The hospice nurse called. Mother was close to the end. In spite of Covid, I was allowed into the nursing home to be with her. My brother joined me, and for three days we sat with Mother. Initially, she responded with her eyes to our words, but soon, her eyes were set. She could hear us, but it seemed she saw nothing—until her final moments.
Day after day, week after week, year after year I went to the nursing home to visit my mother. We couldn’t carry on a conversation, because the affect of dementia left her unable to speak. For years, she was unable to walk; and eventually, she was unable to move anything except her head. Some days I knew Mother was “there.” I knew she understood me and wanted to respond, but her illness prevented communication.
My first semester of college was an adjustment—little time alone and constant interruptions while studying. I was forced to work late into the night, and I stayed awake by munching on crackers, granola bars, Twinkies… Before long my clothes became tight. Imagine! So, I turned to black coffee as my stimulant. Initially, the taste was bitter. After one or two sips, I put it down. The next time, I could endure three or four sips, and so on, until I grew to love black coffee. Today it’s one of my favorite things in life. What was offensive at first became increasingly enjoyable the more I was exposed to it.
No one said anything. They just pretended it didn’t happen.
My friend had suffered her second miscarriage in six months. Devastated, she felt her dreams of motherhood fading away.
I don’t think I’ll ever have children. I don’t deserve to be a mother.
I looked over at my friend. She dropped her head, tears filling her eyes.
A silent nursery waited to receive the little one who would never come.
As I stood in the muddy cemetery, rain clouds building all around, I knew this was the first step of healing for the young family before me. The little casket sat next to a teddy bear. The mom, wearing a light pink dress, worshiped in the front row as her husband led the small gathering in “Amazing Grace.”
After the funeral, we all converged at my uncle’s house. Casseroles lined the counter. Dishes filled the sink. He’d become accustomed to cleaning up the kitchen since my aunt had gotten sick. As he started covering bowls with aluminum foil, he recounted the last few hours of her life.
I knew something was wrong before I started bleeding. I hadn’t felt as “pregnant” as I did the previous two times, but I had no choice but to wait and see. When the spotting started, I knew it was the beginning of the end.
How often have you seen a pastor stand in the pulpit and praise God that the parking lot fund didn’t make its goal? Instead, the church (through its well-meaning representatives) will too often wheedle, cajole and extend deadlines until the money is in. No wonder outsiders draw the conclusion that God is out for “our” money.
How long has it been since you really thought much about honor or purity or excellence? And how do such words as these translate into actions that can be lived out in our cool, careless culture?
In these strange and unsettling times, who has not experienced an anxious moment or a fearful thought? When we turned over our calendar to 2020, could we have imagined what the New Year had in store?
The truth is, I am a “regretter” We regretters have nets that we can cast wide and deep to dredge up something we said or did a week or a lifetime ago, then we fret and regret , chew and stew. Trust me, such a mindset is not the product of a sensitive conscience or a tender heart. Such foolishness comes from a particularly insidious form of legalism that believes that the kingdom of God is dependent on our flawless performance rather than God’s power through us.
26 phone calls. Calls from my sister-in-law, Glenda, during the week leading up to my older brother’s death in May 2020.
Ernie suffered through Congestive Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) for seven years. He fought valiantly while isolated in his basement in Colorado.
Two names. Three times bitter. One heart.
Naomi means sweet. Mara means bitter.
Eleven blankets. One perfect covering.
Numerous throws at home for snuggling beneath. They’re trendy and sometimes I want to be comforted and hide from the cruel world.
Two generations. One message.
I remember observing my mom sitting in her rocking chair by the living room window. That was her daily spot for reading her Bible and devotional books. We didn’t talk about it, but I sensed a kindred connection with her.
Eighty-Nine days.
Days that my 94-year old father was isolated in his assisted living apartment due to COVID-19 restrictions.
We planned to drive 900 miles in late June to see Dad, but he called me and explained, “You should cancel your trip. You won’t be allowed to visit me, except by phone through my window.”
God loves you! Such a simple statement is hard to grasp. How could the all-knowing, all-powerful God of the universe care about you and me? It is a great mystery. He not only cares about us, He loves us more than anyone else could. I’m pretty sure you won’t believe that just because I said it, so let me show you in God’s love letter--the Bible.
My husband’s new hobby is gun collecting. He is fascinated by old guns as well as the new ones. He watches shows to learn more. One show highlights the history of weaponry. It is interesting to see how weapons evolved over time. What was a cutting edge sword or gun one day is soon eclipsed by a more advanced weapon. Generally, those with superior weapons have an advantage in warfare.
