Have you ever?

Have you ever?

Have you ever watched a life unravel?

You notice it first around the edges as details slip between the threads.

      The checkbook no longer balances.

      Accidents happen and there are no explanations.

      Appointments are forgotten and recipes fail.

       Familiar faces and their stories become strange.

       Your loved one slowly fades away.

       Connections are broken.

        Hugs are exchanged without warmth.

        Conversation is like weaving without a loom.

        Mind and hands, once busy with plans and projects, now fidget with a string.

Have you ever watched a life unravel?  I have.  Alzheimer's is a ruthless ripper, tearing great holes in the fabric of life.

I Am the One

I Am the One  

I am the one sobbing uncontrollably, collapsed in a crumpled heap on the hospital bed. I am the one with an empty womb and empty arms.

I am the one who saw the fleeting look of total despair in my husband's eyes as he cradled me in his arms and we sobbed together.

I am the one who watched the sorrow wash over my parents as they learned that their first grandchild had lived only 15 hours.

I am the one who saw the clenched fists buried into the mattress to keep from swinging them at the priest who said our baby died because I married out of the church.

I am the one who wept when a baby cried in church or the grocery store. I am the one who struggled to answer my little brother's questions about babies in heaven.

I am the one who found the article on new adoption policies and kept it open in my desk drawer to revive hope on long lonely days.

I am the one who felt the faint stirring of new life. I am the one who awakened from the anesthetic and looked into my husband's laughing eyes and heard his gentle words, “It's another boy and he can cry.”

I am the one sitting carefully in the hospital bed, praising God as tears of joy splash gently on our newborn son.

(from Class Exercises)

Old Cowboys

OLD COWBOYS

(Reflections following the death of Henry Applegarth  1994)

We're running out of old cowboys.

Their numbers are diminishing fast.

Have we learned all they've had to teach us?

Can we teach our children without old cowboys?

Without preaching, without nagging

but by doing what cowboys do,

they've taught us so very much.

They've taught us the lessons of life.

From the old cowboys we've learned to

pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off and

get back in the saddle no matter how many times

we're bucked off.

We've learned to carry an extra loop because

sometimes it takes too long to rebuild.

We've learned to eat dirt, get a good night's sleep

and try again in the next go-round.

We've learned to laugh at our misses,

to argue the details, and always, always

to tell the story over and over

so we can keep the memories.

We've learned to be self sufficient but

to always lend a hand to a neighbor in need.

We've learned to tighten our belts and

hope for the prices to go up next year.

We've learned to accept the sunshine

--and the rain and the snow and the wind

because all are necessary for life.

We've learned so much from the old cowboys.

Those of us who are young cowboys,

who live in harmony with nature,

those of us who are ranchers and farmers

have ready access to the lessons of life.

But how do those of us who are engineers

or teachers, or lawyers, or carpenters,

we who work in factories and offices,

how do we pass on the lessons of life?

The lessons are the same whatever we do--

we pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off and

and try again no matter how many times

we've failed to mark.

We learn to laugh at our misses,

to argue the details, and always, always

to tell the story over and over

so we can keep the memories.

We tighten our belts and hope for the future.

We learn to accept the sunshine

--and the rain and the snow and the wind

because all are necessary for life.

And, whatever else we do,

We remember our old cowboys

-- with thanksgiving --

especially at Thanksgiving.

Reflections From the Empty Nest

Reflections from the Empty Nest

I was only half asleep waiting for the phone to ring, but the harshness of its ringing in the dark was startling and I leapt to answer it before it could ring again.

“Hello. McConnell’s”

“We’re here. Finally.”

“That’s good. Any problems?”

“No, just tired. Do you realize we put almost 1300 miles on Carrie’s car?”

“I know it’s a long way. We’re glad you came.”

“What do you think of Carrie?”

“Well, she’s awfully young but we like her. Just don’t get too serious until she’s finished high school. Ok?”

“Try not to. Well, I’m pretty tired. Carrie slept most of the way home and I had to drive. Good night.”

“Good night. Thanks for calling.”

As I crawled back into bed, Norm roused slightly and mumbled, “Rick?”

“Yes, they’re home ok.”

“Good. ‘Night again.” He pulled the covers over his head and went back to sleep.

I lay listening to the quiet house. The clock in the living room chimed midnight and the cats softly purred from the foot of the bed. Rick’s was the last call to tell us that all four children had returned safely to their own places. This was the first time they’d all been home since Linda has started college. And, somewhat surprisingly, I’ve found myself enjoying the empty nest. That’s a statement I wouldn’t have made last year – one I wouldn’t have even considered five years ago. Oh, I prepared for the empty nest. I worked at keeping the marriage relationship a step above the maternal relationships. I took a new job when Linda was a senior. And, shortly before I took her off to college, I began an afghan for each of them which gave them all a good laugh – they don’t expect me to finish them for at least 10 years.

I enjoyed my children when they were little. I liked the hurry flurry when they were in elementary school, taking swimming lessons, on ball teams, in 4-H. I even enjoyed most of their junior high years and, as they assumed independence in high school, I found four delightful young adult friends.

I miss each of them in a special way but after this Thanksgiving vacation with all of them home again, I’ve discovered that they no longer fit in the nest. Oh, there is enough space. Their rooms are still here and intact (except that Nils and Linda have taken their beds with them). It’s their lifestyles that no longer mesh with ours. They all live in different time zones and it is only partially geographical.

Nils, the oldest, works for the Immigration service in Lincoln. The job doesn’t actually use his BA in English but it pays his bills and he seems happy. Going to work at 7:00 a.m. would be nearly impossible for any of the others but he seems to like his schedule,

Jody, in her junior year in college in Colorado, made arrangements to spend two weeks of her Christmas break as a teacher’s aide here. There’s no doubt that she’s going to be a teacher, however, she has managed to avoid 8:00 a.m. classes yet another semester.

Rick went to visit a friend in Kansas after he finished his National Guard training last summer and is still there. Carrie is definitely part of the reason. He has a new job as a motel night clerk working from 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. He has always liked staying up all night and sleeping all day.

And, Linda, on her first visit home since starting college in Omaha, began getting phone calls two days before she got home so we didn’t see much of her. It sounds like she’s majoring in social activity. Hopefully, she’s studying some books too.

I miss them. I miss Nils’s wit and Jody’s company. I miss Rick’s zest and Linda’s music. I don’t miss waiting up for each of them to get home. I don’t miss juggling meals to fit around as many schedules as possible. And, their teen years were nothing compared to this vacation. With their current schedules, some one was sleeping and someone was starving all the time. No, the chicks no longer fit in the nest. I see the wisdom of the mother eagle that dismantles her nest to encourage the chicks to fly off. I’ll delight in my children coming home to visit. I’ll prepare their favorite meals and wash their dirty clothes but I don’t think I want any of them to get too comfortable here.

Tonight, they each called to tell us that they had made it safely to their own places. Tomorrow night they will report only to themselves. I like that idea. Just as there are stages of childhood, there are stages of motherhood. I enjoyed the responsibilities of active parenting for 23 years. Now, I kind of like this empty nest. I know its schedule. It is quiet, peaceful, comfortable.

Called to Write

Called to Write

(First written in 2001 -- revised in 2008)

The written word has always been important to me but it is only recently that I’ve really analyzed why. As a child I imagined my life as story. Whatever I was doing, I was, as it were, watching a story unfold. As a teenager, I had to write things down -- thoughts, ideas, plans, feelings, etc. – to make them my own.

I took a writing course from Children’s Literature Institute but struggled with both writing fiction and using too many words. (And, also the demands of family and business.) I won an essay contest and have had one short essay considered and another one published in an anthology so I know I can write. I just don’t know what to do with what I write.

Although I love the work I am doing now, a “temporary” working situation that has stretched over a year has so sapped my emotional strength that the creativity that usually just happened has dried up completely. Even to the point that I stopped writing stories for our grandchildren about childhood on the farm and ranch 50 years ago. Now, I feel that I am being called to write but I don’t know what.

Years ago my husband and I, either heard on the radio or read someplace, that one needs to approach God with open hands. The suggestion was with uplifted, open hands but we knew that our teen aged children would be absolutely mortified if we raised our hands during the offertory prayer in the front pew of our conservative Presbyterian church. We compromised by lifting our open hands to chest level signifying holding nothing back and accepting whatever God gives us.

I almost always write on the church bulletin. I write the names of those needing prayers during the week. I make notes of meetings we need to attend. I jot down thoughts on the sermon or Scripture to explore further. I even make to do lists. One Sunday as I stood for the offertory prayer and lifted my open hands, I heard, as clearly as I heard the Pastors prayer, a voice asking, “What is that in your hand?”

“My pen.”

“I want that, too.”

“It’s Yours, Lord.”

“Use it for Me.”

“Yes, but what do I write?”

This has happened twice in the last 3 years. The week following the latest incident, while helping a library patron look for a particular Chicken Soup book, I noticed that Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul was on order. I put my name on the reserve list. When it came, I read here and there and then read it straight through. Then I bought a copy for myself.

However, I’m still looking for the answer to what to do with what I write. (And, for the resolve to write regularly in spite of my creativity level.) I did write an article that had been fermenting for about 10 years and submitted it to Guideposts and thus began a “thanks but no thanks” folder. I want to do some rewrites of the submissions for the writing course and I want to resume work on the stories for our grandchildren. And, I keep wondering about the next step.