Do you believe?

It seems there's never enough hours in the day… for what needs doing (including my commitment to writing this blog and other writing that makes me feel alive) and for all the commitments that ripple out with a family of five.

I often wake up with anxiety from instant messages in my brain… to do lists forming before my eyes fully open, and the accompanying thought that there just isn't enough time to do what I think I need to do that day, morning, hour etc. It's a crappy way to wake up!

So, the last thing I felt like doing this morning was to take the few minutes it took to do something for my neighbour (doesn't matter what, that's not the point). But, I was compelled to take the time and do it, and as I did, I prayed that it be a 'sacrifice of praise' to God. Sounds like odd words maybe, but I simply meant that my actions were in a direct response of obedience to what I feel God asks me to do… think beyond my immediate circle of influence and do something completely selfless once in a awhile. I blow this all the time, but on this particular morning, I didn't.

There I was, doing my thing and praying over and over in my head… "sacrifice of praise God, sacrifice of praise." Nobody saw me (except my husband) do what I did… again, not the point of what I was doing.

Then on I went with what I needed to do, which still seemed like a lot.

An hour later the phone rings… it's my son's youth leader phoning with the details for my son's 'sit-in' this weekend, which involves some prep for me too. He started the conversation with the words, "So, about tomorrow night…," and I said, 'Tomorrow night, I thought it was tonight?" and suddenly grace stepped in and flooded over me. I was given, undeservedly, without cost, without asking, the gracious gift of time!!!!!!

So, I'm left with a question… as much for myself as for you…

Do I believe? Could there possibly be a connection between that one tiny selfless act of neighbourliness this morning and the gift of time that I was given a short while later?

Any providence in those events?

Any room in my heart to believe that?

I want to believe.

Lesley-Anne

Dust on, dust off

Well, being at home today for the entire day resulted in my creation of a huge to-do list. That's always what happens on home days, days when I don't have a writing assignment to complete or anything else pressing means I have to pay attention to the things that haven't been getting my attention lately. And that usually means housework.

I don't like housework. I used to like it, I liked the mindless drone of the vac. and the piles of clean laundry… I never did like cleaning bathrooms (particularly toilets - yuck) but now I don't really prefer any of it. The constant clutter left by all five of us all over the house undoes me, and I find there's so much time that has to go into the de-cluttering before the cleaning can really begin.

So, in a grumpy and slightly martyred frame of mind, I pulled out the duster this morning and began to clean the uncluttered surfaces… which was limited to window ledges, baseboards, door jams, and other surfaces too small to collect much other than dust and the occasional errant bug, dog hair or unidentified crumb. I dusted with my nice faux feather Ikea duster, and worked my way around the main floor of our home, taking note of the tasks that lay ahead after this low impact chore was done. And, the more I looked and thought about all the mess ahead of me, the worse my attitude became.

I was in the piano room with duster in hand when I remembered some dusting of long, long ago, and in particular, a person came to mind. I remembered my grandmother, Chrissy Cook, wheelchair ridden from a spinal operation gone sideways, and how she spent 25 years in a wheelchair with very limited abilities in her upper body and none in her lower. My grandfather (same one as referred to in my last posting) cared for her needs… all of her personal needs, lifting her in and out of the car, bed, plus cooking, laundry, shopping, and gardening and cleaning. Except for dusting. This was one chore that my grandmother could do and enjoyed doing.

She'd hold a cloth duster in her hand, and every morning (I dust bi-weekly because it begins to show after that) my grandmother would wheel herself slowly around the main floor of their 1060's bungalow, and dust all the surfaces she could reach. And, when I was there visiting, I would help to do the surfaces she couldn't reach.

I never heard her complain… as a matter of fact I remember her happily doing what she could… her one small contribution to the upkeep of their home.

I complain. I begrudge my somewhat meaningless and endless list of chores that are involved in caring for our home. I'd rather write. I'd rather pay someone to do the housework… but that's another story. What I'm trying to say is that I've become jaded and lost focus on the reason why I do what I do… why it's important to be a good steward of the things I've been blessed with, and why having a good attitude about it is important. My grandmother could only do the dusting… I'm sure she wanted to do more, but just couldn't so she did it with joy.

So, I think I'd better dust myself off my high horse about keeping our home clean and tidy. It's what I've chosen to do for this season of my life, and what I've been given responsibility for. Yep, I'm going to have days where the mundane nature of the chore takes it's toll. But, when I dust, I'm going to remember my grandmother and be faithful and joyful (most days) in the little stuff.

'Cause maybe it's not so insignificant after all.

LAE

Practicality sets in

There's a practical side to grieving that happens almost unexpectedly. Like on Saturday afternoon when we met at the house to clean up. I had no idea what that meant, just showed up with Bob ready for whatever needed doing. I'm a fairly practical person, task orientated, I thought.

We're cleaning out the kitchen, she said, so I proceeded to open up the pantry and the fridge and was soon faced with choices I didn't expect. The simply act of deciding what was to be kept and what was to be thrown away made my stomach turn over. We did a bit of chatting as we worked, creating little piles of things on the counter top, a few items worth saving that we might use… canned goods, pre-packaged foods… but my stomach just wasn't cooperating as she asked, what about this, would you use this? I have to admit I wanted to toss the whole lot, but then my practical/thrifty side took over for a little while and I placed a few things in a box to take home later. As did she.

The fridge was easier as the perishables were destined for the garbage. But again, the act of emptying and throwing away was not easy. There was this strange feeling of doing something I shouldn't have been doing, of somehow having less than enough respect for Art, and his intimate life at home (even though he hadn't lived there since December when he moved into hospice).

The men were busy with papers, sorting, discussing, throwing away, collecting. They were talking through it all… admirable, I think. When the kitchen work was done I sat on the bed with them, didn't really know what else to do. I kept looking around for signs of his life, but the room was strangely barren, again probably due to the fact that he hadn't been living in the house for a long time.

My final task was something I decided to do without being asked… I couldn't imagine someone else taking down the photos from his kitchen wall and maybe throwing them away. I organized them into piles, smiling at the pictures of our kids, and the other little mementos that were pinned up there… like the brightly coloured plastic star made by our daughter, and a hand written note wishing him well from another child. Children loved him. He paid attention to them and gave them candy and oreos and pop.

Then we opened a bottle of wine, the guys lit cigars, and we sat on his patio… maybe for the very last time with music from his ipod filling in the silences. Again that feeling of emptiness… strangeness… tightness in my chest, and searching for words. We raised our glasses to Art… talked about life, the days since his funeral, feelings, and then we headed for home.

I remember when my Grandpa died that my mother had to sell the contents of his home, and split the proceeds with her state-side and only brother. She did this alone. I can't remember why nobody else came alongside her in this. She advertised in the paper, held a garage sale, then set up and sold whatever she could and donated the rest to charity. I can't imagine how she did that… watching strangers drive away with the things of my grandpa's life? Or, did practicality just set in and allow her to do the difficult and painful?

In the words of my dear husband, this process of emptying homes and hearts just sucks.

Lesley-Anne

In my face irony

Ironically, I experienced how difficult it is to do the right, sensitive, caring thing when it happens right in front of me. It's just not that simple.

This morning I was able to stop for a family of ducks crossing the road by our school. Cars on one side of the road had already stopped when I saw a mother duck and 8 little ones heading toward my side. I put on my hazard lights, and prayed for traffic beside me to stop too. Then, with only 4 ducklings safely off the road and 4 more trying to hop up the curb, the traffic began to flow around me and I had no choice but to drive on.

I cried as I drove away and whispered a prayer that they would all be safe. I thought of jumping out of the car and ushering them to safety. But, logic took over, plus I was wearing my pj's, and I realized that it's so easy to judge when we don't know all the facts, so easy to make blanket statements (or write poems) when we don't know the entire situation, and so I stand corrected.

Please forgive my reaction in 'Drive by', as an emotional response to death in a larger sense.

Still sad and ok,

LAE

Drive by

Did you have a choice --
Starbucks in one hand and
one hand on the wheel,
as he waddled over the centre line?

Did your foot hesitate, move
from gas to brake
or did you simply
drive on,

oblivious to his
small body and bobbing iridescent green head,
caught between the paradise of one ditch
and the other?


footnote: you've really got to wonder if people give a shit these days… and if they see creatures on the road do they try to steer clear or just mow them down without a second thought? I'm thoroughly pissed off right now!

Vacancy

Lost somewhere in my head --
remembrances of places and facial expressions and words
hand holding and hair washing
and uncomfortable conversations
with hidden requests brought into the light.

Trying to work through this…
start the laundry
and write some technical article
also with words
but the brightness is duller
the heart somehow tighter
and I realize it's not
just another day.

I have in my mind some
things to do
visits to make
special projects to undertake
flowers to lay
words to say or write or shout into the wind…

Not sure how long it will take
to get past this
odd, new, vacant lot of a place
where once you were just down the road
a stop along my way
a perceived obligation of need
now you are
free
and I am left
grieving.

51 years in 6 minutes, 30 seconds.

I had the honour last night of putting together a slide presentation to represent who Art was in his life.

Art's brother-in-law Henry and I poured over hundreds of photographs, made selections, timed them to music (a beautiful song written for Art several months ago), edited, and finally arrived at a presentation that, we thought, best spoke of Art''s life of relationships, sports, career, and service.

As we watched the final edit, we smiled as the words of the song seemed uncannily timed to certain images. I wonder what the impact will be this afternoon at the memorial service?

And while Henry and I did our very best to put it together, there was this over-riding question of how a 6 minute, 30 second presentation could possibly give enough honour and tribute and fleshing out to a life of 51 years?

It just can't.

It's simply one piece in the puzzle of this strange and awkward grieving process.

Writing through this…

Lesley-Anne