Waiting Round the Bend

     I wasn't sure what I would find as I entered the nursing home to  look for my old friends. Comer had been sick, and Evelyn had fallen and been in bed for much of the past two weeks. Comer had not sounded confident that we would be able to get Evelyn safely to the car.

     "Then we will use a wheelchair if needed, Comer. It would do her good to get out."

     "That it would," he agreed, "She is not doing well. Never says a word....sometimes mumbles but not so anyone can tell what she is saying. How will we get her in the car?"

      That was saddening- the Alzheimers seemed to be winning the battle lately.

     "I am an occupational therapist," I said, "I know how to help her."

     "Well ok, darlin, then see you then."

     But as I entered the Home, they both sat in the entry way as usual, Evelyn looking more chipper than usual. Her back was ramrod straight and her hand clasped Comer's. They both stared straight ahead, and I suspected that they had been there a while, though I was a few minutes early.

     "Hello!" said Evelyn, with a huge smile. She was thickly swathed in two heavy sweaters.

     "Good thing you're bundled up...it is frigid out there!"

     "Yes," she said, nodding, with sparkling eyes.

      "Shall we go get roast beef? I know that's your favorite Comer."

      "That would be grand," he said.

     I took Evelyn's arm, expecting a struggle with a shuffling sack of potatoes after Comer's description, but she was fine. She was a little slow getting in the car, but after a few slow shifts of her hips, she was in and comfortable.

     "Hey Comer, my book went to number one."

     "You are kidding me! That's fantastic."

     "Yep, in the dog training category on Amazon. You have a famous author taking you to lunch."

     Evelyn laughed.

     "I know Evelyn," I said, " A little exaggeration...But I wrote a second book too. It is ready to be published."

     I had had the music on as always, with songs from the 40s and 50s, their era. Evelyn sang along to many, and Comer smiled watching her.

Then Moon River came on. I cranked it up.

     "You know this one for sure, Evelyn!" I said. I was stopped at a corner so I sat there as the song blasted from the CD player. Evelyn reached her hands up, mimicking mine as we gestured dramatically in time with the words. Her voice was clear, and strong.

      Moon River, wider than a mile

      I'm crossing you in style one day

      We're after the same rainbow's end

      Waiting round the bend

      My huckleberry friend

      Moon River and Me.

The song ended and Comer gazed at his smiling wife as she sighed with contentment.

     "She's having a good day," he said, "What's your second book about?"

      "Miracles."

You shall rise up before the grayheaded and honor the aged. Leviticus 19:32

Christmas Light

I gazed despairingly at the wine stained library book. I had finished it, and defiled it, and now, my conscience would let me delay no longer- I must confess my crime. I pictured going to the library clerks and handing them the book, shame dripping from every pore.
"Forgive me, Library, for I have sinned."
I just could not do it. I could not face their wrath as they first beheld the book that they had loaned me in good faith, the book that was brand new with the binding yet uncreased, the pages creamy white...until I had dripped upon them. So instead, I wrote a note. I tucked the note into the book and asked Asherel if she wanted to join me on errands.
"First, to the library," I said, "I am returning the book and owning up to what I did."
"You wrote them a note?" she asked, looking at the little paper tucked in the book.
"Yes, and I will put the book in the book deposit and they will read the note and decide what my punishment will be. Read the note, and tell me what you think."
She picked up the book, looked at the purple stain on the edges, and pulled out my note. She read for a few seconds and then looked up at me.
"Grape juice? You said you spilled grape juice?"
"Well if I told them wine they would think I was reading their book in a drunken stupor. Anyway, it was grape juice....fermented grape juice."
"You are going to offer them the book you wrote as payment for the stain?" she asked reading on.
"Yes, doesn't that sound like a fair exchange? When we get there, take the book just inside the doors and drop it in the adult book depository. Be sure the note doesn't drop out. I am ready to bear the consequences of my sin." As long as it doesn't cost me too much....
"Except, I have to do it?" she asked, as I nudged her out of her seat when we reached the library.
She sighed, picked up the book, and hopped out of the car.

Earlier in the day, I had gathered an assortment of Christmas cookies. My boys and Karissa wouldn't be in till the evening, so my day was free. I had called Comer at the assisted living center the day before. He was still feeling too poorly for our weekly outing, and Evelyn was still recovering from a bad fall. I had so wanted to take them out to see Christmas Lights.The nurses in the Alzhiemer unit felt it best she remain resting. But, I thought, I could still visit, and bring Christmas cookies.
I knocked on Comer's door. No answer. I knocked more loudly. Still no answer. I pounded on the door. Then I heard shuffling steps and the blinds peeked open a little. I jumped up and down waving at him.

"Well hello!" he said, opening the door, "What a surprise!"
"I couldn't take you out to see Christmas, so I brought Christmas to you," I said, handing him the cookies.
He smiled, and said, "Come in, come in!"
I sat on a straight back chair facing him as he settled in his recliner.
"How's Evelyn?" I asked.
"Not well," he said, his eyes misting, head shaking, "She's in bed now."
"Well take those cookies to her later and you two share them, ok? That will perk her up."
"You know she fell," he said.
"Yes, I know."
"She's gained a lot of weight. She won't eat anything herself, so I feed her, you know, coax every bite."
"Maybe you don't need to coax quite as much," I suggested.
"Yes, I have decided that," he agreed, "I can't pick her up when she falls anymore!"
"But don't stop coaxing till after she has the cookies. No one should diet at Christmas."
"It was just a question of time before she fell."
"Maybe she needs a walker," I said.
"Yes, we are coming to that conclusion. She certainly won't be dancing."
"Were you two good dancers?"
"Oh yes, won many contests. On a cruise ship out of hundreds of couples we won first place in the rumba."
He smiled with twinkling eyes, and I could tell he was envisioning his beautiful bride dancing on the polished floors as the ship swayed in the ocean.
"Do you have Christmas plans?" I asked. I knew that usually the two old people spent the holidays in the Home. Comer had told me before that the holidays were just another day in this place.
However, his sad eyes lifted and he said, "Yes! My daughter is coming to bring us to her home for Christmas brunch."
I knew that Comer had been there for Thanksgiving, but not Evelyn. I think it was very hard for the daughter to handle the blunt trauma of Alzheimers and as far as I knew, since being afflicted, the old couple had never been to the daughter's nearby home, but that once for Comer alone.
"Both of you?" I asked surprised.
"Yes," he said, beaming, "She is making Christmas brunch for both of us."
God bless you, daughter, I thought.

Having dropped the library book, Asherel and I continued on to finish our errands. We were walking between stores when a very thin and very old woman stepped away from the wall where she had been leaning.
"Do you have something to eat?" she asked.
My first thought was how much money we were spending with all the kids home and Christmas gifts, and Asherel's various lessons and activities. The woman looked at me, but I didn't get the sense she was seeing me. Her eyes looked empty. I glanced at the store we stood beside. It was the grocery store.
"No, but let's get you something," I said. Asherel and the woman followed as I turned into the store.
"What would you like?"
"Rotisserie Chicken," she said.
I smiled. At least she had not lost a sense of what she wanted. We went to the hot chicken and she chose one.
"Do you have a place to stay?" I asked.
"I am in the Women's shelter," she said.
"What happened that landed you there?"
"I lost my job two months ago."
"Oh, what did you do?"
"Computer chips," she said, then mumbled some other explanations, but I was busy trying to figure out the self check out system.
"Are you involved with a church?" I asked, handing her the chicken as we stepped out of the store.
"Yes, salvation army."
"Well God Bless you, and I hope you find a job. Jesus loves you."
Asherel and I walked on.
"I wonder if she really was homeless," I said.
"She had awfully nice clothes," said Asherel.
"Yes, I noticed that, but she was working until 2 months ago. I guess we will never know if she was just scamming us...but I figure if someone would stoop that low, they do need help. Maybe an act of kindness will spur them on to hope in something better for themselves."

All my children arrived home safely and we played Wii games, and lit the first Hanukkah candle. Karissa, my daughter in law, had never seen the giant book I had made when the boys were young that tells the Hanukkah story. She good naturedly read it out loud while my now grown kids submitted to hearing the story again, as I turned the giant pages with my illustrations in brightly colored markers.
"As we light the candles in this home," Karissa read, "We are reminded of how Jesus, Yeshua, was light to the world, and lights the soul of all who come to Him. We are reminded to spread the light."

Matthew 5:
¹⁴ “You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. ¹⁵ Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.

Dispelling the Darkness

When I walked in the Assisted Living Home, Comer and Evelyn were sitting side by side under the entry way chandelier. They were holding hands, looking straight ahead, dressed in Sunday clothes. Evelyn wore a beautiful necklace, and pink leather shoes. Comer wore a sports coat, and pinstriped shirt.Their expressions and posture were poised in expectant waiting.And I was 5 minutes early. I wondered how long they had been sitting there, leaning forward in their seats, dressed in all their finery, waiting.

I smiled when I caught sight of them, so eager for their outing, and waved. Comer, the 93 year old new author of a book of poetry, stood to greet me with a bag in his hand. Evelyn's face broke into a beaming smile of recognition, always surprising me in her struggles with Alzheimers, and threw her arms around me.
"Ready for lunch?" I said. She hugged me tightly.
Comer handed me the bag, "Six of my books, one for each neighbor."
"Oh, they will be thrilled! Did you sign them?"
"I did."
"Well then let's celebrate. How about Kentucky Fried Chicken?"
"Yes," smiled Evelyn.
"Extra crispy," said Comer.
"You got it!"

Our outing was our typical peaceful drive, while balancing fast food on our laps, and meandering through rich people's neighborhoods. Asherel was in charge of the music, and switched CDs from Engelbert Humperdinck to Romantic Melodies from the 50's. Even Comer sang along on a few of them today.

"I got a short story I want you to read," he said.
"Oh I would love to! Are we printing a book of short stories next?"
"Oh no, I don't have but three of them. But this one is particularly poignant. I wrote it years ago."
"What's it about?"
"I'm not going to tell you. You will have to read it."
"Haha! Well ok. Bring it next week."
"I sure will. It is about a Canada Goose."
"Oh, I love Canada Geese!" I said, "You know they mate for life."
"I know," he said, "That's in the story."
"I thought so," I said, glancing in the rear view mirror. He sat next to Evelyn, clutching her hand.
"Did you know Evelyn when you wrote it?"
"Oh yes," he said.
"I thought so."

I remembered my walks to the swan pond this week. I have been going twice a day, hoping against hope that I am not seeing what I am seeing. All week there has only been one swan. One lone swan, where for a year there have been two. I keep hoping I will see the second, hidden behind the brush. The lone swan has not moved from a little feeder island in the middle of the pond. A huge flock of Canada Geese float on the other end of the pond. The swan is all alone. His mate appears to be gone. My heart breaks every time I see him. Swans mate for life too, and his mate is gone.

"I've been editing my second book," I told Comer.
"What's it about?"
"Angels."
"Oh dear, I'm afraid I just spilled my entire drink on your floor. I am making a real mess."
"Don't worry, it needs cleaning anyway. Hey, have you been working on your new poems?"
"I have written 2 or 3."
"Well soon we will be publishing book #2 for you too!"
"Oh no, I'll die before then."
"You just never know what God might be preserving you for," I said.

Sometimes things seem so unbearably sad- old people with terrible afflictions, swans just reaching the age of producing cygnets, and the mate dies...full drinks spilling before we have a chance to sip them. But it is life. It is all part of life. Like Asherel's writing prompt yesterday said, do we truly value what we have not had to struggle to obtain?

Brother John texted me from his flood zone house last night. He'd been looting again, when the sun set.
"Scored a stakmore table!"
"Good for you! This flood is really turning out to be worth it after all!"
"I think tomorrow I'll just go to the Stakmore factory and ask them politely for the things they don't want."
"Haha, with your shotgun in hand?"
"Of course not. Way too noisy. I'll bring the Derringer."
"Got power yet?"
"No, but we ditched the generator and hooked into the neighbor's deck."
"The neighbor's have power?"
"Yep."
Oh good. Then John is not all alone in the flood. The neighbors are there, and they have power and warm showers, and light to cast away the darkness.

2 Samuel 22:29
²⁹ You, LORD, are my lamp;
   the LORD turns my darkness into light.

Your old men will dream dreams

Comer watched me pull the book out of the cardboard protector, and said, "Tada!"
I held it up for him. His face smiled back at him from the cover, his name emblazoned across the bottom.
"Well would you look at that?" he said, taking it reverently in his hands.
He looked at the cover several minutes. Then he slowly began leafing through his book. I was silent, letting him enjoy these first few moments of realizing he was now a published author. His poetry would not die with him.
"Isn't this something," he said, shaking his head, and blowing his nose.
"Shall we bring it to show Evelyn?" I asked.
"Oh she won't know what it is," he said. Evelyn, his wife of over sixty years, has Alzheimers, and was slowly losing her memory and her language. The little speech she had was becoming almost always just echoes of what others said to her.
"I think she will," I said, "May I go with you? Can we go now?"
"Sure we can," he said, gathering his cane, "But first, I wrote a poem last night. What do you think of it?"
He handed me a sheet with several verses. Comer had said last week that he could no longer write. The verses that used to flood his mind no longer came to him, he said.

I read it happily. It was beautiful.
"You haven't lost your touch, Comer. This will be book 2."
"The sequel," he said smiling.
"But name them," I said. His poems in his book were mostly unnamed, "It helps the reader. Think about the main point of what you are trying to say, and come up with a name."
"I'll call this one Shadows," he said.

Comer led the way to the Memory Care section downstairs. On the way, we passed by the receptionist.
Comer silently went to her, and handed her his book.
"Comer! You write poetry? You never let on!" she said, "I got to read one."
Comer and I stood quietly as she read a poem.
"That is wonderful ," she said, returning his book.
We headed to the elevator, where a nurse's aide stepped out.
Comer silently handed her his book.
"What's this? You write poetry!? So how come you never go with me to poetry time on Wednesday! You gotta come and read to us from your book!"
"Comer," I admonished, "You definitely need to go."
"Ok," he said, "We're going to go show this to Mama," he told the aide, "She won't know what it is, of course."
"I think she will," I said.

We found Evelyn in her room, lying in bed, covered with a bright quilt. She opened her eyes as we entered.
"We have a surprise for you, Evelyn," I said.
She lifted her hands and took the book from me, then smiled broadly.
"Comer Hawkins!" she read.
"Your husband wrote this book," I told her.
Her smile stretched across years, and she said, "Well now, isn't that something!?"
"And look," I said , flipping it over to the back, to the photo of her with Comer.
"Oh my!" said Evelyn. She opened the book and began to turn the pages. Comer watched her.
"Look at this," I said, as she opened to the dedication page, "Read it, Evelyn."
"She can't read," said Comer softly.
Evelyn put her fingers under the words and read each carefully, a bit haltingly, out loud:
"To my wife, who is the wind in my sails and the love of my life."
"Who is he talking about?" I asked her.
She smiled radiantly, "Me!"
"What do you think?"
"I am so proud of my husband," she said, looking at Comer, who was wiping his eyes.

As I drove home, I felt a sense of deep gratification. My mom told me on my last visit home that she realized what I was. I had tilted my head, and wondered what she could mean.
"You are a dream facilitator," she said.
I don't think anyone has ever told me anything that made me understand, or be happier with myself more. I wanted to be a great artist, but I am only good. I wanted to be a great writer, but life interfered and the need to raise children, and send them successfully on their own roads, after their own dreams. And then, I wanted to be a great Christian, but somehow end up tripping and stumbling despite my desire each day to do better.  But my mom made me realize that some of the happiest moments in my life have been when I have had a part in helping someone realize a dream.

It's funny that it took half a century for me to see that this was a gift from God that I never really knew was there, nor really of any value. Joseph of the Bible was a dreamer. His brothers scoffed at his dreams and what they represented. In the end, they threw him in a pit, and left him for dead because of his dreams. And then Joseph went on to interpret the king's dream, and was released from prison, and given authority over all the land. And his understanding of dreams saved his nation. God clearly doesn't treat dreams lightly. I think God is saying, "Pay attention to dreams. They matter to me."
I smiled as I drove home, remembering Comer clutching his book. Dreams matter to me, too.

Genesis 37: 19-20
¹⁹ “Here comes that dreamer!” they said to each other. ²⁰ “Come now, let’s kill him and throw him into one of these cisterns and say that a ferocious animal devoured him. Then we’ll see what comes of his dreams.”

Joel 2: 27-29

²⁷ Then you will know that I am in Israel,
   that I am the LORD your God,
   and that there is no other;
never again will my people be shamed.
 ²⁸ “And afterward,
   I will pour out my Spirit on all people.
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
   your old men will dream dreams

I'll be waiting

Our homeschool officially started...and then took a three hour skimboarding break in the middle of the day. This is one of the reasons we love homeschool. When the day is a perfect, low humidity, 83 degree, blue sky, sunshiney day; and a friend knocks on the door and tells us there is a creek with a stretch of sand along the edge that might work for skimboarding....the student can mark her place in her history book and just go. Since the math and spanish books don't even arrive for another week, school is light the first couple of weeks anyway. And we are both pooped from the early mornings and long days of the Dog Agility trial this weekend. It was nice to start our school year, so that we don't fear the enormity of the task before us so much, but it was also nice to slip in and out of it.

And then the mail came and Comer's book arrived! For those unfortunate few of you who don't follow my blog with the fervor of a rabid fox, Comer is my 93 year old friend who lives with his wife, who has Alzheimers, in an assisted living home. When he wistfully told me he wrote poetry and always thought one day he would do something with all those poems, I collected them, compiled them, edited them, and published his book of poetry. The proof now lay in my hands.  I was not happy with my editing skills. I had missed a typo, and the spacing between the poems was not regular. It is only a proof, but I had hoped it would be perfect, since at age 93, Comer may not have long for me to perfect my editing talent.  But it was a bona fide book with a black and white photo of him as a young man on the cover. I called him immediately.

"Comer! It's Vicky!"
"Hiyeee," he said, the same curious intonation with which he always greets me, "How're you?"
"I'm fine, how are your eyes? Recovering ok from the cataract surgery?"
"Well, I see much better, but they hurt, especially at night."
"Oh? Have you talked with the doctor about that?"
"Well, I'm sure it is just part of the healing process."
"Well, I have your book! It came today! Would you like me to bring it and take you and Evelyn to lunch tomorrow?"
"I'd love you to bring it, but I don't think I am up for our usual lunch. I have been feeling a mite woozy."

This concerned me. Comer had not felt like going out for the past three weeks now. He used to look forward to our outings as the highlight of his week. How I wish the proof were a better sample with perfect spacing! I have discovered that editing is one of those jobs that is never over. There is always a better word, or a better sentence construction, or a more apt phrase. At some point, editors just have to say, "This is good enough." I don't think perfection will ever enter the editor's world. And when one is 93 years old, good enough might have to arrive sooner rather than later.

I thought of how the universe itself is waiting in expectation, knowing perfection is possible, but not yet arrived. In the book of James, the Bible author describes how the farmer waits for the valuable crop, knowing it will come, it will be ready for the harvest one day, and he will bring in the wealth of his time and energy rewarded. We are the crop, I thought, and God the harvester...patiently waiting till we reached the fullness of growth, the fruitful abundance of faith.

"It's not perfect," I warned Comer, "And it is no problem resubmitting it if you want me to. But I will bring it tomorrow around 11."
"Thank you so much," he said, his voice a little weaker than I like, "I'll be waiting."
Yes, dear friend, please be waiting!

James 5:7

Be patient, then, brothers and sisters, until the Lord’s coming. See how the farmer waits for the land to yield its valuable crop, patiently waiting for the autumn and spring rains.

Time Won't Wait

Comer didn't feel up to our weekly drive. At age 93, he had just had cataract surgery, and his vision was still blurry, his eyes still puffy.
"I don't believe I could go out in the sun," he said.
"Well then I will just drop by and pick up your editing of your poems. Did you finish?"
"Oh yes, I read through them twice, and I believe I have caught all the little mistakes."
"Then I will be there in a few minutes and pick them up, if that's ok."

I hurried off to the Senior Assisted Living Center. I had spent the week before typing the poems from Comer's yellowing stash of carefully folded scraps of paper. While Comer reviewed and proofed the typed pages, Asherel helped me develop a cover page for the book we were helping our old friend publish. She spent half a day on it, not satisfied with her initial copy.
"That looks fine to me," I said, and it did. It looked beautiful, and far superior to what I could have done.

"No, it will be pixely.... I can make it better." And she started all over.

Meanwhile, I watched the clock. At age 93, you can't take any minute for granted. I had to order the proof, allow about a week of shipping time, and then, finally this sweet old friend's dream would be in his hands. But a week...
"Please hurry," I urged Asherel, "I am anxious that Comer reach this goal in his lifetime."

I picked up the poems from Comer and he handed me a neatly written piece of paper with all the information I needed to set up his account with the publishing company. As soon as I had ordered the proof and the set- up was done, I would transfer the account to be managed by his daughter.

Comer looked weary, with his puffy eyes. The cataract surgery had not been bad, he told me, but the blurry vision in one eye concerned him.The whole ordeal seemed to have knocked him out.
"That's very common," I assured him, "It will get better."
"That's what they tell me," he said.
He walked me to the door.
"What did you think of your poetry," I asked, "Having reread all your work now?"
"I don't know where it came from," he answered.
"Where did it come from?" I asked.
"From somewhere in the night," he said, "I tried thinking of some verses lying in bed last night, and not a one came to me."
"Well, you're out of practice," I said, "Keep trying. Then we will add an addendum to your book."

However, I know what he is talking about. When I dare to enter the dark spooky attic where piles of my old paintings are stored, I sometimes look at them and think, "Who was this person who painted these...and how did she do it?" Creativity is such an elusive quality. It does not spring forth out of rationality, though it is not irrational either, or it is not good. But like faith, it requires a leap.  I understood how at age 93, that leap might be over just too great a chasm for weary legs.

This morning, the files I submitted for Comer's book were accepted and I ordered the proof. The clock is ticking loudly as we settle back now to wait.

Jeremiah 21:2
Perhaps the LORD will perform wonders for us as in times past

Purpose

I ran into a neighbor and told him that our senior ex-neighbor Comer had written poetry, which I offered to publish for him as a book.
"Comer wrote poetry!" exclaimed the friend, shocked.
"Yes," I said, "And he was very excited about my offer to make it a book."
"Well you better hurry with that," said my friend.
Comer is 93, and slowing down. I knew I had little time to waste if I was going to help him touch this dream.

So I spent the whole day typing Comer's poems. I edited the few grammatical errors and guessed on the words I couldn't quite read. The paper they were written on were small yellow scraps.and sometimes the words trailed off into indecipherable squiggles. Some were haunting and enigmatic, images I wished I had thought of. Many were of an obviously young man hurt by spurned love. Those ones were simple, but the honesty and aching soul they exposed was something everyone could relate to. Some were lessons learned through a rich and difficult life.  When I finally finished around dinner time, my head ached, but I wanted to rush them over to Comer for proof-reading.

I knocked on his door at the Assisted Living home and his face broke into a wide smile of delight and surprise.
"I brought your poems," I said, "I wanted to get them to you as fast as possible so you could start the big job of proofing them."
"Oh my!" he exclaimed.
"Most I could figure out, but at times, I just couldn't decipher some words."
"Well, I wrote them at night....in the dark."
"Why?"
"That's when they came to me."

He was holding the binder with the neatly typed pages, and slowly thumbing through them, reading and remembering the strong emotions that had propelled him to huddle in the dark, capturing verses before they fled. I realized that I had not told him how much I had enjoyed them.

"I thought they were wonderful, by the way."
"You did?" he said anxiously, "They weren't too...silly?"
"No Comer, they weren't silly at all. They were wonderful."
His eyes teared up, and I realized anew how desperate every human soul is for encouragement, no matter how many years we have walked the earth.

"Who was this one about, by the way," I said, flipping to one about a love that was lost.
"Oh I don't remember now. I didn't marry Evelyn till I was 33.  I had a lot of girlfriends before then," he said sheepishly.
I laughed, "Well, now you have a big job in front of you. Edit the mistakes, and correct the words that I guessed at. Then call me and I will pick it up and make the corrections, and order your proof!"
Comer beamed.
"I am going to sit down right now and work on this," he said.

As I walked out, I saw the other residents gathering for dinner. I suspected Comer would be skipping dinner that night. I had left him more purpose driven and excited than I had ever seen him. I hadn't known him as a working man, but I know he loved his work. He had once lamented to my husband as they stood chatting in his yard a few years back, "You know, I made millions of dollars in my day, and now I just sit and watch the grass grow."

I methodically work my way through the Bible, and when I finish, I start back at the beginning. Each time, I glean new thoughts, new comforts, new chastisements. I am back in Genesis again, and reading about Abraham, how he followed God to a ripe old age. Abraham was 100 years old when he had his son, Isaac. We were never meant to fade away with no purpose. If nothing else, every aging person should be writing a journal of what they have learned to pass on to their children. And every child should know that in every old heart, there beats all the passions, and fears, and insecurities, and hopes that beat in his own youthful chest.

As I left Comer, he called out, "Oh, I thought all night about what I should call the book."
"Did you come up with a name?"
"Yes, I think I will call it Comer Lafayette's Poems. Lafayette is my middle name. In the south where I grew up, they pronounced it lafeet. I know my readers won't pronounce it right, but I thought that was a nice name for my book."
"It's perfect Comer, " I said, hugging him goodbye, "Now get to work."

Jeremiah 31:3
I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have drawn you
with loving kindness.

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Images before him

My old friends weren't waiting on the porch of the Senior Assisted Living center when I pulled up for our weekly outing. I parked illegally and scurried in to find them. Comer sat by the window in his room reading his paper.

"Comer! Did you forget our date?" I cried.

Comer never forgets. His wife Evelyn, with Alzheimers only remembers me as the lady that takes them out for junk food and plays old songs we sing together. She never remembers...but Comer never forgets.

"OH,I thought you were out of town this week!"
"Can you still get Evelyn and go to lunch?"
"Yes, sure can!"

And then he gave me the briefcase filled with his poems. I had told him during our last visit, that now that I knew how, I could take those poems and make them into a published book for him. He showed me the scraps of old paper, with his neat writing.

"Here they are," he said, "This is my favorite." He pulled out a yellowed sheet.
"I can't read it now," I said, "I'm parked illegally. But let's put it on top. It's the first one I will read."

 I sent him off to get Evelyn from the memory care unit one floor below, and bustled out. As I passed his dresser, I noticed Evelyn's wig on a head mold sitting atop a shelf. Evelyn had worn this wig for 40 years, Comer had told me. She had only recently stopped wearing it- scalp issues I think. It was funny to see that while Evelyn herself could not sleep in the same room as her husband, for her own safety; he had the image of her always before him in that beloved wig.


As we drove eating Arby's roast beef , Evelyn and I belting out songs from Carousel, I asked Comer, "What do you want to name your book?"
"Oh, I hadn't thought about it." He paused in his chewing, and looked pensive.
"Well, think on it, and let me know. And what address should I use to send the royalties to?"
"Royalties!" he laughed, "Oh I don't expect to make money!"
"You might," I said, "You might be the next Grandma Moses...er Grandpa Moses."


After dropping my old friends back, I was busy all day with learning the arduous task of how to market my own book. I spent hours writing contacts, dog magazines, rescue groups, etc., and finally collapsed in bed. I never had a chance to start reading collating, and typing Comer's poems.


I don't know what I expected....but it wasn't what I finally sat to read this morning, when I  pulled out the poem on top. Comer's favorite.  I realized that looking at the frail, shuffling old man he had become, I had not expected much. Shame on me. Anyone who has lived 93 years has something worth saying. If there is one lesson of life I need to absorb, it is to learn to listen expectantly, respectfully, always. Sometimes God uses completely unexpected messengers.



 I will spend the day making my 93 year old friend his book of poetry. I hope one day, you all might buy his book.

Here is the first verse of my old friend's favorite poem, written many years ago:______________________________
Every life is many days, day after day.
We walk through ourselves, meeting ghosts
Giants, young, old, wives, widows
But always meeting ourselves.
______________________________

Joel 2:
²⁷ Then you will know that I am in Israel,
   that I am the LORD your God,
   and that there is no other;
never again will my people be shamed.

The Day of the LORD

 ²⁸ “And afterward,
   I will pour out my Spirit on all people.
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
   your old men will dream dreams,

Hope of Things Unseen

As my senior friends walked out of the Senior Home, I held up a proof of my book.
"What's this?" asked Comer.
He looked at the cover, and saw the picture of my dog, Honeybun, and then the author's name at the bottom.
"Why, this is by you!" he said, "Well my goodness!"

After I helped him in the car, he handed the book to Evelyn. She smiled as she turned the pages. I am not sure she got the full significance, but even through the limitations imposed by Alzheimers, I think she understood it was important to me.
As we drove off to "the world's finest BBQ", I glanced in my rear view mirror. Comer had removed his glasses and was already reading my book.

"I have another surprise for you," I said, turning on the new Engelbert Humperdinck tape Asherel and I had found.  These were some of his less well known songs, and even Evelyn only sang along with one or two. But Comer seemed to want to talk, even more than listen to his favorite singer.

"Did I tell you I sang on the radio once?" he asked.
He had mentioned it before. It must have been a very precious memory.
"How did that happen?" I asked.
"Well, I knew the general manager, and he asked me if I'd like to. I sang Blue Moon."
"Oh that's a good one! How did you do? Did you get lots of good reviews?"
"Quite a few people called to congratulate me. In those days there weren't many radio stations, and so I was heard all across Alabama."
"Wow! You sang to Alabama!"
 Comer fell silent and I saw him looking at my book again.

We ate  a glorious lunch of "the world's best BBQ" while  parked on the shore of Lake Wylie. BBQ dripped from our fingers as we  listened to Engelbert Humperdinck, and watched the water tickle the blue sky. As we returned to the Home, Comer said, "You know, I wrote lots of poetry."
"I didn't know that," I said, "Do you still have them?"
"Oh yes, and some short stories too."
"I'd love to see them," I said, "Can you bring them to me next time?"
"I sure can!" he said happily, "I once thought I was a pretty good writer."
"Would you like me to publish them for you...now that I know how? Put them in a book just like mine?"
"Oh that would be grand!" he said, "Can you really do that? They are just written by hand....but they're legible."
"Sure! I can type them up for you and we will get you published. Maybe you will be famous!"
He unbuckled his seat belt with a smile, clutching my book to his side.

"This has been a wonderful day," he said, as he and Evelyn walked onto the little sidewalk, "It always is, but this was particularly nice."

I wondered why this day had loomed so large in his estimation. Really, on our weekly outings, we always get nice food, we often listen to music, we often reminisce,and this time we had not even talked much at all. We had just watched the lake lap at the shore, and he had held my book. But I realized that the memories of his singing on the radio, and the poetry he had written must have held particular meaning for him. Was this 93 year old man joyful today because there was the potential of a long held dream maybe coming true? I don't suppose anyone writes with the intention of it being hidden. There are thoughts that tumble unseen in our heads for that. Was he still eager to leave a mark, some sort of tangible imprint that said, "I was here and I mattered?"  I knew I would have to transcribe and publish that book of poetry soon. Time was rushing by my old friend.

I had been surprised that a 93 year old man would care about such a thing. I guess I thought by that age, dreams had all died. But as I pondered how God had arranged the universe, it struck me that some of the greatest hopes in life are of things unseen, and as yet, unrealized. The hope of something better, something greater, something more perfect, something eternal. I guess that until Jesus calls us home, we are all hoping that what we don't yet see, will one day be.......

Hebrews 11:
¹ Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. ² This is what the ancients were commended for.

Rocking Around the Clock

My geriatric friend Comer had told me his favorite singer was Englebert Humperdinck. Asherel and I scoured music stores and CD Warehouse for weeks, but we could not find Humperdinck CDs. We found some hits from the 50s, and some Elvis albums, and settled for that. Then right before we were to go pick up our old friends for our weekly drive and fast food fest, Asherel asked if I would like her to download Englebert from the iTunes store. There was one album.

Comer and Evelyn were sitting on the porch of the Assisted Living Home waiting for us when we pulled in a few minutes late. I was busting with excitement.
"Have I got a surprise for you!" I exclaimed, leaping from the car. Evelyn was beaming, with a sparkling smile of recognition.
"Evelyn! You look gorgeous! It is so good to see you!" I said hugging her.
"Well," she laughed, "It is good to see you too!"
She hadn't said a single coherent sentence last visit, so it was clear that for today, the demons of Alzheimer had retreated a bit.
I even ventured to offer her a choice in our fast food take out.Often choices are too overwhelming for her, but it goes against every fiber of my being to make choices for a sentient adult.
"Fried chicken again, or burgers?"
"Chicken!" she nodded, her smile still wide and lovely.
I pushed my luck with a second question, "Breast or thigh?"
"Breast," she nodded, her eyes focusing on me like they did in the days before her disease had progressed.
"You seem really happy today," I said.
"When you're smiling," she sang.
I sang with her, to the end of the song, after which we both crumpled in laughter and I think even Asherel smiled from the front seat.
"That sure is true," said Comer, listening to the words of the song, as he got in his side of the van.

"Ready for your surprise?" I asked Comer.
He is hard of hearing, so I cranked the radio speaker to which the iPod was linked full blast. I scream at my family for doing this because as of yet, no one is hard of hearing but me, and the volume at which they listen to music is certainly felling the otolythic crystals that remain to conduct sound waves in my inner ear.
Comer smiled as the music trumpeted against his ear drum.
"Oh my, he sure can sing, can't he?"
Evelyn knew every song, as usual, and sang along. Even I knew most of them and sang the phrases I remembered.The two, as usual held hands and we collected our fried chicken and drove to the "old money" neighborhood. Comer loves looking at big houses. He never seems to tire of it. When the Englebert album ended, I told them we would try the 50s album next. It was filled with upbeat songs, like "Rock Around the Clock" which I didn't expect my old friends to know or like. However, as soon as the rocking rolling vibes filled the car, Evelyn's foot started tapping, her hands swaying, and she began singing Rock Around the Clock. I sang along and danced from the waist up in the driver's seat. The car behind me honked as I missed the change of lights, rocking with Evelyn. I saw Comer in my rear view mirror jiggling back and forth to the beat as well. Asherel was videotaping me, promising that payback was coming in the form of a movie she intended to make of me making a fool of myself.

Then when the song ended, with an evil smile, she switched on her iPod gallery of videos and the sound of me straining through Eidelweiss, playing my guitar in fits and stops and singing came over the speakers. Evelyn began laughing, but then we both sang along. When there would be long pauses as I searched for the correct chord, Evelyn chortled happily. I have never had so much fun being humiliated.

When the song ended, Comer said, "Well now, was that you playing guitar?"
"Yes," I said.
"You didn't sound bad," he said.
"Ready for TV?" I laughed.
"Well you might want a little more practice for that," he said.

We pulled back into the senior home then, and still laughing, I opened the door and helped Evelyn out.
"That was fun," I said.
"It sure was," she said, still chuckling, while I brushed the fried chicken crumbs off her shirt.

In the book of Isaiah, the rebellious people have abandoned God's way and He warns them of the punishment to come in judgement of their disobedience. I find it curious that in that time, God mentions that the young will rise up against the old.  The implicit message is of course that in the right way of things, the old should be honored, revered, loved.  But it seems that so often the old are shuttered away, ignored, and disrespected, the wealth of their wisdom and experience lost to the people who need it the most....the young.
I never come away from my time with Comer and Evelyn without a deep sense of joy and satisfaction.

"I will pick you up next Friday," I said, hugging my old, still smiling friends goodbye.
"How about if we find barbecue next time?" asked Comer.
"You got it," I said waving.

Isaiah 3

Judgment on Jerusalem and Judah

 ¹ See now, the Lord,
   the LORD Almighty,
is about to take from Jerusalem and Judah
   both supply and support:
all supplies of food and all supplies of water,
 ² the hero and the warrior,
the judge and the prophet,
   the diviner and the elder,
³ the captain of fifty and the man of rank,
   the counselor, skilled craftsman and clever enchanter.  ⁴ “I will make mere youths their officials;
   children will rule over them.”
 ⁵ People will oppress each other—
   man against man, neighbor against neighbor.
The young will rise up against the old,
   the nobody against the honored.

Give your hearts a song to sing

I spent the day before the whirlwind wedding week resting. I lay down with my book and even napped. All the packing is done and the car is loaded and ready to carry me to one of the great joys of life- watching my son marry a wonderful girl. I know it will be hectic however, and I thought it would be a good idea to catch up on some resting before I was exhausted. So I spent the day gathering a backlog of peace.

In between my proactive resting, I decided to run out and visit Comer and Evelyn in the Senior Home. I knew I wouldn't see them for at least another week and I had some photos for them of our outing to the restaurant a few weeks back. It had been the only restaurant outing they had had together in a long, long time. I had framed the photos, hoping Evelyn would look at them and remember.....

Evelyn was sleeping, so I just visited with Comer. Visiting with old folk is very restful in its own right, and in many ways more rewarding than a nap. There is nothing hurried about old people. They are often so removed from the rest of humanity, that they cherish every word you say, hanging on every little particle of small talk. Old people really believe that you are worth sitting and listening to. It may be they can do little else, but nonetheless, it is gratifying. I always feel special when I sit and talk with Comer and Evelyn.  Though Evelyn isn't doing much talking anymore.

"And when she does talk," Comer told me, "You can't understand a word she says."
He looked down.
"Is she still singing?" I asked. I hadn't seen them for two weeks between the trip to help Amy in Texas and the wedding prep.
He brightened, "Oh yes! Every word of every song!"
"Can you understand her then?"
"Yes!"
"Well then, keep her singing."
He smiled.

It was fitting that I was visiting this old couple who had remained married for 65 years, on the verge of  witnessing the marriage of the young couple starting this journey. It reminded me that despite the dire statistics and struggles of married folk, some do make it. And some make it with no words left, but with hearts still overflowing with song.

I wish you bluebirds
in the spring,
to give your heart
a song to sing.
and then a kiss
but more than this,
i wish you
love.

Isaiah 62:4-6

⁴ No longer will they call you Deserted,
   or name your land Desolate.
But you will be called Hephzibah,
   and your land Beulah;
for the LORD will take delight in you,
   and your land will be married.
⁵ As a young man marries a young woman,
   so will your Builder marry you;
as a bridegroom rejoices over his bride,
   so will your God rejoice over you.

Yesterday

I found myself comparing necks of the old hippies, these fellow Beatles fans gathered with me to hear The Return, the Beatles tribute band. Some of the women had once been beautiful, and some still had gorgeous hair, but it was framing faces that could never be disguised as young, no matter how many nips and tucks had been surgically applied to their chins. As we waited for the Beatles to reincarnate with as much enthusiasm as we waited for time to erase the ravages of sun and ticking clocks on our collective age spots, I did an informal survey.

There were by and large, two distinct groups in the crowd. One group could almost appear to be young adults with bright shiny hair and trendy clothes ...if you squinted. Their chins did not melt with indiscernible borders into jiggling necks. Group two wore polyester stretch pants and cotton shirts from Kmart. Their hair was coarse and grey and they didn't seem aware or at least to mind that gravity was slowly hooking their noses downward along with other flesh slowly pooling around their ankles. There was a small third group - bona fide young people like Asherel and her friend Emma, who hadn't known the Beatles the first time around.

We all came together with different agendas. Group one was recreating their past. Group two was remembering their past. Group three was recording a past that they wished they'd been around to see.

We had driven 3 1/2 hours through torrential rain to get to this time warp. We had passed a sign that said, "Orchard- Peach, apples,muffins ", and Asherel had squealed, "Look! A muffin orchard! Can we pick some muffins?! "
Emma had spotted a small herd of buffalo. We had wandered through the tiny town and watched a little league baseball game going on beside a barn filled with cows that mooed as i pet their big wet noses.

And then we all twisted and shouted while a singer that looked eerily like the real John Lennon made time stand still for all the anxiously old,and the accepting old, and the awaiting old.

I loved the concert, though it went on past my bedtime. I thought of how little I relish growing old and how little of my past i remember. Still, I wouldn't trade the tumult of my youth for the wisdom(for lack of a better word) of my middle years. Nonetheless, I certainly see the appeal of recapturing a time in history that sparkled. Especially as my own sparkle fades. It is a great comfort that unlike the audience of the Beatles Return, God Himself is unchanging, immortal, and promises that we who call upon His name will be like Him. All our grey hair and vanishing eyebrows will be suffused with the glow of heavenly light.

Back at the hotel, the difference in our ages reasserted itself. I climbed into bed and awoke at midnight to hear the girls still giggling over some computer game. "Lights out girls, " I said,voice croaky with sleep and too much singing .
"But its only midnight! " the youngsters protested.

I drifted back to sleep, my brain humming, "Yesterday, oh i believe in yesterday ..."

Job 8:8-9 NIV

"Ask the former generation
and find out what their ancestors learned, for we were born only yesterday and know nothing,
and our days on earth are but a shadow.

Hebrews 13:8 NIV

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.

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Real Fakes

When we watch the Beatles Tribute band tonight in the cool blue mountains of NC, I will be paying close attention to the strumming fingers position. That is because during Asherel's work with me yesterday on my guitar, she told me I needed to see a video of myself playing. I protested, but she insisted it would be helpful. I could tell by the way she was laughing too hard to speak that there was something to be revealed on video that I was not going to like, something about how I was strumming.

I noticed a major problem immediately as she played back the video of me playing the one song I am struggling to learn.
"Some one has replaced my face," I said, "And stolen my smooth skin and stretched out my neck like an old rubberband."
The angle Asherel had chosen to video tape me was looking up from the floor, right into the wattles of my chin flapping around and the dark slits of carvernous nostrils.
"I look like a parrot," i said glumly, "Don't you think you could have found a more flattering angle?"
She studied me carefully, and then said, "No....but just focus on your hand."
"It looks like a claw," I said.
"Exactly."
"What should I do?"
"Strum with your fingers open, like this." She showed me.
"Ok, but delete that video."
"I will, later."
"No, now!"
I snatched the camera and deleted it myself with a shudder.
I just don't remember transitioning to ....this. When did all this disintegration happen?

"Try it again," said Asherel, "Keep your fingers open."
So I sang my one song and strummed with my fingers open as best I could. Asherel played back the video. The same face that had scared me on the first video still taunted me. The fingers were still clawed.
"Why don't other guitar players hands look so awful?" I asked.
"Here, maybe it is the guitar. Try mine. It is easier to play."

I know this sounds like an excuse, but honestly, my small hand doesn't easily span the fat neck of my good guitar, so I use the $10 3/4th size guitar we found in the trash. My fingers can get around the thinner neck, but the guitar is hard to play otherwise. Asherel has a good guitar, signed by John Lennon.
"Is it his real signature!?" asked her friend Josh, amazed.
"Yes," she told him, "It is a print of his real signature, so it is a fake real  signature."

There is a lot of fake realness around. The Beatles we are going to see tonight are fake real Beatles, in fact.
There are fake designer clothes and fake Rolex watches sold for $10 in NYC that are indistinguishable from the real ones. There are fake plants in our homes, and even one homeowner in a nearby neighborhood that plants fake plastic flowers around his mailbox. Most of the beautiful people in magazines have fake body parts surgically altered to perfection. The promises of the blaring commercials for total happiness if only we would just buy that are all fake, all empty, all moth wings that crumble into a puff of dust when you examine them closely.

Remember that child's story about the toy bunny that wanted to be real? He was admonished to wait....eventually, if he was loved enough, he would become real. Of course, since it is a tale meant to soothe children to sleep, he does become real in the end. I like the moral, but the story is fake. Toys don't become real no matter how much you love them. Believe me, I have tried.

The master Faker is disguised as an angel of light. He promises a world that is not his to give, and fills our hearts with deceptions and lies that ridicule the only Reality worth knowing. In Psalm 144, the psalmist recognizes that by praising the One who defeats the Faker, he can sing a new song.... a real song....an original song.....and he does so with a stringed instrument. I'll bet his fingers are not clawed as he makes the only music that lasts forever.

I looked at the video Asherel had just shot of me. I still had clawed hands, still had dripping skin, and still missed half my notes, even with the good guitar.
"It's better, said Asherel, "But maybe you should try a new song."
Maybe I should.

Psalm 144:7-9

⁷ Reach down your hand from on high;
   deliver me and rescue me
from the mighty waters,
   from the hands of foreigners
⁸ whose mouths are full of lies,
   whose right hands are deceitful.
 ⁹ I will sing a new song to you, my God;
   on the ten-stringed lyre I will make music to you,

Nature that Bites

As  I pictured the monster with rows of razor teeth opening that large mouth beneath my floating death trap, I was glad that I had done one smart thing before taking off all alone on the deserted lake in my kayak. I had texted my husband to let him know where I was. The fact that Arvo never notices when he receives texts may have in the end led to my body not being found for days.

Asherel was off for the day with her friends so even she didn't know where I had headed. It was her birthday and friends were taking her to a day of fun at the White Water center. I had many errands to do in prep for the trip out to help sister Amy and then my son's upcoming wedding, but I thought I could squeeze in an hour at Lake Wylie. I brought a change of clothes so I could do the errands on the drive home.

I would smell faintly of fish and damp lake water hair, but it was a rare opportunity to be all alone doing something I love even more than raspberry cheesecake. Asherel's gifts were wrapped and waiting for her return, the birthday banner hung.... I drove with a goofy smile on my face to Lake Wylie, inflatable kayak bouncing in the back seat.

Mid week, Lake Wylie is deserted. I was the only boat on the lake. As I glided along, the only sounds were of ducks and geese and herons chanting with the rhythmic slapping of the water against the shore. I slipped into one cove and a huge flock of ducks rose into the air. I had never seen so many ducks! A heron circled above me, following me for several minutes. I was glad I was wearing my sun hat, as herons are large birds and I feared he was working on target practice.

I stayed close to shore, since it is near shore where most of the wildlife lingers. As I was cruising by a small island called Copperhead Island, I saw a head pop out of the water, a few feet from my boat. It was copper colored, with diamonds down the long back which I now saw trailed a good few feet behind the triangular, fang imbedded head. I paddled quickly a little further off shore and the snake slithered in between some shore line boulders. While still shuddering from that encounter with nature, I saw a floating log, about 3 feet long near my boat. I continued to look at it, thinking how much I love the peace and beauty of nature, when the log submerged. And did not re-emerge.  I don't know if it was an alligator, but all alone on the lake in my inflatable tooth poppable boat, I paddled like a lawn ornament in a hurricane out of the vicinity.  And I ammended my assessment of the nature that I love.... I love nature that doesn't bite.

As my pulse returned to normal, I paddled near some enormous lake mansions and thought of the latest news from dear sister Amy. After battling pancreatitis, a treatment of weeks of ice chips with only a brief interlude of a break form the hospital, she had received finally a possible cause for all this woe. The doctor suspects that the meds she is on for other issues may have precipitated the whole thing. The meds have been changed, and we are all hopeful that this very hard chapter in her life is coming to a conclusion. She had her first meal of solid food in almost 2 weeks, a feast, and her pancreas did not roll over in agony. If all continues this way, she will be discharged today, and will return for a CT scan in 8 days. At that point, if the pancreas cyst has not resolved, they will decide to drain, operate, or just leave it if it is still subsiding.

I reached my docking point with no further frightening encounters with carnivores, and drove on to my errands.

Later that day, there was a knock on the door. A neighbor stood there with a wrapped gift in his hand.
"This is from Comer," Ken said.
I looked at the gift. How had Comer, the 93 year old man with his feeble eyes, and cane, living in an assisted living center managed to get Asherel a gift, and how had he known it was her birthday?
"I took him to lunch today," said Ken, "And he wanted me to take him shopping. He said that when you and Asherel took him and Evelyn out yesterday, he remembered you mentioning it was her birthday today. He told me he would like very much if I would take him to a store where he could pick out a gift for her."
Comer can walk about a hundred feet, slowly, before he is worn out. I am sure the lunch out with Ken had done him in physically. With all the woes and worries of his life now with his wife with Alzheimers and his own failing body.....he had remembered how much a child delights in a birthday gift, and taken the painfully slow labored steps to secure one......

There are alligators that bite, and snakes that eject poison from fangs.... and that part of life seems cruel and jarring in the placid beauty of a quiet lake. But then, in counterpoint, there are herons that accompany solitary kayakers, doctors that cleverly find hope in hopeless places, and old men that remember what it is to be young and to yearn for what is yet to be. You just never know where joy may spring from, and for that reason, God compels us to not lose hope.

Job 6:11
 ¹¹ “What strength do I have, that I should still hope?
   What prospects, that I should be patient?

Job 13:15

 Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him;

Digging Deep

I pulled up to the senior home with both kayaks strapped atop the car. I leave them up there since we kayak every chance we get in the summer. My old friends Comer and Evelyn were sitting on the porch waiting for me, beside a sleeping lady with an oxygen tank hooked to her. Comer glanced at the car, and then did a double take when he saw me wave.
As he and Evelyn shuffled slowly over, big smiles on their faces, a concerned aide from the Alzheimer unit came running from the home.
"Where are you taking them?" he asked.
"Kayaking, " I said, nudging my 93 year old friend, "How's that sound, Comer?"
"That sounds fine," he laughed.
"Nah, I'm taking them out for a long awaited steak dinner. Would you like that better?" I asked Evelyn.
"That would be nice!" she said.

The aide patted Evelyn's hand as she settled in my car.
"She's my favorite," he said, "We sing together."
He began singing "Zippety do dah!" and Evelyn eagerly joined in. They hit line 4 and then stopped.
"We never get any further," he said, "We can't remember the words."
"Mr. Bluebirds on my shoulder," I sang, and Evelyn sparkled as she joined in remembering, "It's the truth, it's factual, everything is satisfactual, zippity doo da, zippity aye, wonderful feeling, wonderful day!"
"Wow," said the aide ,"You should volunteer here."

As I got in the car I held up the 50's music CD, "How about some music, Evelyn?"
"I don't like music," she said.
I turned to look at her.
"Don't give me that," I told her, "You love music."
She began singing zippidy doo dah again.

For months, Comer had been telling me how he longed for a steak dinner. Evelyn's condition had been so fragile that I had been hesitant to do anything but take them sightseeing in the car while eating fast food take out. It became our little nugget of ritual hope that when I dropped them off, we would say, "One day we will go to a restaurant and have a real steak dinner!"

So today I had planned a half hour drive to Lake Wylie to a restaurant on the water. We would eat on the outside patio deck right on the sparkling lake, with ducks trolling for food next to us. The restaurant specialized in TBone steaks. I had called ahead to be sure they could serve us quickly as my old friends could not be out too long without great fatigue.

As we sat down, Evelyn was beaming the entire time. She looked happily at the ducks next to the dock. The waitress bought the menus and I told them, "The print is pretty fine, but I can read to you the steak choices."
"I don't believe I will have steak," said Comer.
I blinked at him.
"How about you, Evelyn? Would you like to hear the steak choices?"
"She doesn't like steak," said Comer.
"I want the chicken club," said Evelyn.

As we ate, Comer was recounting some of the jobs he had held in his life.
"Do you know Olan MIlls?" he asked.
Everyone knows Olan Mills. They are probably the most famous portrait studio in the nation. They are everywhere.
"I worked for Olan," he said, "Before he ever had a store even."
"The person Olan?!" I exclaimed.
"Yep, me and one other guy were his first sales crew in Alabama."
"OH my! What else did you do?"
"I was a Golden Glove boxer. Pretty good in my area. Do you know Rocky Marciano?"
"No.... I think I have heard of him."
"Greatest boxer of his time. They tried to set me up to fight him, but I said no way."
"Like the Rocky movie!" I said, laughing.
"But I made the most money playing poker."
"Poker?"
"Yes. When I was in the army I won $50-$60,000 playing poker. The FBI came out and put a $2500 cap on our games when they got wind of it."
"Evelyn, did you know he was a gambler?"
She smiled nodding, "Yes, a gambler....."
"Did you ever get in trouble....?"
"Oh, I never did anything wrong.Once," said Comer, "When the war was over and we were on the train coming home, we were having a big celebration, playing poker. One soldier kept winning time after time. And then we caught him cheating. So I picked that soldier up and I threw him off the train."
"You just said you never did anything wrong!!! You threw someone off a train!?"
"I mean, I never did anything criminal."
"Throwing someone off a train!"
"Well, it wasn't going very fast...."
"Evelyn, did you know Comer threw someone off a train?"
She smiled and chuckled, " Oh dear...."
"So what attracted you to him in the first place," I asked, "This gambler who threw people off trains?"
"He was......weird," she said, struggling for the right word.
"I quit gambling then," said Comer, "By the time I knew her. But we both played poker. She is a great blackjack player."
Evelyn nodded, giggling, "Yes, black jack."

As we drove home after dropping our friends back at their Senior Home, Asherel and I were discussing the various events she could choose from for next year's Science Olympiad.
"In the end," I told her, "It doesn't really matter which event you choose. If you go deeply enough into any subject, you will be fascinated. It is only when we do overviews, surface understanding that things are boring."
And I realized that the relationship we have developed with Comer and Evelyn is becoming likewise more fascinating each day we see them. The layers of their lives that they slowly reveal always surprise, always amaze, and always entertain. What a colorful kaleidoscope of living history my old friends are!

We also prayed together for dear sister Amy, lanquishing for week number two in the hospital with her second bout of pancreatitis in a month. News had seemed so dire, so depressing the day before and Amy seemed so down and discouraged. When we got back, I called her. The doc had been in and not only had she been moved from ice chip diet to a liquid diet with jello and italian ices, but the doc felt she would be able to go home, maybe very soon. He felt that in all likelihood, the cyst on her pancreas was best left alone for now, and any procedure could likely wait for a few weeks. He felt there was little danger to her, and gave a tentative clearing of her hopeful plans to still attend my son's wedding in July. And she was bubbly happy with a beautiful bouquet that same son, Matt, and his fiancee Karissa had sent to her cheerless hospital room.

I know many many friends have been praying for her, and my heart is so warmed by the outpouring of love and concern. Another sweet friend will be taking Asherel to her home on the afternoons I will be in Texas helping Amy. And my folks offered money to fly Asherel out if that was better for me.

In my Bible reading that morning, I came across one of my favorite verses, Philippians 4:13. It captured my day perfectly:
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

When I am Weak

As we were driving, I heard a somewhat frightening clunk on top of the car and glanced in my side view mirror. Ohoh. I could see the edge of the kayak hovering over the top of my side window. That can't be good.

I pulled over to discover that the kayak had indeed slipped. I don't think it could've outright fallen off the car, but was disturbed that my fool proof tie down method had proved to only be fool resistant. There always seem to be ways for fools to creep in.

With the kayak again tied securely with my ultra fool proof method, we started on our way again. But every bump or clatter or scritch sound made me jump and eye my mirror, the whites of my eyes gleaming. On top of my anxiety as we headed to the peaceful lake with Asherel and her friend, I had pulled an intercostal muscle hoisting the kayaks on top of the van. Normally one is completely unaware of intercostal muscles, and I would bet 90% of my readers don't know what an intercostal muscle is or why we have it. We have it so that God can remind us that 50+ year old ladies should not be hoisting kayaks on top of tall vans, even with the help of 13 year olds. I may be facing the sobering reality that most of us reach eventually. My body may not be up to the task.

Amy, my sister fresh out of the hospital after a week of pancreatitis texted me early this morning. She didn't wake me up, even though it was only 5:30 a.m. and my text notification ringer was on high volume. I was awake already with aching intercostal muscles, reminding me I am no longer 23 years old. The text told me she was back in the hospital. She has a cyst on her pancreas and she will be operated on, I presume today. She says this just sometimes happens after pancreatitis. She will update me as they know more details.

Suddenly my aching intercostal muscles don't feel so bad. Those of you who are of the prayerful variety, if you would please pray for my poor dear sister, I would appreciate it.

As I kayaked on the peaceful lake, gliding so quietly to basking turtles on sunlit logs that they didn't take fright, I realized that I just may have to forego the heavier hard body kayak. I am still strong enough to handle the inflatable one. Friends can lift the hard shell ones on top of the van if they want to join us. Someday, friends may need to lift me when I can't stand up on my own power. This lesson of waning strength and failing bodies is beginning to threaten my normally sunny disposition.

The apostle Paul mentions many times that God's strength is perfected in our weakness. It is He that lifts us up, renews and restores. His power is most clearly revealed, most ardently called upon when intercostal muscles tear and pancreases swell. Anyone can deal with life when everything is perfect. It is a whole different story when it all gets shredded. I am so glad that I can hop in His kayak, and float in His strength when I can no longer lift the paddle myself.

Amy's hubby Jim just texted me. It is a "psuedo cyst" and will need draining, but it is minor surgery. I am hoping my intercostal aches and grey hair and waning strength is "psuedo aging" and also will just require minor alterations.

1 Chronicles 16:10-12 (New International Version)

¹⁰ Glory in his holy name;
   let the hearts of those who seek the LORD rejoice.
¹¹ Look to the LORD and his strength;
   seek his face always.

Instead He sends rainbows

My hometown near Binghamton is a small town and my folks don't quite have the stamina to kick up their heels like they used to. So our options for getting out and about are limited. That's how we ended up gambling and drinking at the race track.

Remember, I like to use exaggeration because it catches the reader's attention. So for all my horrified Christian friends,we didn't really gamble. We just picked our favorite horses in the program and pretended to lose our homes and livelihoods when our pseudo betting didn't pan out. Which was every time. We did have a small glass of wine to ease the discomfort of our bony butts getting pressure sores on the hard stadium seats.

Tioga Downs is a harness racing track and we were watching "pacers ". Pacers race in a modified trot where the legs on the same side of the body move forward together. It makes for an odd rocking motion of the horse. It is strange as the harness wont allow them to canter or gallop easily which is what a horse who wants to go fast would naturally want to break into. Pacing is like race walking. It is sort of like going your slowest gait but faster than all the others going their slowest gait. Pacing is a natural gait for some breeds and also for camels. There were no camels in the pacers we saw, which was too bad as watching race after race of pacing horses tends to get monotonous. Had they thrown in a pacing camel or better yet the less common pacing aardvark, I think even my dad might have stayed awake.

But I kept wondering how one goes about training a horse to go really fast in only second gear when he has 4 gears available. The horse is learning a very valuable spiritual lesson. How does one use unlimited power with restraint?

Amd of course I thought of God. He could force us to believe in Him, but He doesn't. He could punish us as we deserve for all our sins and transgressions, but instead He sent a substitute to die in our stead. He could destroy the world and start all over again since we have really been a disappointment from the get go but instead He sends rainbows.

There was one horse that won easily and we learned he was undefeated. This was his unprecedented 13th straight victory. This horse clearly understood that one can still win with restraint. That is God 's gamble as well. Psalm 78:38 NIV Yet he was merciful; he forgave their iniquities and did not destroy them. Time after time he restrained his anger and did not stir up his full wrath.

Psalm 76:10 NIV

Surely your wrath against mankind brings you praise,
and the survivors of your wrath are restrained.

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With you always

I thought the old couple in the back seat were eating their roastbeef and slurping their milkshakes, mindless of the discussion between Asherel and me.
"Where did the music go?" I asked her.
"My battery died. Why don't you have a CD player in this car anyway? And a better radio?"
"I don't know," I sighed, "We are in it all the time. It would be nice to have one. Maybe you should mention this to Dad. After all, Mother's Day is coming up...."

Evelyn burst our laughing in the back seat.
"Oh, you heard me conniving for a Mother's Day gift, did you Evelyn?" I said, glancing in the mirror.
"Yes," she chuckled.
"Did you ever plot ways to get a Mother's Day gift?"
"Oh yes!" she said.
"Hey Comer, did you always get her the gift she hinted after?"
"Hinted or told me, she got everything she wanted. She and my daughter both. Whatever they wanted they got."
"Did they appreciate it?"
"Probably not," he said, squeezing Evelyn's hand.
"You're a good man, Comer," I said.
"He is a good man," agreed Evelyn.
"Well I'm just glad I had the money," continued Comer, "The day I got out of the army, I had a $100 bucks."
"But that was a lot of money back then, right?"
"Yea, but I blew it all before the next morning."
"On what!?"
"Oh you know, wine, women, and song."
"Did you know Evelyn yet?"
"Oh no, I didn't meet her for another 3 years."
"Good thing, Evelyn, you might not have liked him then."
"You're right about that. I think I did about the fastest turn-around of anyone in history. I walked out of there without a penny in my pocket to my brother's house, got a job, and worked my way up."
He started the first office of a small brokerage/insurance firm in the city and after expanding 3 times, he was well on his way to becoming a millionaire.


I had collected my old friends from their new Senior Care facility. The memories of the old place, being apart in separate buildings, poor Evelyn crying every time he sadly walked away to return to his place were already receding. They were sitting together on the lovely lobby couch, holding hands, both dressed elegantly. When Evelyn saw me, I could tell by the bright smile and joyful reaching out to me that she knew me. It almost seemed like in this new place, Alzheimer was retreating.
She stood up quickly, none of the shuffling painfulness of a week ago evident, and walked quickly to the car.
"You're leaving me in the dust, Mother!" called Comer.
We had driven to Lake Wylie, with a stop first at Arbys for the roast beef they'd been longing for.
On the way, Comer told me he had been needing a switch for his lamp, and a small hammer. I stopped at Lowes Building Supplies, leaving Evelyn in the car with Asherel.

"You stay here with Asherel," I urged her, "Will that be ok?"
"Oh yes," she said, smiling at Asherel.

As we drove home after meandering along the lake shore, Evelyn said, "This is such an interesting city, all these parts."
I knew enough about Alzheimers and Evelyn's echo-ing of words to know that word retrieval was sometimes impossible. She may know at times what she wants to say, but often the crumbles in her brain won't let her travel to the place where words come easily. This alert and spontaneous sentence was a little victory.

When I returned our old friends to the home, there were none of those torturous bouts of weeping that broke both my and Comer's heart. Evelyn and Comer went to his room, where they would spend the day together.
"I'm so happy to have this little hammer!" said Comer, holding up the Lowes bag.
"You watch him, Evelyn," I said, ""Don't let him knock the wall over."
"I won't," she said, laughing.

I took her hands and said, "We can go wherever you want next week, do anything you like, see anything you would like to see. What would you like to see?"
Without pause she said, "Asherel!"
"Ok," I said hugging her and Comer, "Then I will bring Asherel."

Later when I told Asherel what Evelyn had said, she mused, "But I didn't do anything. I just sat here."
That sometimes is all it takes. Just being there alongside a fellow traveler. As I left Comer and Evelyn together in his new room, hers just down the hall, I knew that was something this sweet old couple knew deeply in their souls.

Psalm 73:23

 ²³ Yet I am always with you;
   you hold me by my right hand.

A Home

When I called Comer to tell him I would be picking him and Evelyn up for lunch from their wonderful new Assisted Living/Alzheimer home, he said she was having a very bad day. She had fallen the day before they moved, and while xrays showed no breaks, her hip was very sore, and she was "a mess".
"She's crying and won't settle.... we can't go anywhere today. She couldn't make it to the car! She's doing very poorly."
I looked sadly at the plateful of deviled eggs I had prepared for her, the vase of roses I had picked from the tree Comer had planted 12 years ago, the music CD filled with songs from the 40s.
"Shall I come visit anyway?" I asked, "I won't stay long, but I have deviled eggs and music for her."
"That would be so nice," he said.

I had not yet seen this new facility. It looked like an old victorian style home. Old black and white shows from my childhood were on the television in the living room. French doors opened onto beautiful gardens with benches lining the paths. The hallways had dress stands with long wedding gowns and dresses from a time when cars were ticketed for exceeding 10 mph.  As Comer led me towards Evelyn's room, I glanced at a kitchen area with a big table, and some residents sat watching an aide whisk a mixture in a bowl. It smelled lemony. I saw Evelyn painfully shuffling towards the table.

"Evelyn!" I said, "Hello! I brought you deviled eggs made with my secret recipe!"
She looked up and smiled, "Oh good!"
The whisk quieted and two other aides came and stood near.
"Well?" they said,"We want to hear this secret ingredient."
"Here, try one and see if you can figure it out."
Evelyn popped one in her mouth, followed quickly by another.
"Can you tell what my secret ingredient is?"
"mmfssspghwpppp," she said, enjoying her third deviled egg.

"What are you making?" I asked the whisking aide.
"Lemon cake, from scratch."
"Are you following a recipe?"
"Oh no," she giggled, "I just hope it works....."
We all sat around the table as the sounds and smells of cake making oozed like comfort around us. This was a home that was truly recreating a home for these old folk.
"Look!" said the aide, pointing to the glass oven door, "It's rising!"
"Good for you! What other kinds of cakes can you make without a box?"
"Carrot cake."
"Oh, I love carrot cake."
"I do too," said Evelyn between bites of egg.

I held up the CD.
"Music, Evelyn!" and called out some of the song titles. She sang the first line from each one as I called out the name, both of us laughing with delight at her perfect recall. The lady next to Evelyn watched us mutely, but smiled. I asked her if she wanted a deviled egg. She didn't seem to quite know how to respond so I brought her one and helped her clasp her fingers around it. She held it uncertainly.
"You can eat it," I urged, "It has a secret ingredient. See if you can tell what it is."
The lady smiled and brought it to her mouth.

Evelyn was still humming the last song I had called out.
"Here," said an aide, reaching for the CD "Shall I put it on the CD player ?"
She turned on the music while I gave away my deviled egg secret ingredient.

Later, Comer led us both to Evelyn's room. Her sunny window looked out over grass and trees. She sat in her chair, and I taught Comer how to operate the CD player Kristin had brought. Evelyn looked on with studious interest and said, "Oh I see."
"So now you can have music whenever you want," I told her.
"Oh how nice!" she said, with a happy laugh.
Comer stared at her shaking his head.
"This is night and day how she was earlier!" he said baffled.
"I prayed on the way over," I said.
He cocked his head and pointed a finger at me, with a knowing nod and grin.
"And the music. You know how they say music soothes the savage beast."
Evelyn chuckled, "It does!"

As I left them, sitting side by side, eating deviled eggs and listening to "Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime", a nurse from Comer's floor saw me.
"How was Comer's wife?" she asked.
"Oh much better. She loves deviled eggs and music."
"Oh," said the nurse, "I'll go tell the aide to put that on her care chart right away then! We better get in a supply of deviled eggs."

Joshua 23

¹ After a long time had passed and the LORD had given Israel rest from all their enemies around them, Joshua, by then a very old man, ² summoned all Israel—their elders, leaders, judges and officials—and said to them: “I am very old. ³ You yourselves have seen everything the LORD your God has done to all these nations for your sake; it was the LORD your God who fought for you. 

Ruth 4:15
¹⁵ He will renew your life and sustain you in your old age.