street lit night in downtown Portland, or under a bridge in Tillamook, or a refugee camp in Manyplace, Earth, or a tent behind a warehouse, or a cardboard box in places I don’t generally go. For others it’s a cozy home with stockings hung by the chimney with care, or a resort in Hawaii or a cabin at Whistler.  I’m not sure who all may show up. Our children with their children, but who else? Perhaps shepherds and wise ones? Angels? For I now remember in my nighttime musing what matters most—seeking and finding, gathering together, wherever, to celebrate the Child. 

Merry Christmas!

                 "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!"

                                                                                                                 

                                                                                                                    Luke 2:14

Orphans Now

She was ready when we arrived at Town Center Village. "Ready to go, Mom?" She looked up and smiled. With gentle hugs and misty eyes others gathered. They said their good byes. She pulled one caregiver close and kissed her cheek. She said “Thank you” to another. My eyes welled. My Mother.  In only a few short weeks she had made her mark on the hearts of those around. 

She sat regally in her wheelchair as my son rolled her from the care facility to the car and gently eased her in. Her last car ride. Home. The Home that would become ours because she was there.   90 miles later we arrived at Country Havens. Her room was ready, a place of beauty. She smiled. We went every day and stayed into the night. We, her children,  wished her good morning, kissed her goodnight, and held her hands in between. Nineteen days more. Our home--it was our  mother's heart for as long as we could remember.

Now she's gone.  I miss her. We’re orphans now, my brothers and sister and I. She never told us how hard it would be. 

60 years ago she birthed me, her first daughter, third child. She and Daddy gave me my name.  I was theirs. They held me, stroked my head, gazed into my eyes, told me they loved me. In the end I did the same for them. Now it's over. They're gone. Can it be?

Ours was a long good bye, the good bye of children for their Mother. Alzheimer’s Disease robbed her of who she was, and stole from us the Mother we had known.  Some say, on hearing of her passing, “It was a blessing. She’s no longer suffering.” Right in so many ways, dreadfully wrong in others. Conceived through love and passion for our father, we were borne of her flesh, birthed through her tears and joy, and from her deep desire to be our Mother. She gave us life. She defined us from our first days to her last. She still does, for her imprint is on us forever. We became known as “Bob and Betty’s children.”   In the beginning she and Daddy defined us. Somewhere along the way, I’m not sure when, we came to define them, in the circular paradox of the universe. They gave us our identity, only to have us give them theirs. 

Mom loved being Mother. Her heart embraced not only her own children, but the “others” who came with us. She welcomed and loved our friends.  I was 14 when I introduced her to the boy who would one day be my husband, and make me a Mother.  She loved to tell the story. With a twinkle in her eye, she would say to him, “I met you when you were 14.”  She became his Mother, too, the Mother he never had. Finally, in her last years, she believed that he was her son not only through her choice, but by birth. She claimed him as her own, and indeed, he was.

As I watched her struggle “comfortably” during her final hours, I pondered my history, and that of my brothers and sister. Mom was a determined mother. She wanted the best for each of us. She had dreams. She wanted us to have happy homes, a decent education, good jobs, health, friends, live with integrity, serve others. She wanted us to go to church and obey the rules and look good, but even more, to be good.  Encompassing all was her longing for us to love God and get along with others, and to someday be together in an Earth made new. 

Like all mothers, she made mistakes. I believe these mistakes were motivated out of her desire we grow up to follow God and love others.  She told of a time when I was a toddler. I refused to kneel for prayer at our family worship. Though I have no memory of it, she said she spanked me. She was still apologizing 50 years later. She was  quick to ask forgiveness and ready to forgive, no matter the infraction. 

She and Daddy wanted peace and sometimes relinquished their own “rights” in hopes of saving a relationship. At the same time, they had a keen sense of justice and would not tolerate meanness. We weren’t allowed to call each other bad names or to even point imaginary guns at people  (I’m not sure how well that worked--ask my brothers!). “Shut up” was forbidden, though “hush up” was an acceptable alternative. 

Mom loved hair. When I was a little girl, she braided my hair and tied ribbons at the ends Sometimes at night she’d deftly twist strands of my damp hair around her finger. She’d hold two bobbie pins between her lips and at exactly the right moment she’d extract her finger, take the bobbie pins, and pin my hair tightly to my head, until my head was covered with little mounds of pinned hair.  She’d tie a bandana over the top, then do the same to her own hair. The next morning she’d take out the bobbie pins, and we’d both have curly hair. She liked curls. During these last years,  I’d take the curling iron and do the best I could to make her hair beautiful. She was always appreciative as she admired herself in the mirror. I will miss those times.

Mom loved to sew. She didn’t buy my clothes in my growing-up years.  Instead, she bought yards of fabric and carefully fashioned my school dresses (no pants yet!). She loved pretty fabric, and even in her last months, she found contentment in holding a piece of colorful cloth. 

She baked bread and cinnamon rolls and pies. She stretched the food budget by canning hundreds of quarts of fruit, cooking beans and rice, and making powdered milk. She enjoyed her kitchen, and took pride in setting a pretty table with her fine China. She insisted on good table manners. Even more, she was a gracious hostess and enjoyed good conversation. 

There’s another empty place at the table now. 

Mom married young. 18 years old. She sewed her own wedding dress, veil and all. She became a teenage mother a year later and quit college, never looking back. But she did look forward. She returned to college and graduated from nursing school at 40.  For the next 18 years she  delighted in being a neonatal nurse.

When grandchildren began to arrive, her world changed again.  11 grandsons, 3 granddaughters. Next year, her youngest grandchild will graduate from high school. It will be the first grandchild’s graduation she won’t celebrate. She loved all her grandchildren dearly. In 2007, not even 6 years ago, she and Daddy drove alone in their own car to Vancouver to welcome their first great-grandchild. 

Mom, I found you sitting on your bed the morning after Daddy died. With tears streaming down your face, you looked up at me and sobbed, “He’s gone. He died. He’s gone now.” Then you wiped your eyes and declared, “I’ve got to pull myself together.” That’s how you lived life. Pulling yourself together when you needed to, to get the job done.

 It’s strange to talk of Mom in the past tense. “Was” and “were”  feel unfamiliar and awkward. It’s going to take a long time to change my language. 

We’re orphans now. First Daddy, now you. You’re gone. There’s much I’d like to ask. Life crept up on us all, and here we are. How was it for you, Mom? You went through the losses of your parents. I saw you cry quiet tears, not the sloppy weeping of my own grief. I didn’t see the wrenching of your hearts like I feel in my own.  I know you felt the pain. I know you missed them, for I know you loved them deeply. What was it like for you? How did you go on? Was it a resignation that life comes and life goes? Was it the assurance this life is a harbinger of the next, you would see them again, your parents were no longer in this “veil of tears”? Did you stuff your feelings? Did you lay awake at night with an inconsolable ache in your heart? Did you and Daddy hold and comfort each other when I didn’t see?  Did you trust God more? Were my eyes blinded to your grief, because you were the parent, and I was your child? The natural order seems to be for parents to comfort their children, not the other way around.  Is that why I’m missing you, because you’re not here to tell me it’s going to be okay? What was it like for you to be an orphan? I’ve had no training.

Your children watched you grow old. Not a bad thing. You lived  through countless joys and sorrows for 84 years.  In your final days  all your children encompassed you. Hospice helped manage your pain. We had time together. We said “See you in the Morning.” Horrible, unexplicable, sudden tragedies occurred last week. The Boston Marathon bombings. The fertilizer  plant explosion in Texas. Car crashes. Famines. Wars. Avalanches. Storms. More. These made headline news, while your obituary will be tucked in a back page of a newspaper. Yours was anticipated and ordinary, as deaths go. But for us, you were no ordinary woman.  You were our Mother, and there is not another you. We will miss you as long as we live. 

So good night Mom, goodnight for now.  We’ll see you in the Morning.  xoxo

Good bye, Mama

Dear Mama,

The long good bye is almost at its end, so it seems. You're in a hospital 90 miles away. They're keeping you "comfortable" (What on earth is that?). How can you be anywhere near comfortable when you can't eat, can't drink, can't walk, can barely open your eyes, and have an interminable cough? Will the sound of our voices, the touch of our hands, the "knowing" of our presence bring comfort? I hope so. 

Nearly six months ago you leaned over Daddy's lifeless form, felt his forehead, and kissed him. You turned, looked  into my eyes and solemnly whispered,  "He's gone. He died." You kissed him again, and again. You left the room where he lay and kept returning, until you finally closed the door for the last time. Your life has not been the same. It seems as though you've been racing to follow the man who stole your heart a lifetime ago.

My mind is traveling to years long ago, when I ran to keep up with you. Now I only want to run--to get there fast--so I can keep you forever. I don't want to let you go. I want to be there by your side. I want to hold your hand. I want to fiercely tell you that I love you, and hope you know. 

When I was a small child, I called you "Mother," the endearing term you had used with yours. Later you became "Mommy." During my teen years, you became "Mom," the name that stuck the longest. I sprinkled these with others: "The Hostess with the Mostest," "Madame Chairwoman," "Mother Superior." These past years your vulnerability brought me to "Mama," an endearing term that all your children now use. Though the Mother of our memories, you've become our Child. We long to protect you, to comfort you, to make the going easy. What can we do? We love you!

Mama, I will miss you, though I will keep you forever. In ways that defy explanation, I will travel beyond my memories to  a place where tears will be no more, where there will be no more sickness or dying, where all will be love and joy and peace and beauty. We'll be together again. Thank you for showing the way. 

Your daughter      xoxo

P.S. I'm on my way--please wait.

                                          Last Friday 3/15/13 at Town Center Village

Life is like a Pie

Happy Birthday, Mom. You're 84 years old today.

You always liked making pies. You were good at it. Really good.  You measured and mixed, rolled and folded,  filled and crimped. Apple. Berry. Peach. Apricot. Cherry. Pumpkin. Coconut Cream. Chocolate. Lemon Meringue. And more. Into the oven and out.  We waited eagerly for our first slice. You served it with a smile, and we all smiled back. Your pies were simply the best. Ask anyone who knows.

I see you still. You stand at the counter making pies, your hands dusted with flour. You dot dabs of butter on the crust and sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar. You place in oven and soon the aroma of pies wafts through the house. Sweet memories! Why do my eyes mist?

Today you're 84, and your pie baking days are over. When we packed up your kitchen I carefully wrapped up your Pyrex pie dishes. I gave some away. I brought some home. I kept your wooden rolling pin and gave your marble one to Josh, who gave it to you when he was 5.

I've been thinking that life is like pie. It goes so fast and tastes so good and is gone much too soon. Have you ever noticed how fast pie goes? Even 8-10 pieces? Daddy told me time flies. He was right.

You need the right ingredients, and how you mix it matters. Too much of this, too little of that, and you have tough crust or tart filling.  The rhyme, "Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice" fit you from the beginning. Your life has been filled with "nice" for as along as I can remember. You took the ingredients you were given 84 years ago, and mixed them with the flavors of all the years that followed, and made a beautiful life. Even now, in the confusion of your mind, you graciously smile and sweetly declare, "I love you."

Mom, when you baked pies, I remember how my mouth watered as I anticipated the first bite. I'd lick my lips and wait with expectation. That first piece, so tasty! I was eager for the next, and not disappointed. You'd usually cut a pie into 8-10 slices and serve it on your China, sometimes warm,  with a dollop of vanilla ice cream (I'm getting hungry thinking about it).

84 years! 8.4 slices so far, each worth 10 years.There's nothing like the first slice.

First slice. Filled with the delight and exuberance of childhood. There's an impish picture of you at 2. I wonder who took the photo? Probably your doting Daddy or your adoring Mother.  It's apparent you relished that first slice of life, eagerly devouring each bite as you shared the pie with your two brothers. This slice still brings smiles.

Second slice. School and friends. Church and baptism. Cooking. Sewing. High school dates and graduation.  Commitment and Covenant.  Welcoming a soldier home from War. You married Daddy at 18 and a year later had your first child, a son. This slice, still fresh and warm.

Third slice. Second son,  first daughter (me!),  third son, and a driver's license. You took us to swimming lessons even though you disliked water except in a tub. You canned dozens of jars of applesauce and peaches and pears and dreamed of finishing the nursing degree you started during your second slice of life. You sewed my dresses and braided my hair. You and Daddy bought a tent trailer, a step up in our camping expeditions. Trips to the Redwoods and even one to Canada. You kissed hurts and mended hearts and loved us well. This slice tastes good!

Fourth slice. Another daughter with the first bite and daughter-in law with the last. Nursing school for you. Yours and your kids' graduations. Welcoming friends and feeding us all--often pie! Good years, they were. Yum!  This slice is full of flavor!

Fifth slice. Seasoned with weddings of children and sprinkled with grandchildren. Working as an R.N. Moving children out and parents in. Burying a father-in-law and caring for a Mother-in-law. Relishing family and anticipating the next piece of pie. This slice still delicious.

Sixth slice. More grandchildren. Travel near and abroad to hug them all. Still working. Burying your Mother. Moving in your Father. Still dreaming and scheming. This slice is going fast!

Seventh slice. You're retired! Motor home trips. Move to Tillamook. Designing and decorating a new home. New friends and neighbors. Building a new life, and you did it well. Volunteering at the hospital. Small group study.  Moving your Daddy--my Grandpa-- to a nursing home.  Delighting in visits with your children and grandchildren. Celebrating another decade of birthdays. Sharing the sweetness of this slice with Daddy.

Eighth slice. Enjoying your home on the hill with Daddy, planning, planting. Great-Grandchildren arrive. Publisher's Clearinghouse and scams. Resting in the comfort of each other (There's not many slices left).

Ninth slice. You're eating it now. It's getting old. The flavor is different. It doesn't taste like the first slice, or the second, or any of the rest. Daddy died. We helped you move to Adult Foster Care. And now, into a skilled nursing facility. You're in pain. You have a hard time walking, or even getting up. You wear a bib when you eat, and someone else serves you. You need help dressing. Your new friends  sit beside you in their wheelchairs as you sit in yours--- momentary friends, as you are for them. You  find comfort in their presence. When I walk in, you smile and reach for my hand. You don't remember the name you gave me. but you know we belong. You don't remember the flavors of the other slices that we thought you'd never forget. This slice is flavored with tears, yet sprinkled with smiles.

How many slices left? I'm not sure, but it seems as though the last is going quickly. It's hard to take the final bite. We want to savor every crumb and lick the dish and get all of you we can. There is something of YOU that your children cling to and don't want to let go. We want to touch your parchment skin and hold your hand, because you have held our hearts. We still catch the flavor, the essence of YOU, our special and beloved mother. We hope your day is happy.

There's another pie coming. It's called Heavenly. Lick your lips. The best is yet to be.

Your daughter

Sue  xoxo

                         

(Pictures coming of the slices of Mom's life......)