"She Never Stopped Living Life"

The phone call from her son came around 9:30 in the morning.  We chatted about the cold weather and exchanged our Thanksgiving experiences, a holiday which had just taken place several days earlier.  He then said, “Ladonna, I have some news to share with you about my Mom.  She passed away last night.”  Even though she had just recently turned 90, it was not what I was expecting to hear on that Monday morning.

I began working for Marty almost 8 years ago, which meant she was then in her early 80’s.  While not questioning her about her age, I guessed her to be in her mid-70’s.  She was never one I would have described as  "elderly" with her spry steps, sharp mind, and approach towards life.  When she did volunteer that piece of information, she commented that she didn’t like to tell people how old she was, because they treated her differently then.  It was obvious she was not one who was going to be treated as an old person.   

Marty was tiny, but mighty.  A woman who knew what she wanted and what she wanted done, she had been a successful career businesswoman, living abroad for several years in a time when it was not common for women to be in such positions.  The manner in which she carried herself and presented herself attested to her former life.  The woman knew style.  Even her everyday casual wear bore that out, her top tucked into her belted jeans or corduroy pants, always creating an outfit with matching colors.  I could only imagine what her professional wardrobe had looked like.   

She loved her garden and loved to garden and, as time wore on, reluctantly passed on to me the chores she loved doing.  Weeding was her all-time favorite.  I began saving areas of weeds close to her front door so she could conveniently spend time doing what she loved the most. 

Marty's rose garden, which she could see from her kitchen table, brought her the greatest joy.  I would often find pruned branches lying on the ground, as she could not resist the urge to tend and to shape her bushes. Ten days before her death she came down into her backyard where I was working.  “Now, Ladonna,” she said, “what needs to be done with the roses?”  I noted we needed to shorten the long branches, but save the hard pruning for late Winter. That is a task I will now do without her presence.      

Some time ago, she voluntarily gave up driving.  “I realized I needed to do that,” she said, “when I became aware that I really wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing."  


At the request of family members, I began driving her on errands, a version of “Driving Miss Daisy.”   Those were wonderful times, as we trekked to the market, the drug store, Bi-Mart, and even the mall. 


Each shopping excursion was an adventure from the very beginning as we went through the ritual of finding two sets of keys--one for me and one for her, having the shopping list in tow-which often included a search-and-find mission, and locking the doors in the house.  We never rushed out the door.  It was a process and took time. 


Once in the car, she made certain I had completed the necessary steps required to start the car, which included releasing the emergency brake and spritzing the windshield in order to remove any dust.  Backing out of the driveway was always done under supervision as a hedge blocked the view of the street, and she wanted to make certain there was no oncoming traffic. The route to the store was a tried-and-true, comfortable one Marty had used for years.  


I knew relinquishing her vehicle to another to drive was an enormous step for her.  The love of driving and the independence it provides is most difficult for any older person to concede.       


Never a "grab-and-go" shopper, Marty could easily have set the standard for comparison shoppers everywhere, as she checked price and quantity for everything from pain relievers to snack crackers.  She laboriously examined fruits and vegetables, soup choices, and labels. There was always at least one item on the list that was hidden in the store and entailed a treasure hunt approach.  Typically a 2-hour trip, it was a process, and it took time. She had planned going to the library the Saturday before she passed, but changed her mind. She said she was just too tired.  That was the last time I saw her.

When death takes a person, we reflect on the memories of the times and experiences shared.  While I did not know Marty for a large portion of her life, I have many, and that is what I have been doing.  Each one brings a smile.  

Even though her body had become oh, so very frail over the past year as her family celebrated her 90th birthday, she had projects and plans in the works.  This past summer included expanding a deck to give her more room and having her house painted.  Future plans included renovating her walkway, digging up the existing and replacing it with a medium she found more suitable.  When I go back into her garden, I will have a mental list of instructions she last gave me.  "That shrub over there needs to be cut back, doesn't it?" 

Living life, while it seems to be an obvious, is difficult for many.  Some older people, facing the last days of physical life, go dormant, simply waiting for the inevitable to come.  Not so Marty.  I have come up with my own personal epitaph: She Never Stopped Living Life. 

Something for each of us to consider. 

Marty--my friend.






"All I have asked you to do is to live your life."

 

 

"In Absentia"

Man, oh man, am I ever stepping over the line of demarcation I set for myself when I began writing this blog.  Entering into the political realm is the last thing I want to do.  However, in order to make an important point that is exactly the muck and mire I am wading into.

"In absentia."  Those are the words I awakened to this morning. 

Three days ago innocent citizens of our country, the United States of America, were attacked and killed while attending a company Christmas party.  It has been ascertained that those who perpetrated that incident had pledged allegiance to ISIS, a group from hell whose sole intent and purpose is to establish a radical Islam, global caliphate.  And they are beyond willing to sacrifice their own lives in order to make that happen.

The response from our leadership mainly had to do with establishing greater control over guns.  No mention was made as to controlling the production and use of pipe bombs, the same type as those used in the Boston Marathon attack.  And the husband and wife who led the recent California attack had a dozen or so in their home.  I doubt they were using them as decoration.


The FBI has come out with verification that our homeland was, indeed, attacked by those connected to that radical Islam group.  Attacked.  Make no mistake.  We were attacked!

The nation's leader has disappeared, gone behind closed doors.  Reporters were told that the White House has gone dark.  In other words, there will be no statements made.

"In absentia"--missing, absent.  

I can see it, I can feel it.  We, as a nation, as a people, are on our own. 

No man can save us or help us.  God is our only help.  If you are one who has never considered looking that direction, now would be a good time to start. 

He is never "In absentia."




"God is a very present help in our time of need."

"It's Not a Gun Problem"

There have been two horrific mass shootings in our nation within the last 10 days, resulting in deaths of innocents and injury to many others.  Life forever changed for those directly involved.  For the citizens of this country, the resulting ripple effect touches lives as fear of an unknown future sits in the wings, its shadow casting a pall upon a Christmas holiday season.

The immediate response and reaction—and I do mean immediate—was that guns must be kept out of the hands of either the crazed or people who would do harm to others.  As I heard that position expressed, everything within me was shouting, “It’s not a gun problem, people!” 


There is always much commentary surrounding events such as these.  Each one of us has our own opinion and point of view.  Many have placed blame on the current climate in our country, one where there is great division and lack of tolerance for differences. Some cite mental health issues as the cause for such behavior.  Others, a social media where anything and everything can be expressed behind a curtain of anonymity.  I'm here to state “It’s not a social problem, people!”

All that we see with our physical eyes has a root problem, a base and a source from which everything springs.  Even the medical field views disease and sickness from that place, knowing that a symptomatic approach to healing is not the answer.  When the core problem, the cause, is addressed, symptoms naturally go away and healing takes place.

There has been a concerted effort to remove God and any reference to Him from our society, our culture, our lives, our country.  Many want to eliminate words, symbols, and anything that might suggest Him.  The removal of “things” will never remove Him, but it does point to a larger picture—that people do not want God or any reminder of Him in their lives.

And so it is.  If our society does not want Him, we are then left with the alternative.  There are two powers at war in our world, and when man rejects one, he is left with the other, and there are consequences and results based on that choice and that decision.   

Life is an either/or.  There is a line drawn in the sand, and each one of us determines to whom our loyalty is given.  It is not a decision made for us.  We have the right to choose God, life, and light or to reject Him. With that rejection comes life with His enemy, death, and darkness.  Whereas God is love, His enemy is hate. No man should be surprised at what is taking place.  It is the result of living life with the “or," and that always comes with a price, and a hefty one it is, the degeneration of a society only the "tip of the iceberg." 

The chaos, violence, and disorder in the world is the antithesis of God. It is not Him, but know this--He will not go where He is not invited or welcomed.  

We do not have a gun problem; we do not have a social problem.  We DO have a spiritual problem, people. 

"He who is not with me (definitely on my side,) is against me."

   

"On Gifting With 'Rules'"

Rule #1 reads as follows: “This is yours, but it is not yours to keep.”

When the plan, that of gifting money to my five grandgirls with conditions and terms, was initially planted in my mind as a seed, the goal was to encourage them to think beyond themselves, for the Christmas holiday to be more than their personal wish list. The gift, given with the charge of that first rule, provided the opportunity for that to happen.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day, and today is called Black Friday, commonly viewed as the official beginning of the Christmas shopping season. No time is wasted as consumers are lured out in the wee hours of the morning for great bargains and amazing deals. Thanksgiving dinner has barely had time to digest before shoppers are beckoned to begin purchasing their Christmas gifts, with some stores opening at five a.m.

Gifts and Christmas go hand in hand. In fact, it’s quite impossible to think of the holiday without compiling a list with ideas of gifts to be purchased and given to family and friends. For those of the Christian faith, the argument is that the birth of Christ was a gift from God to the world. Therefore, we should gift one another as we were gifted.

For others, gift-giving carries with it the notion of generosity and good will toward one’s fellow man. The idea is that, at this time of the year, peace and love will reign if we put forth the effort to be kind to one another, characterized by the giving of gifts, time, and money to others, including charitable enterprises.

The truth of it is that, as a culture, we are locked into a tradition, and part of that tradition includes presents under a tree to be opened either the night before or the morning of December 25. Christmas without gifts is almost beyond comprehension.

Perhaps you have your own harrowing experiences as to how quickly the peace and harmony dissipates once the wrapping paper begins to be ripped off and presents are opened, especially if children are involved. Overstimulation, the hype, and anticipation often result in meltdowns as the holiday season culminates in the great “unveiling of the gifts.” And the same thing can be said for adults as well, as the spirit of Christmas peaks and then enters a crash-and-burn state.

The entire Christmas present/gift exchange scene has been a mental wrestling match for me for many years. I’m never a “Bah! Humbug!” person, but the word “obscene” is my own description upon viewing the sheer quantity of wrapped gifts loaded around my family’s Christmas tree. So much expense, time, and energy—and it so quickly comes to a head. And life goes on.

My grandgirls lack for nothing materially. How could I make Christmas about more than just “me, me, me, and what I want”? The idea had begun forming several years ago, but I felt some were too young at that point in time to comprehend the concept I wished to present through personal experience.

Four years ago, I proceeded with a scheme, one which has played out every year since and was repeated yesterday. That first year each of my five grandgirls received a check in the mail, made out to them, along with a letter. In the letter specific instructions were spelled out, beginning with: “This is yours, but it is not yours to keep.”

I went on to ask them if they could remember the gifts I had given them the previous Christmas or the one before that. Then I told them the gift check was one I hoped they would remember for the rest of their lives.

A list of rules followed. They were instructed that they were to either give the money away or purchase a gift with it and give that away. They, not their parents, were the ones to make the decision as to who would be the recipient. The money had to all be spent by Christmas, and it could be given to one person or to several, but it had to be used on others rather than themselves.

Christmas Day arrived, and, before opening gifts, each grandgirl related what they had done with their money. One had chosen to use it to purchase a sweater for an elderly person. No one in the family knew where the idea of giving to the elderly came from, but it was what she wanted to do, and she did. Another donated to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, having been made aware that all children do not have the same kind of healthy body she has. Sisters put their money together and, along with the help of their parents, gave a little boy a full-fledged Christmas complete with scooter, new shoes, coat, books, underwear, and socks. Yet another donated hers to a local facility for abused women and their children, a positive life experience for a young teen. How many teens, I thought, are even aware that abuse takes place in many relationships?

Each year since then, my grandgirls continue to think beyond themselves as they’ve given to local needy families by providing gift cards to a toy store and a grocery store; sharing with a church, Wounded Warriors, and, last year, a homeless person. The one stipulation the little one had was it couldn’t be a homeless person standing outside Walmart. We have no idea where that came from either, but those were her terms.

Anonymity is important as they are to give without expectation of recognition or acknowledgement. They are to just give.

Gift-giving should be done without conditions, rules, or stipulations, but I feel this is a valid exception. I have no way of knowing what my grandgirls are learning and experiencing as they think beyond themselves, but I believe it is invaluable. And so yesterday I pulled out my checkbook and handed out checks to them. They now know it is money for them, but not theirs to keep. Before we begin our gift exchange on Christmas Day, I’ll learn how they chose to spend it as they take turns telling what they did with it. It’s a new family tradition.

“Freely ye have received, freely give.” Matthew 10:8 kjv

"On Living With a Threat"

threat:  n.  A person or thing likely to cause damage or danger


It was November. I turned my back and our Indian Summer disappeared. Its warm, sunny days were replaced by wet ones with a cold, bone-penetrating chill.

Utility work was taking place down the street from my house. As I headed for my gardening job, traffic was stopped, controlled by workers with stop/slow signs. What a horrible job, I thought, considering the hours they spend standing in the wet, the cold, and the heat. I was heartened by the knowledge I have the freedom, as a self-employed person, to call it a day if the elements become too harsh. As I cranked up the heater in my truck, my work task for the day didn’t seem so horrible.

Oh, how I would hate being a _____. For the life of me. For all the money in the world. I could not think of the job title given those workers with the signs. The threat I live with found its way into my mind, seeking a place to germinate and take root.   

“Something is happening, Ladonna. I can feel it. I know it. I reach for a word, and it’s gone. It’s simply not there. Something horrible is happening in my brain.” My friend was in her early 50’s when she repeatedly expressed this to me. I offered reassurances and yet, at the same time, I felt a foreboding within that all was not well. Early Alzheimer’s was taking her over, a battle and a struggle that went on for a long while. It ended in her death three years ago when she had only begun life as a senior citizen

My mother lived with Alzheimer’s for ten years before passing, so I know full well the horrors of that state. There are those who ask, "Aren't you afraid?" when I share my mother's condition. They perceive that the handwriting is on the wall as I await the passing down of a grisly family heirloom.

I spent the day raking fallen leaves, another product of November. I found myself raking, raking, raking--almost frantically—all the while trying to fill in that blank with the name of the occupation of those with the stop signs. At the same time, my thoughts were on my friend--and my mother--understanding exactly what she meant when she expressed the vaporization of a word.   

Traffic controllers, security guards, crosswalk guards...No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't grab the elusive word from thin air and was becoming quite distraught over my inability to identify something so familiar.  

We all forget things. I maintain that, at the age of 70, my mind can only hold a certain amount of information. Therefore, if it isn't genuinely important, it slips to the bottom of the memory file. While this didn’t fall in that category, not being able to remember was quite disconcerting. In addition, there was that Alzheimer's threat.

Approaching my Father, I heard myself say, "I'm scared. I'm really scared."

Going out on a proverbial limb, I am going to state that I feel living with a threat is not a rare situation. We each have our own background and experiences. Many of those carry with them a genetic propensity or a family history with serious ramifications. Perhaps it is cancer or diabetes. There may be heart conditions, mental illness, or addictive behavior amongst relatives. Obesity may be staring full bore or, yes, Alzheimer's. The threats may be insidious or direct; occasional or frequent. They always target one's vulnerability and the emotional facet of self. 

Living with a threat often means living life dodging a bullet while a guillotine hangs over one’s head, never knowing how, when, or where it is going to be released. I suspect you understand.

How does one live with a threat? I cannot apply my approach to another, only relate it.

In such circumstances I have learned I have the choice to either live under fear or live free from it. I refuse to allow the fear I am going to be a victim of Alzheimer’s to dominate and control me.

My mother's life is not mine. I choose, rather, to live life with my focus on God. Simplistic, unrealistic, naive? Perhaps. But I can do nothing to control my future or my destiny. Only He can.

Flaggers!! That is what they are called. They are the ones who control traffic in road construction areas. I refused to search it out on the Internet or ask someone. It did come to mind--after I stopped wrestling with it, trying to figure it out. 

Some would say, “Thank God for minor miracles.” It is a miracle; it isn't minor.

Thank you, God. 

                                “All I have asked you to do is to live your life.” 

                                  For God has not given us the spirit of fear; 

                              but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

                                                                                     II Timothy 1:7 

  

    

 

"On Sparring With a Squirrel"

He makes his appearance known every morning, blithely scampering across the top of the fence as though he were a high-wire walker, this little rodent I have been at war with for the past several weeks.  Well, “war” is probably too strong of a word.  More like a tug-of-war as he and I spar with one another.  While I generally don’t class squirrels as rodents, I do believe they are in the same family. 

Let me preface this by saying I am not an animal person.  A people person, yes, but not animals.  I don’t have anything against them, they just haven’t been my “cup of tea.”

The war started when I began a sweeping clean-up of my back yard. 

One of the projects included dealing with a bird feeder which had not been in use for quite sometime.  Unbeknownst to me, wasps had taken up residence inside, building a nest.  Of course I did not realize this until I aggressively turned it upside down, and they made themselves evident.  Anxious to get my feeder back in working order so I could welcome birds into my back yard, I waited until dark, stuffed the openings and sprayed wasp spray into the main body. 

Nursing a bee sting on my hand, what seemed like a pretty straight-forward task had already become complicated.

Feeder all prepped and filled with feed, I decided to move it to a location more readily visible from my kitchen window, taking into account the local squirrel’s habit of helping himself to the feed as well.  I sat back awaiting the influx of birds.  At the end of my workday I was thrilled to discover evidence that the feeder was working as bird seed was scattered upon the ground.

And so it continued for several days UNTIL I happened to be looking out the window when the resident squirrel made his appearance.  These little guys are quite the acrobats and could certainly qualify for an Olympics’ standing broad jump.  Leaping a span of several feet from the fence to the feeder, he had helped himself, without so much as leaving a thank you note.  It was he who had scattered the seed, not any visiting birds.

And so the tug-of-war began.  Intent upon feeding birds, not squirrels, I moved the feeder to another location, not taking into account his ability to scale vertical posts and access the feeder with no effort.  He had arrived upon a gold mine—food, readily available, and he took advantage of it immediately.

Once again the feeder was relocated to a space farther away from the fence, and this is when said varmint/rodent/squirrel earned my respect.

I watched as he made his usual morning arrival, fully expecting to have a meal fit for a king, breakfast on a platter.  Stopping, he sat on his haunches, and I could almost hear him thinking, the wheels grinding inside his head.  For the longest time, he perched atop the fence, calculating whether or not he was going to be able to reach the feeder by jumping.  His human counterparts would have jumped first and fallen “splat” upon the ground before realizing what had worked prior wasn’t going to work this time around.

This was not just instinct, but intelligence.  I saw it in his eyes.  He turned away, off to consider another plan, another approach.

There are some who are of the belief that all of the world as we know it evolved, that it began as a force, developing and changing to what we see and know today.  I am not one of those.  It is my belief that the world and everything in it, all that we see and know and all that we don't see and don't know, was created by God.   As a gardener, I see what happens around me.  As they say, “Compost happens.”  There is always a breakdown of matter, and it returns back to where it came from; it doesn't become something different.

That little squirrel was created with intelligence to live and to survive in his world, as are we all.  Intelligence is but one aspect of being a created being, personality and individuality yet others.  One only need look around at the state of our world and mankind to realize there is no evolving taking place.

If such care and thought was given to the creation of a small being, how much more so to us as the human race, created in the image of God?  In mankind’s effort and desire to control all things, including his destiny, he has forgotten where he has come from and the source of it all.  When the most important piece is not factored in, humanity is setting itself up, a recipe for disaster. 

I do wonder what it is going to take before the world wakes up to the truth. 

The little squirrel comes back every morning, checking to see if things have changed.  I think I’ll probably be buying some food for him.

 

        

"On Being a Zealot and the G** Word"

zealot:  n., one who is zealous, full of zeal for his own specific beliefs or objectives, usually in the negative sense of being too passionate, a fanatic

There are several words in our language which most aren’t comfortable either saying or hearing.  And so a shortcut version of the word is repeated, stating the first letter followed by “word.”  When written, asterisks fill in the blanks, and we hear the derogatory language in our minds upon reading. 

Words of profanity, those blatantly racist and demeaning in nature, they are truly offensive and are commonly held as being so.

There is another, however, which is deemed an insult by many, the G** word.

I have begun thinking of myself in terms of a zealot, a description I have, until recently, avoided like the plague, probably because of the negative connotations of being viewed as being fanatical. 

When I began writing, I was careful to not use the G** word, so that readers would not be offended or alienated.  And so I used terms such as “Creator, Heavenly Father, the One who made us,” alluding to and referencing Him, but not actually spelling out the G** word. 

Why is there such a reticence amongst those of faith to speak openly?  In the privacy of the church sanctuary, hymns are sung, praise is given, but outside those doors a great reserve takes place as His name is not even spoken.  “The Lord, Jesus, Christ,” but the G** word—not so much.

The public at large is comfortable speaking of Christianity, Christ, and “What would Jesus do?” while lumping a large group of people together.  It is easier dealing with an ideology than dealing with the person of G**.  There are others whose intent is to wipe the name of G** from all things public, whether it is money or the American pledge, as though they can eliminate Him by doing so.  How ludicrous is that?

G** has been given many names by those who want to keep Him at a distance, a general concept, nothing up-close-and-personal.  He is called “Mother Nature, karma, luck--good or bad, the guy in the sky”—the list goes on.  Just don’t say the G** word. 

Isn’t it ironic that such an effort is made to ignore and deny the very One who made all things, including each one of us, as though in doing so He will disappear, go away?  In fact, He is the One who holds all things together. 

And so, zealot that I am, I declare and announce that G** IS.  He will not be ignored; His existence will not be denied; He will be reckoned with. Oh, yes, and He shall be called God.