Found a fun new place to post pictures and see what others are up to at Beverly’s Pink Saturday.

Linking up with Lisa-Jo again this week, where in her words:


This is the time of the week when we steal those five minutes while the kids are fingerpainting the dining room table, the neighbor’s dog has stopped barking, or the microwave is popping some corn to splash down some thoughts on paper.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in. 

GO:

Glimpses of home…

Bonnie over at the Faith Barista invited us to reflect on Father’s Day this week.  My thoughts are a bit all over the map, but here they are:

                                     I apologize for the blurriness of this photo – someday, I will learn how to scan and save old ones!  This is a picture of a picture in a very scratched old collage frame which cannot be re-opened or I’ll lose everything in it.  Taken at my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary celebration on Kauai in 1991.  My parents had been married 64 years when Dad died.

It’s been six years now, six years since my dad died.  I still talk to him, though.  Most often that happens when I’m driving or sitting in solitude somewhere.  I’ve missed him so much these years – but I think I actually began to miss him even before he died.  Because one of the hardest parts about watching your parents age and become frail is the sad truth that pieces of them die before their body follows.

Two of my dad’s most defining characteristics, the ones that stood out for me all my life, just sort of disappeared in those last three or four years before death came knocking: his two deepest passions seemed to evaporate – his love for the piano and his care and concern for my mom.  

The first one was the most evident, I suppose.  All of his life, my dad played the piano, and he played it very well indeed.  So well that he became the family trophy when he was just a boy, trotted out at gatherings like a small super-star.  

And I think he had a pretty mixed attitude toward that.  He was a quiet kid and a quiet man.  He didn’t say much, but what he did say was always worth hearing, his well-chosen words revealing a deep intelligence, a very dry, wry humor or his love and appreciation for his family.  So being forced into the limelight didn’t sit well with him. 

However, if he wanted to be in the limelight, he went for it.   And if someone else got attention that he wasn’t entirely convinced was well-earned, he ever-so-quietly grumbled about that. He was the primary accompanist for congregational and choral singing in the church where I spent the first 12 years of my life and when we moved to a different community, it was sometimes hard for him to occupy more of a back-seat in the line-up of gifted pianists at our new church. 

But whether he had a specific ‘job’ connected to his music or not, my dad always, ALWAYS played.  He practiced hard, learning lots of different kinds and styles of music, from Chopin to Sondheim. Our home was filled with the sound of his big hands caressing those keys, working out intricate harmonies, repeating the tough parts until they literally sang their way into every room. He also had a wonderful ability to play by ear and created medleys of all kinds, entertaining friends and family, playing at banquets and other social gatherings. Even into his early 80’s, he enjoyed accompanying a community choral group near their home in Orange County.

Then Parkinson’s Disease arrived.  And dad could no longer control those great hands.  So the piano was played less and less.  As his personal care needs accelerated, my two brothers and I became concerned and we encouraged our folks to consider moving to a stepped-care retirement community. 

And when they did that, the baby grand piano moved to my daughter’s house, where her talented sons continue to play it.  We bought dad a great keyboard for their new apartment, one that looked like a spinet piano but sounded like a concert grand.  But I don’t think he ever really played it – the encroachment of neurological disease brought with it a deepening depression, a distancing from former loves, an inability to find pleasure in very much of what life had to offer him as a frail old man. How I missed that music!  And how he must have missed it, too. 

And that frailty, those insults to his sense of himself – these hard things also blinded him to the needs of his wife, his primary caregiver and faithful companion.  And for me, this was the death that was the very hardest of all. 

My parents shared a passionate connection and commitment to one another, an almost tangible spark passed between them as I was growing up under the umbrella of their love.  My mother was as vivacious and social as my dad was quiet and reflective, and somehow that balance worked well for them.  He adored her sparkle, she relied on his quiet strength. 

They always took time away together when we were kids and I always knew EXACTLY why they wanted and needed to do that.  I loved watching my father love my mom – it was one of the pillars of my life when I was a child and adolescent.  They were quietly affectionate and playful and were truly devoted to each other and to their marriage. Those first 15 years of retirement were great years for them – time spent traveling, playing tennis, entertaining, volunteering at their church and doting on their grandkids. 

My mom always thought that dad had rescued her, rescued her from her binge alcoholic father and her over-worked mother.  She loved her own family deeply and so did my dad, finding them to be warmer and more open than his own family of origin.  But my mom was the caregiver in her family home and dad saved her from that weight of worry and responsiblity.  And he introduced her to the world of higher education, valuing her natural intellecual gifts and helping her to blossom.  In return, she made him the center of her world and of our family, perhaps creating a high set of expectations, even a sense of entitlement in my dad. 

As his health deteriorated, he simply did not see the impact his care was having on my mother.  She became exhausted and overwhelmed, unprepared for the toll her devotion would take on her body and her spirit.  How I missed seeing that loving husband during those last months and years!   In the midst of my grief over his very serious health issues, I found myself sometimes angry at his inability to see beyond them and reach out to my mom in her fatigue.  The adult part of me knew that this was more than partially due to the ravaging effects of disease on my dad’s brain and nervous system.  But the child part?  The child part wanted my strong, quiet daddy to step up, to peek out and to reach out – to allow my mom a little respite, to care about her well-being as well as his own. 

And it’s the child part that still speaks to my dad as I drive and as I muse.  And I’m finding that the frustration and anger are dissipating and the confident, secure loving is ascending.  My father was and is one of God’s greatest gifts in my life.  He was not perfect, but I’ll tell you, he came damn close.  Up until that last bout with a devastating illness, he loved his wife and his family more than life.  He had a deep and quiet faith, he was an encourager, a questioner, a thinker, a fine teacher and academician, a noted statistician and author, a loving grandfather and one of the funniest people I ever knew.  And I miss him terribly almost every single day.  Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  I love you more than I can say.

Joining the Lauras very late this week – yes, it’s been that kind of week. Oy vey.

 

 

Holy crap, it’s Friday again!  How does that happen so fast??  Taking five minutes for unedited, uninterrupted reflection on a theme, graciously and creatively provided each week by Lisa-Jo over at the Gypsy Mama.  This week’s theme has me a little stymied – let’s see where 5 minutes will take me:

GO:

When I was a ‘tweener’ (though when I was one, we never called it that!), I used to love to roller skate.  I owned a pair of clamp on skates and used to go (very, very carefully) down the big hill on which we lived.  I couldn’t screw up the courage [to] make it all the way to the bottom – the speed was just too intense for me – but I did go 6-8 houses at a time before pulling off into the grass to slow down.

But what I really loved to do was to go to the rink in town, put on those shoe skates and make big lazy circles around the wooden floor.  I even took some lessons there – and I learned how to skate backwards.

Oh, the joy of that movement.  I was not a natural athlete.  (Well, that is the understatement of the century!!!)  I did not do team sports.  I was always – and I do mean always – chosen last for any spontaneous games on the playground.  But skating?  I could do skating!  At least if there were wheels on the bottom of the shoe, and not blades.

I really enjoyed those outings to the rink.  Cheesy music and all.  It was freeing for me to be able to use my body in a semi-coordinated way, to feel it ‘work.’  That did not happen for me very often – it’s hard to be awkward and gangly and unable to do what others seem to do without effort.  Not exactly sure why that was true for me, but it was.  So roller-skating was dreamy – as close as I ever came to dancing – and I truly loved it.

And going backwards – that was the best part of all.  I did it easily, joyfully, repeatedly.  And I haven’t thought about that in YEARS.  Literally.  So thank you, Lisa-Jo, for this flash-from-the-past.  It is sweet to remember those moments of freedom.

STOP 

I am so happy to report that my 5-year-old granddaughter has NOT ONE of my physical hang-ups about her body and how well it works.  I don’t have any photos of her (or me) roller-skating, but I do have these of the day last March when she rode her bicycle without training wheels for the first time.

Bonnie, over at the Faith Barista, has invited us this week to share the story of how we met our spouse.  Well, it’s been quite a long time now, but I’ll give it a shot…

It was a fall evening and I was a brand-new first-year student at UCLA, newly graduated from high school, very wet behind the ears and commuting from my home in Glendale that first semester. 

My dad had been a part of a Christian fraternity when he attended the same school and I had been invited to attend an evening gathering for potential Little Sisters of that group.  I was nervous, but determined to put my best foot (and smile) forward and try out this social networking thing at my new school. Maybe it would be helpful to know that I was one of the ‘brainy’ kids in high school, taking honors classes and not learning a whole lot about social niceties, and with not much dating experience. 

So…I was making small talk with a number of very nice young men and more than a few kind and interesting young women.  Then, in the conversational group just to my right, I heard a warm laugh and turned to see where it was coming from. And that’s when I saw them. 

Those big, dark brown eyes – focused with kindness on the others in his group, nicely complementing a smiling face. “Who is that?”  I wondered, in between skipped heartbeats.  And I made it my business to find out before I left that evening: his name was Richard and he was a junior. 

Now I am almost embarrassed to admit this to you, but this is what I did.  Once I had his name and a little of his story up my sleeve, I did two things:  a.) I asked if I could borrow his bicycle – and I made sure to wear my most flattering bermuda shorts when I came over to take it out for a spin, and b.) I promptly looked up his class schedule – and over the course of the next few weeks, I made sure to re-arrange my own walking-from-class-to-class schedule in such a way that I walked by him, in the opposite direction once or twice every single day.  Equipped with a warm smile, a warm and breezy, “How are you today?”  I made sure I was somewhere in his vicinity several times every week. I also successfully pledged that Little Sister group and our social contacts became more frequent, allowing for deeper conversation. 

And I’m just remembering another rather tricky thing I did – I am, from this end of the story, rather amazed at my youthful and naive ability to scheme. I asked one of his fraternity brothers – a guy whose dad knew my dad – to ‘help me’ open my first ever checking account.  When Dick got wind that I had asked Don to do this, he very quickly asked if he could help me with any of those pesky details.  Well…yes, of course he could! And I spent one lovely afternoon, very early on, learning how to balance a checkbook and how to avoid overdraws.  (I found out a couple of years later that there was more than a little bit of  competitive undercurrent between those two – would you call that providential?)

Our first actual date was not with each other, but was a double date, each of us with someone else.  And so was our second date. Then we went on a weekend retreat with the InterVarsity chapter on campus, one that his uncle was leading.  And the rest, as they say, is history. 

I was seventeen when we met in October, seventeen on our first double-date-with-different-people, and eighteen when we went on that retreat in February.  By April of my first year, we were an item – discovering that our parents had known each other in college, that we shared many long term goals, and that we liked each other – a lot. And probably most important for the long-term success of our relationship and our marriage, we discovered a shared comic sensibility and we laughed together often, loudly and gladly.  We married midway through my senior year, when I was twenty years old. 

As our relationship unfolded, I quickly discovered that those lovely eyes reflected a quick intelligence, an intelligence very different from my own.  He was a business major, really good at ferreting out complicated investment issues.  He was also an athlete and I spent many warm spring afternoons watching him play tennis like a pro.  I was a good thinker, writer, public speaker and singer.  NOT an athlete, without a business gene in my body.  But we found that those differences made for an interesting balance in our relationship, one that we enjoy to this day – 48 years after meeting, 45+ years after marrying. 

Doesn’t sound terribly deep spiritually, does it?  No lengthy prayer session about who my life partner should be; no agonizing discussions with friends/family/pastors; no prayer times together, either.  (I do remember that a very popular Christian book at the time warned dating couples AGAINST praying together as it could easily lead to heated passionate exchanges as well…maybe that explains it.) 

But here’s something important I’ve learned over this long, interesting life we’ve lived together, with its many chapters, twists and turns: if each of you is seeking God, if both of you are open to possibilities, then you can rest with calm assurance in the truth that God moves with you in the choices you make. 

Are we perfect?  Are you kidding me??  Just ask our kids – or our grandkids. 

We bicker at times, we get fed-up with each other’s weak spots and we sometimes speak in tones that are far from dulcet. 

But you know what?  
     We are each other’s very best friends; 
     we share a history that is totally unique to us; 
     we have allowed God’s Spirit to help us evolve in our understanding of what marriage is all about; 
     we have remained open to surprise; 
     we have sought, with our whole hearts, to love each other even when we don’t like each other very much; 
     we have learned to love our kids with a passion that surprises us at times; 
     we have managed to love our grandkids and to enjoy them in ways we were not equipped to do when we were their parents’ parents;
     we have always found ways to serve others, both inside and outside the church, and taught/modeled the same for our kids;

     and we have leaned into God every step of the way, thankful in ways words cannot capture for the gift of faith, aware that we would not survive in this world without grace, and amazed by that truth every single day. 

Every single one. 

And all because of those eyes, those amazing, beautiful eyes. 
Thank you, Jesus.

Also linking with Ann for her Walk with Him Wednesday meme: