Hot Already

Summer officially just arrived last week, but this year, the heat beat the solstice to town - we've been baking in temps more typical to late July and August than mid-June for the last couple of weeks already.

I've lived here for 40 (???!!!??? how did THAT happen ???) years now. You'd think somewhere in there I'd have adjusted to the climate, but every year, these first few weeks of heat and humidity have me wilting like the flowers outside when I forget to give them their daily drink of water.

The sun comes early, it comes hot. 

I have to admit - beneath my main coping strategy, which is whining to the dog about the heat, I am fearful. I read the news about the warming planet, the changing weather patterns, the intense storms. Pictures of flooded towns and stories of people dying in the heat are commonplace in my daily news feed.

I've been hearing warnings about the coming upheaval my entire adult life, now it is here. I want to throw up my hands in despair. We didn't listen and now it is too late.

Fortunately for my sanity this past week, I've been able to talk myself into getting up with the sun. I've come to rely on my time outdoors with the dog each morning to anchor my day, and if I get up and at 'em, it's still cool enough to take him for a real walk. 

I step outside into the quiet, where the loudest sounds are the morning song of the birds and the hiss of the neighbors' sprinkler systems. I breathe.

I'm not ready to give up just yet. (Not yet.) Alongside the stories of gloom, I read stories of hope. People can and do change their ways. I have today to live; today is the only day I have. I can choose to not let fear rule the day.

Trust, anyways. I'm working on it.

Extra Credit

I sure hope that Someone, Somewhere is keeping a ledger of my extra credit points.

I mean, I try to be a good person, to live a good life. And. I often don't live up to my own ideals, let alone the expectations of the greater world.

Having despaired of making great changes in the world, I work to change small things. I pick up trash as I walk, I toss the neighbor's papers from the sidewalk up closer to their houses, to save them from having to walk the flight of stairs down to the street. I pull the tangleweed within three feet of the walk from all the beds along my walks. (Hmmm... Does it still count as a good deed if I take inordinate pleasure in the task? I harbor an irrational dislike for the choking vine, which can and does grow over 6" a day, and I love interfering in its progress.) These things come easily to me.

But to convince myself to go above and beyond (still on my small-w world scale), I need extra motivation. 

"None of the other people out walking think they have to stop to pick up the bits of broken glass from the sidewalk in the park!" "Do I really have to pick up this pile of SOMEONE ELSE'S doggie doo from the middle of the sidewalk??" "Who throws their bag of dog poop in the sewer grate? Do they think the fish somewhere downstream would like a toxic plastic snack? No, I don't want to pick it up!!!"

I grumble, I whine, I pout. But, I usually do the deed anyways, telling myself I get extra credit points for completing the task.

I'm not sure why this works to motivate me. I'm not a believer in the Santa Claus version of God - the bearded dude up high keeping track of when I am naughty and when I am nice. I don't think my doing good but distasteful deeds will get me into the harp-playing section of heaven.

But I do believe in Good, and in Evil. My world spins ever faster; it feels as if the center is a bit wobbly and out of control. I seek balance in my life. I seek, on my small scale, to contribute to the presence of Good in the world. 

And if a few cosmic extra credit points are what it takes to get me to contribute to Good, so be it. There are worse motivators.

James Taylor Concert

I have to admit, in recent decades my concert-going has been limited to assorted classical venues. I'm no longer comfortable with huge crowds and overly loud noises, but when a friend asked if I'd like to go to the James Taylor concert last week, it sounded like a wonderful way to forget about my cares for an evening.

It was a lovely evening for the sold-out show at Starlight, Kansas City's outdoor theater. The sky was blue, the breeze refreshing, the temperature perfect. Our seats were well-placed - about halfway back, and directly in front of the stage.

I've been listening to James Taylor songs since I was a teenager, and clearly, so had many of the other concert attendees. But a few gray hairs didn't lessen our enjoyment of the music one bit. And, probably in deference to the age of the crowd, the sound levels were not at all overbearing; the remains of my hearing were not in danger. Bonus!

The show started with a video montage of a young James Taylor singing one of his classic hits. We got to watch him age before our eyes, to listen to his voice change across the years, until the song ended with a live shot of the man himself, singing before us on the stage.

He is in his seventies now, his voice has lost some of its range and power (duh!), but since I was listening with my heart as much as I was with my ears, that didn't matter. Music can effortlessly transport me to a place in-between, and it worked its magic that night. For a few hours, I was young again; growing through my teens, listening to his songs on the car radio.

I walked again my own path through the years. The current version of me walked beside my young self, carrying with me the life lessons I've gathered along the way. I smiled at the high points, winced, still, as I watched me stumble on the road. 

The evening highlighted how long and winding my road has been. I have come far. I have learned much. 

I've seen fire, and I've seen rain....

Goodbye, Bob - Take Two

In his will, Bob requested there be two services held to celebrate his life. The first I wrote about back in March - it was the pomp and circumstance service he knew was inevitable because he was a priest. The second was this past weekend; this was the service of his heart. He'd asked for his favorite readings to be read, accompanied by songs he loved (he didn't list those - he knew Estelle knew what he loved) and testimony from a number of his friends.

I was honored to be selected as one of those speaking, but it was a tough assignment. I didn't know how to say what he'd meant to my life; how to distill our complex, long-term relationship into words. I spent several days beating my head against the keyboard. I'd write a few things, but the words wouldn't flow. The sentences were stilted. disconnected. forced. shallow. Argh!

I finally stepped back for a minute and asked myself why he'd asked me to talk, and what I'd say if I only had five words instead of five minutes to speak. The answer came quickly. 

I miss my best friend.

With this thought in mind, I went back to the computer. I had it written in an hour. 

I found the service to be beautiful. 

Song. Reading. Testimony. Repeat. 

I really hope he was somewhere listening; knows how deeply he was loved.

=================

“Be compassionate, as your Father is compassionate.  Do not judge, and you will not be judged.  Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.  Pardon, and you shall be pardoned.  Give, and it shall be given to you.  Good measure pressed down, shaken together, running over, will they pour into the fold of your garment.  For the measure you measure with will be measured back to you.”  Matthew 6: 36-38

 

Friend

 

Bob has been one of my closest friends for several decades, and since he died, I have missed him; missed him something fierce.

I miss his laugh. His hearty, uninhibited, inviting, laugh. If we were in a group of people, and I heard his laugh from across the room, suddenly, no matter how interesting the conversation I was currently having, his was the more enticing. Whatever they were talking about, it had to be better than whatever I was talking about, to have brought forth that joyous sound.

I miss the dinners we shared. He loved to cook. I love to be cooked for. It was a match made in heaven. As he cut and chopped and seasoned and stirred, I would sit and watch, helping as needed, but mostly just keeping him company as we talked about life. Politics, religion, the books we were reading, family, work; we covered all the bases.

I miss his hugs; I know I have a lot of company in this room when I say this. When I was having a hard day, he’d give me a hug – not a half-hearted, a-frame, shoulder-patting pretense of a hug, but the kind that, as I’m held, makes me feel like a precious child of the God Who Loves. And I’d begin to feel better.

I miss just talking to him. One of the cruelest parts of his dementia journey was that it took his words first. My eloquent friend, the one who used to say he was overly fond of two things – his own cooking and his own words – lost first the ability to express himself.

I didn’t meet him until he was middle aged, so I didn’t know him as he went through his life’s ‘firsts’. But I was honored to walk with him as he tallied up his lasts.

Many here know furniture refinishing was his avocation. He loved nothing more than to find a neglected piece of solid wood something at an estate sale, haul it home, and then spend hours restoring it to its former beautiful self. He would then either give the item to someone he loved or donate it to a church auction. I helped him to refinish his last piece. He had a workshop set up in my garage after he moved to the city, and he came over several times. He no longer knew what steps he needed to take, but he was willing to follow my direction (for once), and together we sanded and applied the finish to a tall, beautiful, walnut plant stand.

I was there last spring when he took his last walk outside. As we were making our way back to the door of the facility, after our usual stroll around the neighborhood, he had some sort of a mini-stroke, and almost couldn’t walk. As I began to reach for my phone to call for help, the nurses inside saw us and came running out to assist. We made it safely inside, where he took two Tylenol, a long nap, and woke back up with little knowledge of the incident, seemingly (though I know this isn’t true) no worse for the wear.

I was there for his last mass, last summer. It was for a congregation of four. A lot of his words were missing by then, but when we got to the consecration, he had all the words he needed. I swear I felt the Spirit come into the room and settle down behind him, holding his shoulders as he blessed the bread and the wine, turning it, one last time, into the body and the blood of Christ.

I remember the last conversation we had when his mind was almost all there. It was late last September, and he was talking about the wedding of one of his favorite people, his niece, Colleen. His voice was alive with the memory of how he’d worked with Colleen and Don to create a service which met both the requirements of the Catholic Church and the desires of their hearts. His eyes twinkled, his laugh rang loudly in the quiet courtyard where we sat and talked. My heart was full.

I wasn’t there when he took his last breath, but I was there the day before. I’d been sitting with him for some time, and shortly before I was ready to leave, the nurses came in to tend to his care. As they worked, he woke, grabbing the air in alarm. I held his hands, so he had something to grab onto. Once they finished and we were alone again, he quickly calmed down, then met my eyes. At first, there was no one inside that vacant gaze. But then I saw his awareness return. He didn’t know me, but he knew he was not alone. Then, recognition dawned, and I could see he knew who I was. I spoke softly to him. I told him of my love. I told him it was time for him to fly free of his gilded cage, time to find out what lies on the other side. I smiled. He tried to smile in return, then closed his eyes.

Bob, I hope your words and your lost memories have caught back up with you. I hope you have found your people and are laughing with them, freely and often. I pray you have met up with the Christ Jesus you served so long and so well; that he told you, “Welcome home, my worthy servant.”

Bob, I miss you.