Three Cheers for the "Cane Gang"

Sometimes our experiences bring us face to face with our misconceptions.

Here's one example. When you see a man or woman with a cane or walker, what's the first thought that pops into your mind? Do you pity them? Do you begrudge their slow pace? Do you wonder why it's worth their effort to venture out?

I've always had a certain amount of compassion for our senior brothers and sisters and those with disabilities. Maybe the 2003 car crash that broke my neck, causing me to use a walker for a while, contributed to this mindset. But the last few weeks have heightened my awareness and challenged my thinking.

I was blessed to have a hip replacement three weeks ago. I'm doing well, having hurdled a few bumps in the road and being the recipient of many kindnesses along the way. (Thank you to those who prayed, sent cards, brought meals, and helped in a hundred other ways! I couldn't have managed without you.) Even so, being a member of the "cane gang" is not for the faint of heart.

My brother-in-law first coined the family phrase when my great aunts and uncles gathered at my parents' home for Christmas in the 1980s, bringing their canes with them (which doubled as crooks for little-boy shepherds during the annual Christmas play!).

I'm learning that using a cane is not as easy as it looks . . . walking, climbing and descending stairs, getting in and out of bed, taking a shower, navigating the car. Using a walker can be cumbersome. Then there's the grabber, the sock-aid, the long-handled shoe-horn, the nightlights, and the grab bars, to name a few. 

I'm also learning that every one of those aids brings more independence and more freedom. 

My neighbor inspires me. He doesn't see himself as "confined to a wheelchair." Instead, his chair has allowed him to "take a walk," hold a meaningful job, live independently, and contribute to our community in significant ways. 

In a few weeks, I hope to pack up my walker and put away my cane. Yet, I will have more appreciation for those who require the use of aids. Let's not pity them or become impatient, but cheer them on. They have had to come face to face with the disappointment and loss of youth and agility and are finding ways to preserve their independence and keep their stabilizing routines. A smile, a respectful greeting, a listening ear, and perhaps a helping hand will go a long way toward helping them see their value in a hurried culture that seldom has time.

Three cheers for the Cane Gang!

Community . . . Quietly Caring

Three police officers walked up my driveway to the patio where I sat with my daughter and her friend after supper. "Is there a Sarah Phillips here?" one of them asked. 

I slowly raised my hand to acknowledge my identity.

"Can we talk with you for a minute?"

The look on my face must have registered concern as I rose from my chair, apron still on, to meet them in the driveway.

"There's no cause for alarm, ma'am," the same man informed me. He then mentioned my dad's name. "Do you know him?"

Turns out, my dad's neighbors were concerned because they hadn't seen him for a few days. They did a little detective work, too . . . mail in the mailbox, car in the garage . . . and then they took action. 

I told the officers of my father's whereabouts - Indiana with my sister. I had checked on his house a couple of times, watered the flowers, and checked the mailbox. He would be home the next day.

In the end, I thanked them for their help. And later, thanked my dad's neighbors for their concern (and gave them my cell number). It meant a lot to me that other people were looking out for my 83-year-old dad. 

There's something to community . . . people quietly caring for people. 

Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.

Philippians 2:4

Taking Time to Remember . . .

For the first time in twelve and a half years, I went back.

I had written about this place, straining to see the words on the screen, blurry because of the tears in my eyes. It holds a hallowed place in my heart. My husband, Barry, arrived at Mountain View Care Center on May 8, 2003, in the process of slowly emerging from a six-week coma due to a car crash. On June 12, 2003, he transferred to another facility, a different man--still with a long, long way to go, but he could finally eat, converse, and walk with help. He even joked with the nurses early in the morning, asking for ice cream.

And so last week I drove to visit a friend there, wondering what I would find.  Would it be as I recalled? Would anyone remember Barry? Would my emotions hold together?

It was wonderful to visit with my friend, June, and see her receiving the care she needed. What I didn't know was that she had taken my book, Penned Without Ink, with her and told many of the staff about it. She also informed them I would be coming that afternoon, so several of Barry's nurses and therapists made it a point to drop by her room . . . the very people who brought my husband back to us.

And they remembered

In the Chapel at Mountain View Care Center, May 2003

One joked, "I didn't recognize you without your halo!" They spoke of Barry as "a gentle soul." They talked about our story, the progress he made, the victories. They asked about our daughters and could hardly believe the little girl who sat on her daddy's lap in the wheelchair now attended college. All these years later, their hugs brought another layer of healing to my heart. I could again say THANK YOU for all they did for Barry . . . and for us.

I wheeled June down to the Chapel for the 2:00 New Year's program. When I entered the large room, tears slipped down my cheeks as memories flooded my mind . . . pictures of Sharon playing the organ and Barry sitting beside her singing in his monotone voice, the place where we ate lunch and prayed together as a family for the first time since the accident, the spot where Barry first understood what had happened to us and wept as he held my hand.

Elisabeth, age 5, on Barry's lap at Mountain View

Taking time to remember now and then brings us back to the basics of gratefulness, wouldn't you agree? Seeing God's goodness over many years lends a perspective we may miss in the thick of our circumstances. Looking back gives us the courage to look forward with a determination to trust God with our stories . . . all the way to the end.

"I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD" (Psalm 27:13, 14).

To Begin Again . . .

We made it through another holiday. 

I didn't know how this Christmas would be for me and the girls since Barry passed away in May. I have to admit, it proved harder than I thought . . . hanging the "Our First Christmas" ornament on the tree, shopping and wrapping alone, seeing the empty recliner on Christmas morning. BUT we did okay. We laughed. We sang. We stayed up too late. I love these five-star kids of mine--three daughters, a son-in-law, and two grandboys. 

I spent today cleaning out drawers and a closet. It's my way to unwind, to reflect and plan. One lingering Christmas thought keeps coming to mind. Maybe it's what I need to take a deep breath and begin again.

It's typical to remember Mary as the promised virgin, the mother of the Messiah. Can you imagine the responsibility of mothering this baby? This toddler? This young son? I can't fathom what it must have felt like to lose track of the twelve-year-old Son of God! And then to see Him grow into a man, the God-man, who had an agenda even Mary didn't always understand. 

This year I received a Christmas letter from a friend who lost her husband to cancer about a month before Barry passed away. Cherie's letter resonated with me:  "Do we give much thought to Mary, the widow? Jesus was 33 years old when He died. but first, He took care of the needs of His widowed mother. He turned His mother over to the care of John. . . . who took care of Mary as if she was his own mother." 
 
Losing a husband as dedicated and caring as Joseph must have dealt a hard blow to the woman who pondered so much in her heart. Did Joseph die before their children reached adulthood? Was Mary a single mom?

After Jesus' resurrection, we find her and her other sons among Jesus' followers in the upper room. She was present when another apostle was chosen to take the place of Judas Iscariot, when Peter preached his first sermon, and when the Holy Spirit came. Later, when great persecution came to the believers in Jerusalem, was she among those who scattered or did she stay? We don't know.

Whatever the case, she chose to number herself with those who believed her Son to be the way, the truth, and the life (John 14:6). She stayed involved. She stood for the truth. She exhibited faithfulness.

What a wonderful example as we begin 2016. I want to be involved, to be faithful, don't you? 

Photos from google images.

A Song in the Night

bing.com

I woke with a start and reached for my husband next to me. Then I remembered. His recent illness had brought him downstairs to the recliner. Again, worry brought a sigh and a prayer. "Please, Lord, help him to feel better. Help us to know what to do next."

I closed my eyes to try to get another couple of hours of sleep when, from the living room, I heard Barry singing. I laid still and listened as he sang the words of an old song I taught to the girls as little children, words set to the even older tune of "Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah."

 

God has made me very special, and I'm dearly loved my Him.   

Even though He knows me fully, He accepts me as I am. 

How I praise Him, How I praise Him,

For His wondrous love for me. For His wondrous love for me.*

 

My husband, in pain and unable to sleep, used the words of a simple hymn to bring comfort and strength to his circumstances. Isn't that when the love of our heavenly Father means the most to us?  When we feel all alone and out of sorts? When we're at our lowest and hope is ebbing away?

 

bing.com

I've thought about that song in the night many times since then. Barry had it right. Whether we're feeling the ache of physical pain or the sting of rejection or the angst of loss, how comforting to line up our emotions with truth. God loves me. He knows all about it. 

 

Since my husband passed away I often find myself awake at night, thoughts swirling every which way. "How will I take care of the house and the cars and the yard and the finances and . . . who will take care of me?"

Then, like Barry, I remember an old hymn:

 

Be not dismayed what e're betide, God will take care of you. 

Beneath his  wings of love abide,God will take care of you.

God will take care of you, Through every day, O'er all the way;

He will take care of you, God will take care of you.**

 

God has taken care of me . . . of us. This gives me hope for the days ahead.

What songs have encouraged you through the night?

 

*Words by Verna Birkey, 1977.
**Words by Civilla D. Martin, 1869-1948.

Why the Pharmacist Made Me Cry

If you know me well, you understand that I lean toward the side of alternative medicine, i.e. natural ways to stay healthy. We use essential oils, herbs, and home remedies, not to mention preventative measures like healthy food choices and habits.


But sometimes we find our backs against the wall.

This past week has been one of those times. An ER visit for my husband left us in need of some OTC meds and prescriptions, which sent me to the pharmacy multiple times. And as you have probably surmised, I'm a little leery about the drug store scene.

So, I asked a few questions.

The pharmacist not only answered them, but offered practical, useful information. In the midst of the flurry of her busy afternoon, she took her time, looked me in the eye, and encouraged me to call if I had any more questions. She treated me like an important part of her day. It meant the world to me, by that time a little frazzled and more than  exhausted.

I can hold up under duress for a long time but let someone express kindness, and I might find myself in tears. Like when I drove out of the parking lot that day. 

When in a quandary about whether we should even go to the ER, I called a nurse friend whose words soothed my worries and offered a logical plan of action. I blinked back the tears then, too.

Kindness. It made all the difference in my day.

What stories can you tell of kindnesses, large and small, that turned your day around?

Mall Stories, Grace Stories

Almost every day, I find myself at the mall. Compulsive shopper? Hardly. I'm there because my dad has to walk. After triple bypass surgery in October, his recovery depends on it. I'm his chauffeur until eight weeks post-op.

Every day, it's the same. We begin our laps outside JCPenney, turn right toward Sears, then pass Old Navy as we head toward Macy's at the opposite end. After about three laps, we find a bench before going around another two or three times. On our "forced marches," as my dad says with a twinkle in his eye, we see the same people. The old guy fast asleep in a chair over his crossword puzzle, the out-of-a-movie cleaning lady with her hair pulled to the top of an expressionless face, the Hickory Farms salesgirl offering free samples, the Bath Fitter salesman pacing in circles around his display. We see walkers, grandfathers wheeling strollers, security guards walking their beats, and sometimes, older couples strolling arm in arm. We wonder about the stories behind the people we see.

On Veteran's Day, after our laps, we went to Applebee's, also at the mall. Veterans received a free meal that day. Dad served in the Navy on the USS Tarawa in the late 1950s. As we entered the restaurant, the Stars and Stripes graced the window. Five flags hung on the wall representing the United States Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, and Coast Guard. Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched an elderly veteran hobble in with a cane. Others, filled with pride and memories, crowded the lobby. The manager went from table to table to thank them for their service. I felt proud to be there with my dad.

We both tend to be on the quiet side, but in between the comfortable silences on our route, he tells me my sister called or a friend stopped by with meatballs and pasta. I describe my latest writing project and update him on my kids. Today, as we sat on a bench, he talked about missing my mom and the upcoming holidays without her. I squeezed his hand as emotion choked us both.

Dad begins his cardiac rehab on Monday, so our days at the mall are numbered, but they hold a special place in my heart - and I think in Dad's, too. Last week, he said, "Maybe after I'm driving again, we can meet at the mall to walk." Maybe we can.

It seems to me that real life is a little like our time at the mall. We go by the same places and see the same people every day. Sometimes we find a special event to enjoy or we meet a new friend. As our life stories intersect with the stories of those around us, I hope we will make a difference . . . "faithfully administering God's grace" (1 Peter 4:10).

Just Say No?

At any given moment, our usually happy, two-year-old grandson, Ty, can be heard yelling, “Nooo.”  Funny thing is, sometimes at the same he’s saying “no,” he’s using sign language to say “yes.” Two little words, all mixed up.
 
I have a hunch that toddlers aren’t the only ones who are conflicted about “yes” and “no.”

“Just say no” sounds so simple. It’s like saying, “Just sign here,” or, “Just click there.”  Easy, enough. But what does that signature stand for? What are the implications of one easy click? Can one “just say no” alter a life?


I have the privilege of joining Catapult Magazine's current discussion on the topic, "Just Say No." Read the rest of the story at https://www.catapultmagazine.com/just-say-no/feature/the-tug-of-yes-and-no

What's your "yes" and "no" story?

More Than Sisters

Labor Day, 1964 - Sarah & Barbara, ages 6 and 3

How did you relate with your siblings as a child? And now?

My Uncle Ed recently gave me an envelope of old photos I hadn't seen before. I don't have many pictures of me as a little girl, so as you can imagine, I treasure every one. I think this one is my favorite. 

Here I am, the big sister. Protective. Reassuring. I would always look out for my little sis. 

And now, we're in our fifties, both grandmothers. I'm still the big sister, I guess. But in reality, the years between us have disappeared. Though separated by miles and life experience, we're still two girls walking hand in hand, leaning on each other, reassuring each other, praying for each other.

Recent photo ( by Kim Passetti)

It seems we've partnered more the last few years as our parents have gotten older. Our sweet mom battled ovarian cancer for nearly two years before she slipped away from us. We miss her in different and similar ways all at once. Our strong dad just had triple bypass surgery. Our commitment to care for both of them has brought us together more often. I'm the daughter who lives nearby, drives the six miles almost daily to check in, and makes the calls or runs the errands. Barb, on the other hand, takes the train or plane all the way from Indiana to stay around the clock for several weeks at a time. 

We're as united as the photos show. I'm grateful for all Barb has meant to me over the years. I admire her commitment, her faith, her love for God's Word, her sweet spirit, and her willingness to sacrifice. I'm glad we look out for each other . . .

We're more than sisters. We're friends.