At the intersection of life and death

Lately Jake has expressed an interest in attending church more regularly.  I honor his request.  I'm not sure there is anything more beautiful than a child's desire to Love God.

I particularly like this church because we can walk to it. The members are long time residents of our eclectic little island, beautiful sinners, a small aging, but hopeful bunch, and the Pastor speaks a plain truth from the gospels.  The walls of this white Folly church shake when the organist leads our traditional hymns: "I Love to Tell the Story," "Pass it On," and "Where He Leads Me."

This Sunday was not unlike many, but Jake had a concern weighing on his heart.  After church, as we were walking home, my sweet boy said, "Did you hear what the pastor said about social media?"  I hadn't.  Really, I wasn't entirely sure Jake was listening to the same sermon I was.

I asked him to explain and he said, "It was like God was speaking directly to me.  I can't let social media or the people on it define me."
I maybe heard the pastor mention it briefly I guess, but I wasn't sure.  I validated that God always speaks to us, and to hear him we must listen.

Under the bright sun and the brisk air, we walked back home.  I had a busy day lined up, so after getting everyone settled into their Sunday afternoon, I rushed out to the grocery store, just a mile up the road.  My plan was to get something in the crock pot and rush downtown to a poetry event at the College of Charleston where a student of mine was performing.

As I crossed the second bridge, I noticed between two big orange construction barrels a car pulled off the side of the road, broken down maybe?  As I passed I saw a man, with the driver's door of his Saturn open, sitting sideways facing the road, his head in his hands, hunched over.  That's strange, I thought... but I kept driving.  Too strange maybe.

Then, I remembered what I heard the Pastor say about being too busy, rushing to and from our events that we forget to do God's work, we don't make time for worship and fellowship.  I paused.  And at Bowen's Island, I turned around.

I've never stopped to help a man on the side of the road before.  I was reluctant and cautious as I approached the barrels near his car. I parked sideways, hoping to draw attention to the scene from other passers by.  I slowly stepped out of my car and said from a distance, "Do you need some help?"

In a fragile voice he responded, "I think so... I might be having a heart attack."  With my phone in hand I approached much more quickly, dialing 911.

About that time, another car approached, a young man and woman. "Do you need help?"

"Yes, please call 911, a possible heart attack." I replied.

I knelt on the ground by the hunched over man.  He wore a white beanie cap on his head and black pants.

I said, "Sir, I'm sorry.  I don't know what to do, but we've called for help.  You are not alone.  It's going to be okay."

He replied, "I hope so." Continuing, "I've tried to call my wife.  I hope she's on the way."

I kept repeating, "I'm here with you.  You're not alone."

My heart was racing, his was struggling.  Much of the next few minutes has a shroud of gray fog covering it.

So helpless and fearful, I said, "Can I pray with you?"

He glanced up at me, for the first time, and said, "yes, please."

I called God in the way he taught us to pray, "Our Father who art in heaven..."

While asking for God to bring us strength and courage and comfort I stopped, and I said to my friend, "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

He said, "Richard."

And so, as if God didn't already know, I prayed with Richard, and for Richard, by name.

He asked me to take him to the EMS.  He feared he wouldn't make it if we waited.
The young man and woman that stopped offered to help get him in my car.
The three of us weren't able to move him.  Richard sat on the ground between my car and his.
Two women pulled up and asked if we needed help.

Yes, we definitely did.  I stepped back as the nurses took over.  The nurses asked him questions, he replied, "The pain is in my stomach. I can't breathe."

From only a few feet away, I had a better glimpse of him.  It was then I realized, I was looking at the organist from my church.  I called to him, "Richard?  Richard Rewis?  Are you Richard Rewis?"  He affirmed that he was.  I knew him. 

I didn't actually know him.  Prior to this roadside encounter, I had never spoken to him.  I had however been blessed by the power of his worship; from his fingers to his shoulders and with a sway of his head, he danced on the keys of that organ. 

I called home and instructed Abbey to get the number for the pastor off the church bulletin and text it to me.

Standing on the side of the road, with two strangers who wanted to help, praying for Richard, waiting for a text, watching two nurses,  I paused in reverence at the intersection of lives.

The ambulance was near, I could see the lights in the distance.

Richard, hang on buddy, the ambulance is almost here.  I'm calling the church Richard.  I'm going to get in touch with your wife.

The EMS team took over.  Richard was in the ambulance.  Police were directing traffic.
I gave his keys to the police as I spoke with the pastor's wife on the phone.
I told her what I knew and asked if she would please phone Richard's wife, and if it wasn't a burden would she please call me later to tell me Richard was okay.

I continued to pray.  There was nothing more I could do.

On to the grocery store because that's what you do after a man on the side of the road has a heart attack.  I had to get pork chops for the crock pot.

But I couldn't let it go.  That's the way it is with me.  I can't let it go.
I pondered throughout the entire day, What is it all about?  Why?  Surely there is something to this?  But what?

During the poetry event, I heard the voices of young orators reveal the oddities of life, and I prayed for Richard. After the performance, I listened to my messages.  The pastor's wife said that Richard was at Roper, in intensive care.  It wasn't a heart attack, a torn aortic valve.  He needed emergency surgery.

I decided to go to the hospital.  It was across the street from the college.

When I arrived, he was in surgery.  I wasn't family.  No one else was there.  And the nurses due to privacy couldn't tell me anything.

I don't know why I sat there. Maybe his wife would come in and I could sit with her.
Still helpless, I prayed.  I stayed for an hour or more. And then I left.

The rest of the evening was a Sunday evening like any other, except not at all.  We ate pork chops from the crock pot, with green beans, rice and applesauce.  And I prayed some more.

Monday morning I felt hopeful.  Between my first and second classes, I received a call from the pastor.

He told me that the surgery Richard had was routine and all went well.  However, when removing the machines in post op, Richard's heart quit.  Richard had passed.

My heart stopped.  It's a strange thing the way lives intersect.

Richard's wife called me last night.  I'm going to meet her Thursday.  Two widows grieving.

With a heavy heart I still feel helpless, so I write, and I pray.

The gift of knowing

Distracted on Pinterest, uninspired by the same pumpkin desserts, literary quotes, and Lotus Flower shaped lockets I’ve told cyber space I care about, I said to Abbey, “this world’s a funny place.”

She said, “Elaborate.”
“Funny...” I said, “so many choices and directions, so many people and ideas trying to shape us. We’re being inundated with arrows pointing us in one direction or another.  Even worse, we don’t pay any attention to what we believe when we choose the direction.  We follow smells, and lights, and sounds and...”
She chuckled.  “It’s not that hard, mom.  There’s only two choices: good and bad.”

“Not everyone agrees about what is good and bad,” I said.

“Is murder good or bad,” she asked. 

“Bad, of course.” I say, with a “but…” hanging on my tongue.

She interrupts.  “Is helping the homeless good or bad?”

“Well, not everyone thinks helping the homeless is good.” I start.

She interrupts.  “Is helping the homeless good or bad Mom? There’s only one answer!”
“Well, not every…”
She raises her voice.  “Well then those people are idiots.  It’s that simple.”

 

Not a Holiday - a Holy Time

From Lent

GEORGE HERBERT

Welcome deare feast of Lent: who loves not thee,

He loves not Temperance, or Authoritie,

But is compos’d of passion.

The Scriptures bid us fast the Church sayes, now

Give to thy Mother, what thou wouldst allow

To ev’ry Corporation.

... It’s true, we cannot reach Christ’s fortieth day;

Yet to go part of that religious way,

Is better than to rest:

We cannot reach our Savior’s purity;

Yet are bid, Be holy ev’n as he.

In both let’s do our best.

Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone,

Is much more sure to meet with him, than one

That travelleth by ways:

 Perhaps my God, though he be far before,

May turn, and take me by the hand, and more

May strengthen my decays.

Yet Lord instruct us to improve our fast

By starving sin and taking such repast

As may our faults control:

That ev’ry man may revel at his door,

Not in his parlor; banqueting the poor,

And among those his soul.

Lent is a Christian idea I can get behind.  Don't get me started on Christmas.  Well really, I should start there.  I am so bah humbug at Christmas time.  I resent expensive Christmas trees and decorations. I reject plastic gifts and fancy papers with matching bows, as a way to celebrate my King.  Don't misunderstand, I participate (begrudgingly), but it loses its Holiness for me somewhere in the seasonal section of Target.  If Christians really wanted to celebrate the Savior's birth, they should be giving for sure, charitable giving, giving to those in need.  But this is the way we ruin that.  First we buy the newest whatever we must have for our children, our close family, and our friends.  Then we fill our houses with delicacies and decorations for the parties we throw to celebrate the season.  We buy festive and fancy clothes to spread the cheer and we bring gifts to those parties for the very needy host.  Then we mail cards with cute pictures of our children to people that we don't interact with all year long, and we send letters bragging about our blessed lives. We sometimes add humor, and some mention life's undoings.  But Lent, repentance, confession, contrition, the spirit of a Holy time surprisingly isn't observed by all Christians.  Rarely will you find a Christian uninterested in Christmas, but how could 40 days of reflection be ignored?

I've never fasted, although I should.  I do celebrate a season of mindful praying; a season where I give thanks, but I more willingly acknowledge my failings; a season where I want to be better, but I recognize I am never going to deserve grace; a season of spiritual discipline, but with an awareness that it should never end.  I celebrate a season of moderation, devoid of indulgences.  While the New Testament doesn't actually mention Lent, it surely acknowledges Christ's prayer, fasting, avoiding temptation, and longing for His Father. 

Does it make me dark and gloomy?  Quite the opposite.  Like all the paradoxes of the universe, when I surrender myself to God's grace, I am renewed; I am humbled; I am aware of my need for God, my need for grace and mercy.

Last year I made two commitments to God, both very private, both my greatest failings. Never before have I succeeded at staying true to my vow.  Through reflections with Lamentations and Jeremiah, through age and a real desire to be better than I am, through prayer and meditation, I succeeded.  For the first time in my life, I honored my vow to God, and it was good.  In that success my spirituality deepened, my awareness heightened, my clarity enlightened me, and I felt whole, completely broken, but whole.

This year I will try again.

I am not righteous.  I am flawed.  But on the cross, I find Holiness. 

For my sister on her birthday.

Forty-five years ago today, my mom did one of the best things she would ever do in this world.  She gave birth to her oldest daughter Kim.  And in the way it is with child birth, my mom knew that her baby was the best she had to offer God.

My sister radiates kindness. She possesses all the gifts I desire: sincerity, goodness, faith, love, joy.  No mater her situation she always tries to choose the most right thing.  She forgives.  Her heart guides her and she checks it against the facts.  She's smart, but she doesn't care if anyone knows it.  She works hard, and she succeeds. She makes no judgments, so she doesn't notice if she is being judged.  I trust her. She knows the worst of me and still loves me. She's a big fan of the underdog.

Her advice is always get over it or keep it simple.  She says yes. She sometimes mixes metaphors, and she can make me laugh.  She listens.  And she builds people up.  And with everyone she meets, she identifies a need and tries to fill it.  She's generous beyond compare.  

If ever I thought about having another child, it was only that I would want Abbey to have a sister like mine; Jake already does.  If ever there is goodness in me, it is because I'm trying to be like her.

I hope everyone has a Kim to share life with.  I thank God for her everyday.

Happy Birthday to my beautiful sister.

Building Blocks

2013 has been a summer of building.

Abbey volunteered at Salkahatchie.  She worked as part of a team that replaced the roof and the floor of a home.  She was covered in fiberglass one day and slept on a gymnasium floor for a week.  She carried a little tool box with her and in it was her father's hammer.  When she came home, she told me not about the hard work, but about the mother and her sons that lived in the house.  She said it was the best experience of her life.

 

This was Jake's project.   

Ian at the Mike's Bikes was about to throw this away, so we brought it home.

 Jake took it apart.

Sanded and primed all the pieces.

 

 

  Tested the paint color.

 Painted the pieces.

 Started on the wheels.

 Sanded out the imperfections.

Prepared the spokes for the blue rims;

 yes that is a wheel being worked on in my living room.

Before & After

  

My favorite part is the blue rims,

or maybe my baby boy feeling success.

or that he named it Rusty.

As for me, I learned how to bake real old fashioned homemade bread.

There is only one child in the world.

I used to read  Eric Carle's picture and poetry book, Animals Animals to Baby Jake.  Carl Sandburg's poem, "Names" is in this book:

There is only one horse of the earth

and his name is All Horses.

There is only one bird in the air

and his name is All Wings.

There is only one fish in the sea

and his name is All Fins.

There is only one man in the world

and his name is All Men.

There is only one woman in the world

and her name is All Women.

There is only one child in the world

and the child's name is All Children.

There is only one Maker in the world

and His children cover the earth

and they are named All God's Children.

Baby Jake turns ten today.  I can't even count how many spectators at sporting events have scolded me for calling him Baby Jake.  I don't know what else to call him. 

Born during a very tumultuous period in my life, just two months earlier we moved to New Jersey and back, baby Jake entered the world chaotically. 

The pregnancy was filled with the stress of joblessness, moving, the death of George's mother Emma, and even homelessness.  I was so big I asked the doctor in my seventh month to take the baby out of me and let him live in an incubator.  They wouldn't do it.

At 38 and 39 weeks, even at 40 weeks, I said, I think we should induce; he's big.  The doctor thought we should wait.  Finally on the night of March 10th, I imagined contractions and decided to head to the hospital.  By Monday morning labor really did begin.  I had no desire to achieve this birth without drugs, but the epidural dislodged in my back, so I felt every surge of this 10lb 9oz boy's struggle into this world.

I knew the situation was dire when the doctor slapped me and said, "you have to do this."  My baby wasn't coming out, he was stuck.  His umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, and he was in the birth canal, too late for a caesarian section.  Seven or eight nurses crowded into the room.  They were physically pressing all of their body weight on my stomach pushing with their hands.  I was in shock, not breathing.  The doctor had panic in his voice.  He shouted, "Melissa, you need to do this now."  The pain was so unbearable I felt numb, weak, scared.

Finally, I felt the release, but not relief; the panic in the room intensified.  I saw the blue infant across the room and as the doctor slipped handing him to the nurse, his umbilical cord ripped from his stomach, bleeding profusely.  All the while the doctor was calling orders, words like emergency, revive, sutures.  The doctor and nurses whisked my baby from the room and George followed.  Someone sedated me.  To this day when I take him to the pediatrician, I flip to the first page of his chart, "resuscitated after 2 minutes and 36 seconds."

Jake was born early in the morning, around 5 am.  I remember George calling from the infant intensive care, telling me everything was fine, but I knew he was lying.  I had not yet held my baby Jake. George never left him. I waited, dazed, alone.

When they brought him to me it was after noon.  Bruised and swollen, this toddler I gave birth to was the most beautiful child ever born.  His baby pictures still make me cry.

He's ten now, smart and fast and happy and sweet and strong and maybe even a little crazy.  He likes to dress up in a shirt and khaki's, sometimes a tie, or a costume, a wizard, a superhero, a clown.

 

He puts his hands in his pants pockets, and he looks just like his dad.  He plays outside, wall ball, football, basketball, soccer, skateboarding, surfing, biking.  He enjoys reading, poetry; he memorized T.S. Eliot's "Jellicle Cats" as a gift for a teacher.

We go for early morning walks together on weekends, holidays, in the summer.  He holds my hand and gives me kisses.  When we hug we have a 10 second rule, making sure we transfer all our good energy.  His eyes, when they look at me, pull me deep inside his tender little heart, and he owns me.

 

 

There is only one child in the world.

Adamantly Declined Loss and Damage Waiver

Almost a month ago I wrecked the Escape.  I rented a car from Hertz, and the agent tried his hardest to sell me the LDW (Loss and Damage Waiver).  He insisted if anything went wrong I wouldn't have to worry about it.  He also tried to sell me a tank of gas at a discounted rate.  Nonsense! I told him.  I don't need any of that.  I'm not leaving the beach.

My insurance company called me earlier this week and told me that my rental limit for the car I was driving expired on Friday.  So today I called Hertz and this is what I said:

Today I'm supposed to bring my rental car back, and here's the thing:  I was backing into the garage and I scraped and buckled the back quarter panel & bumper into the concrete wall which also cracked the taillight, and the surfboard that was hanging out the window hit the same wall and bent the window frame.  So I was wondering what I'm going to need to have with me when I bring it back.  And one more thing:  Some voles, they're like rats in the marsh, climbed into the ceiling of my garage and ate a hole in the water pipes creating a water leak that flowed down onto the car.  The wet sheet rock is a little embedded in the windshield wipers.  I didn't take it through a car wash because I can't get the back window up.   I was kind of hoping you could give me the estimate before you turn it into my insurance company; I might be inclined to just pay for it.