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.

Perspectives On Aging

So, how do you feel about getting older?

As a child, I loved birthdays. I felt special all day long. My parents retold the stories surrounding my birth, and I never tired of hearing them. I realize now that they gifted me with much more than stories. They let me know how much they loved and valued me as a member of the family. I treasure those memories now.

Back then, I looked forward to getting older. Imagine! 

Recently we visited the home of a young couple. As we pulled into the driveway, the yellow house, the almost-finished barn, the garden patch, and the laughter of children all told a story. A story that brought out the melancholy side of me. I felt a bit wistful.

I remember when two little girls laughed and played inside our picket fence, when the tooth fairy stopped by on a regular basis, when young scientists littered the kitchen table with their projects. Young and strong, my husband and I worked hard to live out our dreams. 

How the years slip by . . .

We're not so young and strong anymore. Life has given us ample blessings to be sure, but realism has pushed our young idealism  to the side. With a lesser confidence, I find myself looking back and hoping we've pleased God in one way or another.

And in the midst of my unsettledness, I run across these words:

The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree . . . Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall still bear fruit in old age; They shall be fresh and flourishing, to declare that the Lord is upright; He is my rock, and there is no unrighteousness in Him (Psalm 92:12-15).

It seems God's perspective on aging is a bit different than mine. While I'm not exactly "old," I have added mother-in-law and grandma to my list of names. "Bear fruit in old age . . . fresh and flourishing" brings my focus around to look forward with expectation. Perhaps to be a voice of experience to "declare that the Lord is upright," that He is a rock, an anchor of hope no matter where our life stories lead us.

I want to bring this promise with me as the years go by. How about you?

A Day in the ICU Waiting Room

Today, I’m in the ICU waiting room at one of our local hospitals. I’ve been here for about five hours so far. My dad had triple-bypass surgery. I’m waiting to see him. 

This all came about rather suddenly. I took Dad to the ER Sunday night with left arm pain and chest discomfort. Nothing too bad. It came and went. Dad’s in good shape. He swims a half mile several times a week, takes care of his home, mows the lawn, does the yard work. He never smoked. How could he have three blockages?

My only sibling lives in Indiana. She wanted to be here today but decided she could help even more by coming to stay with him around the clock once he comes home. My mom, after a two-year battle with cancer, passed away two months ago.

So today, I rode the elevator to the second floor alone. 

I felt okay about it. I’m not one to ask people to rearrange their schedules. Besides, I had an article to finish writing and a good book to read. I knew many faithful friends were praying. After giving my dad a kiss and a squeeze (and fighting back a few tears), I found my assigned spot, prayed for the docs and for my dad, and got to work.

After an hour or two, I looked up to find a smiling face in the doorway. A dear friend came—on her only day off—to sit with me. It was wonderful to see her. Time flew as we caught up over hot drinks and granola bars. We laughed together, talked about our kids, and wondered about what the future held for both of us. Before she left, we prayed together. A sweet time in the midst of crisis. 

I’m still waiting, yet it’s been a grace-filled day.

Saturday Exchange

clean water for dirty

white rags for gray

cluttered for space

littered for swept

dusty for shine

smudges for bright

early zip for "I'm zapped"

ah-h-h-h

"I never could have done what I have done without the habits of 
punctuality, order, and diligence, without the determination 
to concentrate myself on one subject at a time."
Charles Dickens

I never could have done what I have done without the habits of punctuality, order, and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one subject at a time.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/c/charlesdic121515.html#iGx2Af3Z0PdT0O3u.99I never

I never could have done what I have done without the habits of punctuality, order, and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one subject at a time.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/c/charlesdic121515.html#iGx2Af3Z0PdT0O3u.99

I never could have done what I have done without the habits of punctuality, order, and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one subject at a time.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/c/charlesdic121515.html#iGx2Af3Z0PdT0O3u.99

Windows of the Soul

What gifts have meant the most to you? Why?

To me, a gift is more than the essence of tissue paper and ribbon or the element of surprise. A thoughtful gift reflects the giver and his initiative to make a meaningful connection, to share something of himself, always with the benefit of the receiver in mind.

In September 2010, my mom penned some words inside a little book, her birthday gift to me.

She gave me two gifts, really. Her words of affirmation written in the flyleaf, which I treasure more than ever now that she's gone. And the words of Ken Gire in his book, Windows of the Soul.

It's not only what Mr. Gire writes, but how he writes that had my attention from the start. His chapters have nudged me to pause, to take the time to open my eyes, to see beyond the obvious. "Windows of the soul is where God finds us, or where we find Him . . . . He comes to us where we are, speaks to us in our own language, calls us by our name" (page 236).

Mom, through sharing an author she enjoyed, gave me a precious gift, a shared experience. It's a nice feeling to know she and I have read the same words, some of them over and over. Like this story:

Today I [went] to the tracks to pick up a small joy unclaimed from my childhood.

I put a line of pennies on the polished rail and returned later to find them all thin as aspen leaves. I palmed them all the way back to my office, looking at them with such childlike delight I almost stepped in a mud puddle . . . .

No matter how defaced the coin, I could still tell it was a penny. I could tell by the copper color and the round shape and by the faint outline of Lincoln's face that somehow survived the train (page 228).

Sometimes I feel like those pennies, don't you? Flattened by circumstances, grief, and loss, "thin as aspen leaves." Yet no matter how "defaced" I find myself, I pray people will still be able to recognize the outline of God's image and the In-God-We-Trust reality of my faith.

Someday, like my mom, our "faith shall be sight." The ultimate gift, wouldn't you say?

The Day After

Every Sunday, 8:00 a.m. will always have a hallowed place in my heart. Each week I will make it a point to glance at the clock . . . and remember. Remember my wonderful mother who enriched every day of my life in a myriad of ways. 

Sunday, August 11 at 8:00 a.m. marked the day Mom stepped into heaven after a long and weary journey with cancer. Finally home. In the words of David Phelps:

No more night; no more pain;
No more tears, never crying again.
Praises to the great I AM!
  We will live in the light of the risen Lamb!

Friends and family came from Illinois, Georgia, Indiana, New York, Missouri, and Pennsylvania. They brought with them words of comfort. They told stories of how Mom touched their lives. They pressed hope into our hearts with their hugs. Local friends dropped off food. Pastors prayed with us. Many cried with us.

Over forty family members gathered at the cemetery on that cloudless Thursday. Each one quietly placed a flower on the casket, signifying their final good-byes. I'll always remember the spontaneous verses of "Amazing Grace" sung by a family who has experienced the story of God's grace over multiple generations.

But when the last notes die away and loved ones have waved their tearful farewells, what then? What does a family do the day after the services, the cemetery, the formal observances?

Sometimes I think God whispers ideas into our hearts.

At 10:00 a.m. on Friday, ten of us (including little Ty) descended on my parents' home with garden tools, rakes, knee pads, and lunch. Under my dad's direction, we  pulled weeds, trimmed plants, and cut grass. Dad had kept up the yard well during my mom's illness, but the weeds seemed to take advantage of his preoccupation the last couple months of her life. In less than two hours, the flower beds and yard my mom loved so much looked immaculate. Dad looked more than pleased.

Something else happened as we worked in the sunshine. We found a sweet solace in our togetherness. We shared a common cause, a united commitment of loyalty that drew us closer. Perhaps our quiet conversations between the flowering bushes or the visible improvements somehow eased the heaviness. Working together and then sharing lunch in the back yard generated hope, and we all felt a little better. 

As we enter the new normal, we already have have some good memories. I think Mom would have liked our idea, too.

 
What has helped you and your family in seasons of grief?

Remembering Mom: Lillian Marie Ewert May 30, 1936 - August 11, 2013

You gather a handful of seed, God’s seed, and scatter it wide.

You purposely plant; you carefully cultivate.

Some seed falls among rocks,

          Some amidst thorny patches

          Or on the hardened roadside.

But, by faith, you dip into God’s seed basket again and again.

Often the seed lands on good ground—with promise of harvest.

In time, misty shoots and sun-drenched leaves of faith

          Begin their journey upward.

Tightly closed buds burst

          Into fragrant bright blossoms

          And the ripening fruit of the Spirit.

In the seasons of His choosing, the breath of God

          Carries your handfuls far beyond this field,

          Past the ground you see

          To soils beyond your human reach.

Near and far, God gives the increase.

With gratefulness,

          I tend the garden

          You planted in my heart.

*Based on the Parable of the Sower in Matthew 13

Mom with her girls, Barb and Sarah, Easter 2013